Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS
FREDERICK. Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be.
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:
Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is;
Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.
Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine
Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth
Of what we think against thee.
OLIVER. O that your Highness knew my heart in this!
I never lov'd my brother in my life.
FREDERICK. More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands.
Do this expediently, and turn him going. Exeunt
Enter ORLANDO, with a paper
ORLANDO. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;
And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit
Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE
CORIN. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master
TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good
life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is
In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in
respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in
respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in
it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life,
look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more
in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy
CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse
ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content,
without three good friends; that the property of rain is to
and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that
great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that
learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good
or comes of a very dull kindred.
TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in
CORIN. No, truly.
TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damn'd.
CORIN. Nay, I hope.
TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-roasted egg,
CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason.
TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw'st
manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners
be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou
in a parlous state, shepherd.
CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at
court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of
country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute
at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be
uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.
TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance.
CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells,
know, are greasy.
TOUCHSTONE. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And is not
grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man?
shallow. A better instance, I say; come.
CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard.
TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again.
more sounder instance; come.
CORIN. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our
sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands
perfum'd with civet.
TOUCHSTONE. Most shallow man! thou worm's meat in respect of a
piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet
of a baser birth than tar- the very uncleanly flux of a cat.
the instance, shepherd.
CORIN. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.
TOUCHSTONE. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man!
make incision in thee! thou art raw.
CORIN. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I
wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other
men's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my
to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.
TOUCHSTONE. That is another simple sin in you: to bring the
and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the
copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to
a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly
out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd for
the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else
thou shouldst scape.
CORIN. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's
Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper
ROSALIND. 'From the east to western Inde,
No jewel is like Rosalinde.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalinde.
All the pictures fairest lin'd
Are but black to Rosalinde.
Let no face be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalinde.'
TOUCHSTONE. I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners,
suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right
butter-women's rank to market.
ROSALIND. Out, fool!
TOUCHSTONE. For a taste:
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalinde.
If the cat will after kind,
So be sure will Rosalinde.
Winter garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalinde.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalinde.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalinde.
He that sweetest rose will find
Must find love's prick and Rosalinde.
This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect
yourself with them?
ROSALIND. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.
TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
ROSALIND. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it
medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i' th' country;
you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right
virtue of the medlar.
TOUCHSTONE. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the
Enter CELIA, with a writing
Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
CELIA. 'Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the streching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
Some, of violated vows
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence end,
Will I Rosalinda write,
Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven Nature charg'd
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide-enlarg'd.
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
Atalanta's better part,
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalinde of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd,
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.'
ROSALIND. O most gentle Jupiter! What tedious homily of love
you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have
patience, good people.'
CELIA. How now! Back, friends; shepherd, go off a little; go
TOUCHSTONE. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;
though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and
Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE
CELIA. Didst thou hear these verses?
ROSALIND. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of
had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
CELIA. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.
ROSALIND. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear
without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
CELIA. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name
hang'd and carved upon these trees?
ROSALIND. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before
came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never
berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat,
can hardly remember.
CELIA. Trow you who hath done this?
ROSALIND. Is it a man?
CELIA. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
Change you colour?
ROSALIND. I prithee, who?
CELIA. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet;
mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.
ROSALIND. Nay, but who is it?
CELIA. Is it possible?
ROSALIND. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence,
me who it is.
CELIA. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and
again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am
caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my
disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of
I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would
thou could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd
out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle-
either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the
out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.
CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly.
ROSALIND. Is he of God's making? What manner of man?
Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard?
CELIA. Nay, he hath but a little beard.
ROSALIND. Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful.
me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the
knowledge of his chin.
CELIA. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's
and your heart both in an instant.
ROSALIND. Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and
CELIA. I' faith, coz, 'tis he.
ROSALIND. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and
What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd
Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where
remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see
again? Answer me in one word.
CELIA. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first; 'tis a word
great for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to
particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.
ROSALIND. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in
apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
CELIA. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the
propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him,
relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree,
ROSALIND. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops
CELIA. Give me audience, good madam.
CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd along like a wounded knight.
ROSALIND. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
CELIA. Cry 'Holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets
unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter.
ROSALIND. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring'st me
ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must
Sweet, say on.
CELIA. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?
Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES
ROSALIND. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him.
JAQUES. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as
lief have been myself alone.
ORLANDO. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you
for your society.
JAQUES. God buy you; let's meet as little as we can.
ORLANDO. I do desire we may be better strangers.
JAQUES. I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in
ORLANDO. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them
JAQUES. Rosalind is your love's name?
ORLANDO. Yes, just.
JAQUES. I do not like her name.
ORLANDO. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was
JAQUES. What stature is she of?
ORLANDO. Just as high as my heart.
JAQUES. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been
acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of
ORLANDO. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from
you have studied your questions.
JAQUES. You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of Atalanta's
heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail
our mistress the world, and all our misery.
ORLANDO. I will chide no breather in the world but myself,
whom I know most faults.
JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love.
ORLANDO. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I
weary of you.
JAQUES. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
ORLANDO. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall
JAQUES. There I shall see mine own figure.
ORLANDO. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
JAQUES. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior
ORLANDO. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur
ROSALIND. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy
and under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear,
ORLANDO. Very well; what would you?
ROSALIND. I pray you, what is't o'clock?
ORLANDO. You should ask me what time o' day; there's no clock
ROSALIND. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else
every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy
of Time as well as a clock.
ORLANDO. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been
ROSALIND. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with
divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who
trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands
ORLANDO. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
ROSALIND. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the
contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the
interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it
the length of seven year.
ORLANDO. Who ambles Time withal?
ROSALIND. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that
not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot
and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one
lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other
knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles
ORLANDO. Who doth he gallop withal?
ROSALIND. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as
as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
ORLANDO. Who stays it still withal?
ROSALIND. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between
and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.
ORLANDO. Where dwell you, pretty youth?
ROSALIND. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts
the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
ORLANDO. Are you native of this place?
ROSALIND. As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.
ORLANDO. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase
so removed a dwelling.
ROSALIND. I have been told so of many; but indeed an old
uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an
man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in
I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank
am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as
hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.
ORLANDO. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he
to the charge of women?
ROSALIND. There were none principal; they were all like one
as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his
fellow-fault came to match it.
ORLANDO. I prithee recount some of them.
ROSALIND. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that
sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young
plants with carving 'Rosalind' on their barks; hangs odes
hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying
name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would
him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of
ORLANDO. I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you tell me
ROSALIND. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught
how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure
are not prisoner.
ORLANDO. What were his marks?
ROSALIND. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and
which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have
a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for
for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's
Then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded,
sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing about
demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man;
are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving
than seeming the lover of any other.
ORLANDO. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
ROSALIND. Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love
believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to
she does. That is one of the points in the which women still
the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he
hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?
ORLANDO. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind,
am that he, that unfortunate he.
ROSALIND. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
ORLANDO. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
ROSALIND. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves
well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why
they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so
ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess
it by counsel.
ORLANDO. Did you ever cure any so?
ROSALIND. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me
love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me; at
time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be
changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish,
shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every
passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys
women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now
him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him;
weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from
mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was,
forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook
merely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I
upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart,
that there shall not be one spot of love in 't.
ORLANDO. I would not be cured, youth.
ROSALIND. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind,
come every day to my cote and woo me.
ORLANDO. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it
ROSALIND. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and, by the
you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
ORLANDO. With all my heart, good youth.
ROSALIND. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind
TOUCHSTONE. Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your
Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple
AUDREY. Your features! Lord warrant us! What features?
TOUCHSTONE. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most
capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.
JAQUES. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a
TOUCHSTONE. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a
good wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it
strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little
Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
AUDREY. I do not know what 'poetical' is. Is it honest in deed
word? Is it a true thing?
TOUCHSTONE. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most
and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry
be said as lovers they do feign.
AUDREY. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?
TOUCHSTONE. I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou art
now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst
AUDREY. Would you not have me honest?
TOUCHSTONE. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for
coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
JAQUES. [Aside] A material fool!
AUDREY. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make
TOUCHSTONE. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut
to put good meat into an unclean dish.
AUDREY. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
TOUCHSTONE. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness;
sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I
marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver
the vicar of the next village, who hath promis'd to meet me
this place of the forest, and to couple us.
JAQUES. [Aside] I would fain see this meeting.
AUDREY. Well, the gods give us joy!
TOUCHSTONE. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart,
in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no
assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns
odious, they are necessary. It is said: 'Many a man knows no
of his goods.' Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no
of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of
own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the
deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man
blessed? No; as a wall'd town is more worthier than a
is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the
brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no
skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here
Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT
Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us
under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
MARTEXT. Is there none here to give the woman?
TOUCHSTONE. I will not take her on gift of any man.
MARTEXT. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not
JAQUES. [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.
TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you,
You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I
very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray
JAQUES. Will you be married, motley?
TOUCHSTONE. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb,
the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons
bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.
JAQUES. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married
under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church and have a
priest that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will
join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will
prove a shrunk panel, and like green timber warp, warp.
TOUCHSTONE. [Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to
married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry
well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse
hereafter to leave my wife.
JAQUES. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
TOUCHSTONE. Come, sweet Audrey;
We must be married or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not-
O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee.
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.
Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY
MARTEXT. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all
shall flout me out of my calling. Exit
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA
ROSALIND. Never talk to me; I will weep.
CELIA. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that
do not become a man.
ROSALIND. But have I not cause to weep?
CELIA. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
ROSALIND. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
CELIA. Something browner than Judas's.
Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.
ROSALIND. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.
CELIA. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only
ROSALIND. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch
CELIA. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of
winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice
chastity is in them.
ROSALIND. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and
CELIA. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
ROSALIND. Do you think so?
CELIA. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer;
for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as covered
goblet or a worm-eaten nut.
ROSALIND. Not true in love?
CELIA. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.
ROSALIND. You have heard him swear downright he was.
CELIA. 'Was' is not 'is'; besides, the oath of a lover is no
stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the
of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the
ROSALIND. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with
He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good
he; so he laugh'd and let me go. But what talk we of fathers
there is such a man as Orlando?
CELIA. O, that's a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks
words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite
traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter,
spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a
goose. But all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides.
CORIN. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired
After the shepherd that complain'd of love,
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
CELIA. Well, and what of him?
CORIN. If you will see a pageant truly play'd
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.
ROSALIND. O, come, let us remove!
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play. Exeunt
Another part of the forest
Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE
SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe.
Say that you love me not; but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance
PHEBE. I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye.
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now I do 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 canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes
That can do hurt.
SILVIUS. 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,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
ROSALIND. [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty-
As, by my faith, I see 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 sale-work. 'Od's my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes too!
No faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, 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 she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children.
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees,
And thank heaven, 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 scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
PHEBE. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND. He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll
in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers
with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why
you so upon me?
PHEBE. For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND. I pray you do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows 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, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud; though all the world could see,
None could be so abus'd in sight as he.
Come, to our flock. Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN
PHEBE. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
'Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?'
SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe.
PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
PHEBE. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.
PHEBE. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS. I would have you.
PHEBE. Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But since 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 recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
SILVIUS. So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps; loose now and then
A scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon.
PHEBE. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
SILVIUS. 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.
PHEBE. Think not I love him, though 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 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 rememb'red, 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?
SILVIUS. Phebe, with all my heart.
PHEBE. I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head and in my heart;
I will be bitter with him and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt
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