But-P Wind away,

Begone, I fay,

I will not to wedding with thee to-day.

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

A Cottage in the Foreft.

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep.

[Exeunt.

Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to confider, that tears do not become a man.

Rof. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good caufe as one would defire; therefore weep. Rof. His very hair is of the diffembling colour.

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

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

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

Rof. And his kiffing is as full of fanctity as the touch of 'holy beard.

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

Rof. But why did he fwear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay certainly, there is no truth in him.

Cel. Yes I think he is not a pick-purfe, nor a horseftealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.

Rof. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in. Rof. You have heard him swear downright, he was. Cel. Was, is not is: befides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of falfe reckonings: He attends here in the forest on the duke your father.

Rof. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him: He asked me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; fo 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, fpeaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, "quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that fpurs his horfe but on one fide, breaks his staff like a noble goose: but all's brave, that youth mounts, and folly guides :-Who comes here?

W

Enter Corin.

Cor. Mistress, and mafter, you have oft enquired
After the fhepherd that complain'd of love;
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praifing the proud difdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly play'd, Between the pale complexion of true love

12

t a brave man!]-a fashionable gallant.

W

quite traverfe,]-it was a difgrace to have a lance broken across.

w nofe-quill'd--with a quill ftuck through the nofe.

And

And the red glow of fcorn and proud difdain,

Go hence a little, and I fhall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Rof. O, come, let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth those in love :-
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

SCENE V.

Another Part of the Foreft.

Enter Silvius, and Phebe.

[Exeunt.

Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe: Say, that you love me not; but fay not fo

In bitterness: The common executioner,

Whofe heart the accuftom'd fight of death makes hard, *Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,

But first begs pardon; Will you fterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner; I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell'ft me, there is murder in mine eye;

'Tis

pretty, fure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail'ft and fofteft things,

Who fhut their coward gates on atomies,

Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now do I frown on thee with all my heart;

And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to fwoon; why now fall down;

* Falls not]-Does not let fall.

Y dies and lives]-is all his life converfant with. 2 for]-because.

Or,

Or, if thou can'st not, oh, for fhame, for shame,
Lye not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some fear of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impreffure

Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

Sil. O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)

b

You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy,

Then fhall 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 fhall not pity thee.

с

Rof. And why, I pray you? Who might be your

mother,

That you infult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty, (As, by my faith, I fee no more in you

Than without candle may go dark to bed)

Muft you be therefore proud and pitiless?

Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I fee no more in you, than in the ordinary

Of nature's fale-work :- Od's, my little life!

2

capable impreffure]-hollow mark, dint.

of fancy,]-of pleasing.

Who might be your mother,]-What tigrefs nurfed thee?
and all at once,]-at the fame instant, all in a breath.

in the ordinary of nature's fale-work :]-common course of nature's productions. Od's,]-God fave.

I think,

2

I think, the means to tangle mine eyes too:-
No, 'faith proud miftrefs, 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 fpirits to your worship.-
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy fouth, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thoufand times a properer man,
Than fhe a woman: 'Tis fuch 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 you she fees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.-
But, mistress, know yourfelf; 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, fhepherd;-fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Rof. He's fallen in love with her "foulnefs, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger :-If it be fo, as fast as she anfwers thee with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words.--Why look you fo upon me?

Phe. For no ill will I bear you.

Rof. I pray you, do not fall in love with me,

For I am falfer than vows made in wine:

Befides, I like you not: If you will know my house,

'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by :—

8 Foul is most foul, being foul to be a fcoffer.]-For an ill-favoured perfon to ridicule the defects of others adds deformity to native homelinefs. h foulness, -fhrewishness.