Lye not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some fear of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impreffure

Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am fure, there is no force in 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 faney,
Then fhall you know the wounds invisible

That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. 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 shall not pity thee.

Ref. And why, I pray you? who might be your mother, (22) That you infult, exult, and rail, at once

Over the wretched? (23) what though you have beauty, (As, by my faith, I fee no more in you

Than without candle may go dark to bed,)
Muft you be therefore proud and pitiless?

Why, what means this? why do you look on me ?--
I fee no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature's fale-work: odds, my little life!
I think, fhe means to tangle mine eyes too :

(22) That you infult, exult. and all at once

Over the wretched ] If the fpeaker only intended to accuse the perfon spoken to, for infulting and exulting, inftead of

all at once, it ought to have been, both at once. But on examining, according to fact, the crime of the perfon accus'd, we fhall find we ought to read the line thus;

That you infult, exult, and rail at once, &c. For these three things Phehe was guilty of.

Mr. Warburton. (23) -What though you Bave no beauty,] Tho' all the printed copies agree in this reading, it is very accurately obferv'd to me by an ingenious unknown correfpondent, who figns himself L. H. (and to whom I can only here make my acknowledgments) that the Negative ought to be left out.

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black filk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my fpirits to your worship.
You foolish fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy fouth puffing with wind and rain ?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than the a woman. "Tis fuch fools as you,
'That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;
"Tis not her glass, but you, that flatter her;
And out of you the fees herself more proper,
'Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourfelf; down on your knees,
And thank heav'n, fasting, for a good man's love;
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

Sell when you can, you are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer,
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a fcoffer:
So take her to thee, fhepherd; fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as fast as fhe answers 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 falier 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, fifter? fhepherd, ply her hard :
Come, fifter: fhepherdefs look on him better,
And be not proud; tho' all the world could fee,
None could be so abus'd in fight as he.
Come, to our flock.

[Exit.

Phe. Dead fhepherd, now I find thy faw of might; Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe !

Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Silvius ?
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe.

If

Phe. Why, I am forry for thee, gentle Silvius. Sil. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be ; you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your forrow and my grief

Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly? Sil. I would have you.

Phe. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was, `that I hated thee;

And yet it is not, that I bear thee love

But fince that thou canft talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erft was irksome to me,
I will endure and I'll employ thee too :
But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil. So holy and fo perfect is my love,

And I in fuch a poverty of grace,

That I fhall think it a most plenteous crop

To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: loofe now and then

A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know'st thou the youth, that fpoke to me ere while?
Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft;

And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds,
That the old Cartot once was master of.

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,

When he, that speaks them, pleases those that hear :
It is a pretty youth, not very pretty;

But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him ;
He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:

He is not very tall, yet for his

years he's tall;

His leg is but fo fo, and yet 'tis well;

There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper, and more lufty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There

There be fome women, Silvius, had they mark'd him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him;
For what had he to do to chide at me ?

He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black:
And, now I am remembred, scorn'd at me ;
I marvel, why I anfwer'd not again;

But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius ?
Sil. Phehe, with all my heart.

Phe. I'll write it straight;

The matter's in my head, and in my heart,
I will be bitter with him, and paffing fhort:
Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.

I

Pr'ythee, 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 say nothing.
Rof. Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

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

which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these 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 feen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd my 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 happiness, dear Rofalind! Jaq. Nay, then God b'w'y you, an you talk in blank verse.

[Exit.

Rof. Farewel, monfieur traveller; look, you lifp, and wear strange suits; difable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almoft chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think, you have fwam in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while ? You a lover? an you serve me fuch another trick, never come in my fight more.

Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promife.

Rof. Break an hour's promife in love? he that will divide a minute into a thousand 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 'th' fhoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rofalind.

Rof. Nay, an you be fo tardy, come no more in my fight; I had as lief be woo'd of a fnail.

Orla. Of a fnail?

Ros. ~Ay of a snail ; for tho' he comes slowly, he carries