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Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Sil. O dear Phebe,
know the wounds invisible That love's keen arrows make.
Phebe. But 'till that time, Come not thou near me ; and when that time comes, Aflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ; As, 'till that time, I shall not pity thee. Ros. And why, I pray you ? who might be your
mother, That you insult, exult, and rail, at once Over the wretched ? (11) what though you have beauty, (As, by my faith, I lee no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed,) Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this ? why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's fale-work: odds, my little life!
(11) What though you have no Beauty,) Tho' all the printed Copies agree in this Reading, it is very accurately obsecv'd to me by an ingenious unknown Correspondent, wbo signs himself L. H. (and to Whom I can only here make my Acknowledgements) that the Negative ought to be left out.
I think, she means to tangle mine eyes too :
of her lineaments can show her.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together ; I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.
Ros. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as the anfwers thee, with frowning looks, I'll 'sauce her with titter words. Why look you
me? Phe. For no ill will I bear you.
Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me ; For I am falser than yows made in wine ; Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft of Olives, here hard by : Will you go, Sister ? shepherd, ply her hard : Come, fifter ; shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud; tho' all the world could see, None could be so abus’d in fight as he. Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin.
Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy Saw of might'; Whoever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
Sil. Sweet Phebe !
Sil. Sweet Phobe, pity me.
Sil. Where-ever sorrow is, relief would be ;
Phe. Thou haft my love ; is not that neighbourly?
Phe. Why, that were Covetousness.
Sil. So holy and so perfect is my love,
Phe. Think not, I love him, tho' I ask for him ;
Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference
Sil, Phebe, with all my heart.
Phe. I'll write it straight ;
SCENE continues in the FOREST,
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.
JA OU E S. Pry'thee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am so ; I do love it better than laughing. Roj. Those, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern censure, worse than drunkards.
Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and say nothing.
Jag. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation ; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud ; nor the soldier'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 these ; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
Ros. A traveller! by my faith, you have great reason to be sad : I fear, you have sold your own lands, to fee other mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and
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 sad, and to travel for it too.
Orla. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
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 ; disable all the benefits of your own Country ; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countnance 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 such another trick, never come in my fight more.
Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
Ros. Break an hour's promise 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 said of him, that Cupid hath clapt him o'th' fhoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.
Orla. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.