Obrázky na stránke
PDF
ePub

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murtherers !
Now do I frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee :
Now counterfeit to swoon ; why, now fall down;
Or if thou can'lt not, oh, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murtherers.
Now Mew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it ; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy Palm fome moment keeps : but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ;
Nor, I am sure, 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 some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall

you

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

I think, she means to tangle mine eyes too :
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 spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy South, puffing with wind and rain ?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than fhe a woman. 'Tis such 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 she sees her self more proper,
Than

any

of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know your self ; down on your knees,
And thank heav'n, fafting, 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 scoffer :
So take her to thee, shepherd; fare you well.

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 !
Phe. Hah : what say'st thou, Silvius ?

Sil.

so upon

[ocr errors]

O 3

Sil. Sweet Phobe, pity me.
Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

Sil. Where-ever sorrow 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?
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 lince that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst 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 so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it à moit plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps : loose now and then
A scatter'd smile, 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,
That the old Carlot 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, sure, 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 so so, and yet 'tis well ;
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper, and more lusty red

Than

Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some 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 answer'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, Phebe, 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 passing fhort:
Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt,

WE

A CT

IV.

SCENE continues in the FOREST,

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.

I

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.
Rod. Why then, 'tis good to be a poft.

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

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 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.

Rof.

« PredošláPokračovať »