Who fhut their coward gates on atomies, Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murtherers! And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee; Thy Palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes, That can do hurt. Sil. O dear Phebe, If ever (as that ever may be near) You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy, Phebe. But 'till that time, Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As, 'till that time, I fhall not pity thee. Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your mother, That you infult, exult, and rail, at once Over the wretched? (11) what though you have beauty, (As, by my faith, I fee no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed,) (11) What though you have no Beauty,] Tho' all the printed Copies agree in this Reading, it is very accurately obferv'd to me by an ingenious unknown Correspondent, who figns himself L. H. (and to Whom I can only here make my Acknowledgements) that the Negative ought to be left out. I think I think, fhe means to tangle mine eyes too : Sell when you can, you are not for all markets. Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as fast as she anfwers thee, with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look. you fo upon me? Phe. For no ill will I bear you. Rof. I pray you, do not fall in love with me; For I am falfer than vows made in wine; Befides, I like you not. If you will know my house, "Tis at the tuft of Olives, here hard by : Will you go, Sifter? fhepherd, ply her hard: Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin. Sil. Sweet Phebe ! Phe. Hah what fay'ft thou, Silvius ? Sil Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am forry for thee, gentle Silvius. Sil. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be; If you do forrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief Were both extermin'd. Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly? Phe. Why, that were Covetousness. And I in fuch a poverty of grace, That I fhall think it a moit plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harveft reaps: loose now and then A fcatter'd fmile, and that I'll live upon. Phe. Know'st thou the youth, that spoke to me ere-, while? Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds, Phe. Think not, I love him, tho' I ask for him; "Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talks well. But what care I for words? yet words do well, But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him; Than Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas juft the difference There be fome women, Silvius, had they mark'd him ; He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black: But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. The matter's in my head, and in my heart, [Exeunt. A CT IV. SCENE continues in the FOREST. Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Jaques. JAQUES. Pry'thee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. Rof. They fay, you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing. Rof. Thofe, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern cenfure, worse than drunkards. Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and fay nothing. 0 4 Jagi Jaq. I have neither the fcholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the foldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all thefe; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the fundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a moft humorous fadness. Rof. A traveller! by my faith, you have great reason. to be fad I fear, you have fold your own lands, to fee other mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd me experience. Enter Orlando. Rof. And your experience makes you fad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me fad, and to travel for it too. Orla. Good day, and happinefs, dear Rofalind! Jaq. Nay, then God b'w'y you, an you talk in blank verfe. [Exit. Rof. Farewel, monfieur traveller; look, you lifp, and wear ftrange fuits; difable all the benefits of your own Country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think, you have swam in a Gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover? an you ferve me fuch another trick, never come in my fight more. Orla. My fair Rofalind, I come within an hour of my promise. Rof. Break an hour's promife in love! he that will divide a minute into a thoufand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be faid of him, that Cupid hath clapt him o'th' fhoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole. Orla. Pardon me, dear Rofalind. Rof. |