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Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit.


The same. Before a Cottage.

Enter ROSALIND and Celia.

Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do, I prythee; but yet have the grace consider, that tears do not become a man.

Ros. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. A's good cause as one would desire; therefore weep

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

Ros. I'faith, his hair is of a good colour.

Cel. An excellent colour : your chesnut was ever the only colour.

Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.

Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana : a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay certainly, there is no truth in him.
Ros. Do you think so ?

Cel. Yes: I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, I do think

him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm. eaten nut.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think he is not in.

Ros. You have heard him swear downright, he was.

Cel. Was is not is: besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings : He attends here in the forest on the duke


father. Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much. questions with him. He asked me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laugh’d, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ? . Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover ;6 as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all's brave, that youth mounts, and folly guides :-Who comes here?

Enter CORIN.

Cor. 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. Cel.

Well, and what of him?

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Cor. 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,

O, come, let us remove;
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love :-
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say
I'll proye a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt.


Another part of the Forest.


Sil. 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 the accustom'd sight of death makes

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. Phe. 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,

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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

Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;
Or, if thou canst not, 0, 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 but 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 no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

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. 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. Ros. And why, I pray you? [Advancing.] Who

might be your mother, That you

insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have more

beauty, (As, by my faith, I see no more in you

7 Love.

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


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 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 she a woman: 'Tis such fools as you, That make the world full of ill-favour'd children: 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her; And out of


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. Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year to

gether ; I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger: If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words.-Why look you so upon me?

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