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 wormeaten 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 your father. Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him: he ask'd 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+; 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? Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play'd,' Ross. O, come, let us remove; The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:-' [Exeunt. SCENE V.-Another part of the Forest. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE. Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe: Conversation. + Mistress. Say, that you love me not; but say not so Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, But first begs pardon; will you sterner be Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance. That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down; Now shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee: The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not; 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", comes, 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 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 • Love. Than without candle may go dark to bed,) Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? Than she a woman: 'tis such fools as you, That make the world full of ill-favour'd children: But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees, I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. Ros. He's fall'n 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? Phe. For no ill will I bear you. Ros. 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 abused in sight as he, Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd! Now I find thy saw of might; Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? Sil. Sweet Phebe, Phe. Ha? What say'st thou, Silvius? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Phe. Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly? Phe. 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, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then 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, 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 Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the dif ference Betwixt the constant red, and the mingled damask, There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near 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 remember'd, scorn'd at me : I marvel, why I answer'd not again : But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. The matter's in my head, and in my heart: ACT IV. SCENE I.—The same. [Exeunt. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES. Jaq. I pr'ythee, 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, Ros. 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 sad and say nothing. Ros. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. Jaq. 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 politic; 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, is 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 see other men's; then, to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Trifling. |