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ACT III


SCENE I

A room in the palace.
Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and OLIVER.

Duke F.
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 (10)

Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,

Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth

Of what we think against thee.

Oli.
O that your highness knew my heart in this!

I never loved my brother in my life.

Duke F.
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.


SCENE II

The forest.
Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.

Orl.
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. (9)

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree

The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she. [Exit.
Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.


Cor.
And how like you this shepherd's life,
Master Touchstone ?

Touch.
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself,
it is a good life; but in respect that it is
a shepherd's life, it is naught. 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 respect it is not in the court,
it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it
fits my humor well; but as there is no more
plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach.
Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

Cor.
No more but that I know the more
one sickens the worse at ease he is; and that
he that wants money, means and content is
without three good friends; that the property
of rain is to wet and fire to burn; that good
pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great
cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he
that hath learned no wit by nature nor art
may complain of good breeding or comes of a
very dull kindred.

Touch.
Such a one is a natural philosopher.
Wast ever in court, shepherd?

Cor.
No, truly.

Touch.
Then thou art damned.

Cor.
Nay, I hope.

Touch.
Truly, thou art damned, like an ill- (39)
roasted egg, all on one side.

Cor.
For not being at court? Your reason.

Touch.
Why, if thou never wast at court,
thou never sawest good manners; if thou never
sawest good manners, then thy manners must
be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is
damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Cor.
Not a whit, Touchstone: those that
are good manners at the court are as ridiculous
in the country as the behavior of the
country is most mockable at the court. You
told me you salute not at the court, but you
kiss your hands: that courtesy would be uncleanly,
if courtiers were shepherds.

Touch.
Instance, briefly; come, instance.

Cor.
Why, we are still handling our ewes,
and their fells you know, are greasy.

Touch.
Why, do not your courtier's hands
sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as
wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow,
shallow. A better instance, I say; come. (60)

Cor.
Besides, our hands are hard.

Touch.
Your lips will feel them the sooner.
Shallow again. A more sounder instance,
come.

Cor.
And they are often tarred over with
the surgery of our sheep: and would you have
us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfumed
with civet.

Touch.
Most shallow man! thou wormsmeat,
in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed!
Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet
is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly
flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

Cor.
You have too courtly a wit for me:
I'll rest.

Touch.
Wilt thou rest damned? God help
thee, shallow man! God make incision in
thee! thou art raw.

Cor.
Sir, I am a true laborer: 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 pride is to see my ewes graze and my
lambs suck.

Touch.
That is another simple sin in you,
to bring the ewes 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
betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a
crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all
reasonable match. If thou beest not damned
for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds;
I cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape.

Cor.
Here comes young Master Ganymede,
my new mistress's brother. Enter ROSALIND, with a paper, reading.

Ros.
From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind,

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lined

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no fair be kept in mind (100)

But the fair of Rosalind.

Touch.
I'll rhyme you so eight years together,
dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours
excepted: it is the right butter-women's rank
to market.

Ros.
Out, fool!

Touch.
For a taste:

If a hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat will after kind, (110)

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lined,

So must slender Rosalind.

They that reap must sheaf and bind;

Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalind.

He that sweetest rose will find

Must find love's prick and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses: why (120)
do you infect yourself with them?

Ros.
Peace, you dull fool! I found them
on a tree.

Touch.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

Ros.
I'll graft it with you, and then I shall
graff it with a medlar: then it will be the
earliest fruit i' the country; for you'll be rotten
ere you be half ripe, and that's the right
virtue of the medlar.

Touch.
You have said; but whether wisely (130)
or no, let the forest judge. Enter CELIA, with a writing.

Ros.
Peace!

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

Cel.
[Reads]
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 stretching of a span (140)

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 charged (150)

That one body should be fill'd

With all graces wide-enlarged:

Nature presently distill'd

Helen's cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra's majesty,

Atalanta's better part,

Sad Lucretia's modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devised,

Of many faces, eyes and hearts,

To have the touches dearest prized.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.

Ros.
O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious
homily of love have you wearied your parishioners
withal, and never cried 'Have patience,
good people'!

Cel.
How now! back, friends! Shepherd,
go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.

Touch.
Come, shepherd, let us make an
honorable retreat; though not with bag and (171)
baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. [Exeunt Corin and Touchstone.

Cel.
Didst thou hear these verses?

Ros.
O, yes, I heard them all, and more
too; for some of them had in them more feet
than the verses would bear.

Cel.
That's no matter: the feet might bear
the verses.

Ros.
Ay, but the feet were lame and could
not bear themselves without the verse and (180)
therefore stood lamely in the verse.

Cel.
But didst thou hear without wondering
how thy name should be hanged and
carved upon these trees?

Ros.
I was seven of the nine days out of
the wonder before you came; for look here
what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so
be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was
an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

Cel.
Trow you who hath done this? (190)

Ros.
Is it a man?

Cel.
And a chain, that you once wore,
about his neck. Change you color?

Ros.
I prithee, who?

Cel.
O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for
friends to meet; but mountains may be removed
with earthquakes and so encounter.

Ros.
Nay, but who is it?

Cel.
Is it possible?

Ros.
Nay, I pritheee now with most petitionary (200)
vehemence, tell me who it is.

Cel.
O wonderful, wonderful, and most
wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful,
and after that, out of all hooping!

Ros.
Good my complexion! dost thou
think, though I am caparisoned like a man,
I have a doublet and hose in my disposition?
One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery;
I prithee, tell me who is it quickly,
and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer,
that thou mightst pour this concealed man
out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed
bottle, either too much at once,
or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of
thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

Cel.
So you may put a man in your belly.

Ros.
Is he of God's making? What manner
of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his
chin worth a beard? (219)

Cel.
Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros.
Why, God will send more, if the man
will be thankful: let me stay the growth of
his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge
of his chin.

Cel.
It is young Orlando, that tripped up
the wrestler's heels and your heart both in
an instant.

Ros.
Nay, but the devil take mocking:
speak, sad brow and true maid.

Cel.
I' faith, coz, 'tis he.

Ros.
Orlando? (230)

Cel.
Orlando.

Ros.
Alas the day! what shall I do with
my doublet and hose? What did he when
thou sawest him? What said he? How looked
he? 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
him again? Answer me in one word.

Cel.
You must borrow me Gargantua's
mouth first: 'tis a word too great for any
mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to (241)
these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

Ros.
But doth he know that I am in this
forest and in man's apparel? Looks he as
freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

Cel.
It is as easy to count atomies as to
resolve the propositions of a lover: but take a
taste of my finding him, and relish it with good
observance. I found him under a tree, like a
dropped acorn.

Ros.
It may well be called Jove's tree, (250)
when it drops forth such fruit.

Cel.
Give me audience, good madam.

Ros.
Proceed.

Cel.
There lay he, stretched along, like a
wounded knight.

Ros.
Though it be pity to see such a sight,
it well becomes the ground.

Cel.
Cry 'holla' to thy tongue, I prithee;
it curvets unseasonably. He was furnished like (259)
a hunter.

Ros.
O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

Cel.
I would sing my song without a burden:
thou bringest me out of tune.

Ros.
Do you not know I am a woman?
when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.

Cel.
You bring me out. Soft! comes he not
here? Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.

Ros.
'Tis he: slink by, and note him.

Jaq.
I thank you for your company; but,
good faith, I had as lief have been myself (270)
alone.

Orl.
And so had I; but yet, for fashion
sake, I thank you too for your society.

Jaq.
God be wi' you: let's meet as little as
we can.

Orl.
I do desire we may be better strangers.

Jaq.
I pray you, mar no more trees with
writing love-songs in their barks.

Orl.
I pray you, mar no moe of my verses
with reading them ill-favoredly. (280)

Jaq.
Rosalind is your love's name?

Orl.
Yes, just.

Jaq.
I do not like her name.

Orl.
There was no thought of pleasing you
when she was christened.

Jaq.
What stature is she of?

Orl.
Just as high as my heart.

Jaq.
You are full of pretty answers. Have
you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' (289)
wives, and conned them out of rings?

Orl.
Not so; but I answer you right
painted cloth, from whence you have studied
your questions.

Jaq.
You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas
made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down
with me? and we two will rail against our
mistress the world and all our misery.

Orl.
I will chide no breather in the world
but myself, against whom I know most faults.

Jaq.
The worst fault you have is to be in (300)
love.

Orl.
'Tis a fault I will not change for your
best virtue. I am weary of you.

Jaq.
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool
when I found you.

Orl.
He is drowned in the brook: look but
in, and you shall see him.

Jaq.
There I shall see mine own figure.

Orl.
Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

Jaq.
I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, (310)
good Signior Love.

Orl.
I am glad of your departure: adieu,
good Monsieur Melancholy. [Exit Jaques.

Ros.
[Aside to Celia]
I will speak to him,
like a saucy lackey and under that habit play
the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?

Orl.
Very well: what would you?

Ros.
I pray you, what is't o'clock?

Orl.
You should ask me what time o' day: (319)
there's no clock in the forest.

Ros.
Then there is no true lover in the
forest; else sighing every minute and groaning
every hour would detect the lazy foot of
Time as well as a clock.

Orl.
And why not the swift foot of Time?
had not that been as proper?

Ros.
By no means, sir: Time travels in
divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you
who Time ambles withal, who Time trots
withal, who Time gallops withal and who he
stands still withal.

Orl.
I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Ros.
Marry, he trots hard with a young
maid between the contract of her marriage and
the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but
a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it
seems the length of seven year.

Orl.
Who ambles Time withal?

Ros.
With a priest that lacks Latin and a
rich man that hath not the gout, for the one
sleeps easily because he cannot study, 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 withal.

Orl.
Who doth he gallop withal?

Ros.
With a thief to the gallows, for though
he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself
too soon there.

Orl.
Who stays it still withal?

Ros.
With lawyers in the vacation, for
they sleep between term and term and then (351)
they perceive not how Time moves.

Orl.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?

Ros.
With this shepherdess, my sister;
here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe
upon a petticoat.

Orl.
Are you native of this place?

Ros.
As the cony that you see dwell where (359)
she is kindled.

Orl.
Your accent is something finer than
you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

Ros.
I have been told so of many: but indeed
an old religious uncle of mine taught me
to speak, who was in his youth an inland
man; one that knew courtship too well, for
there he fell in love. I have heard him read
many lectures against it, and I thank God I
am not a woman, to be touched with so many
giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their
whole sex withal.

Orl.
Can you remember any of the principal
evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Ros.
There were none principal; they were
all like one another as half-pence are, every
one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow
fault came to match it.

Orl.
I prithee, recount some of them.

Ros.
No, I will not cast away my physic
but on those that are sick. There is a man
haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants
with carving 'Rosalind' on their barks; hangs
odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles,
all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind:
if I could meet that fancy-monger, I
would give him some good counsel, for he
seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.

Orl.
I am he that is so love-shaked: I
pray you tell me your remedy.

Ros.
There is none of my uncle's marks
upon you: he taught me how to know a man
in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure (390)
you are not prisoner.

Orl.
What were his marks?

Ros.
A lean cheek, which you have not, a
blue eye and sunken, which you have not, an
unquestionable spirit, which you have not, a
beard neglected, which you have not; but I
pardon you for that, for simply your having
in beard is a younger brother's revenue: then
your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet
unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe
untied and every thing about you demonstrating
a careless desolation; but you are no such
man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements
as loving yourself than seeming
the lover of any other.

Orl.
Fair youth, I would I could make
thee believe I love.

Ros.
Me believe it! you may as soon make
her that you love believe it; which, I warrant,
she is apter to do than to confess she does:
that is one of the points in the which women
still give the lie to their consciences. But, in
good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses
on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Orl.
I swear to thee, youth, by the white
hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate
he.

Ros.
But are you so much in love as your
rhymes speak?

Orl.
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Ros.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell
you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip
as madmen do: and the reason why they are
not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy
is so ordinary that the whippers are in love
too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Orl.
Did you ever cure any so?

Ros.
Yes, one, and in this manner. He was
to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I
set him every day to woo me: at which time
would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve,
be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking,
proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant,
full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion
something and for no passion truly any thing,
as boys and women are for the most part
cattle of this color; would now like him, now
loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear
him; now weep for him, then spit at him;
that I drave my suitor from his mad humor of
love to a living humor of madness; which was,
to forswear the full stream of the world, and
to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I
cured him; and this way will I take 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.

Orl.
I would not be cured, youth.

Ros.
I would cure you, if you would but
call me Rosalind and come every day to my
cote and woo me.

Orl.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will: (450)
tell me where it is.

Ros.
Go with me to it and I'll show it you:
and by the way you shall tell me where in the
forest you live. Will you go?

Orl.
With all my heart, good youth.

Ros.
Nay, you must call me Rosalind.

Come, sister, will you go? [Exeunt.


SCENE III

The forest.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind.

Touch.
Come apace, good Audrey: I will
fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey?
am I the man yet? doth my simple
feature content you?

Aud.
Your features! Lord warrant us!
what features?

Touch.
I am here with thee and thy goats,
as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was
among the Goths.

Jaq.
[Aside]
O knowledge ill-inhabited, (11)
worse than Jove in a thatched house!

Touch.
When a man's verses cannot be
understood, nor a man's good wit seconded
with the forward child Understanding, it strikes
a man more dead than a great reckoning in a
little room. Truly, I would the gods had made
thee poetical.

Aud.
I do not know what 'poetical' is: is
it honest in deed and word? is it a true thing?

Touch.
No, truly; for the truest poetry is
the most feigning; and lovers are given to
poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be
said as lovers they do feign.

Aud.
Do you wish then that the gods had
made me poetical?

Touch.
I do, truly; for thou swearest to
me thou art honest: now, if thou wert a poet,
I might have some hope thou didst feign.

Aud.
Would you not have me honest?

Touch.
No, truly, unless thou wert hard-
favored; for honesty coupled to beauty is to (31)
have honey a sauce to sugar.

Jaq.
[Aside]
A material fool!

Aud.
Well, I am not fair; and therefore I
pray the gods make me honest.

Touch.
Truly, and to cast away honesty
upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an
unclean dish.

Aud.
I am not a slut, though I thank the (39)
gods I am foul.

Touch.
Well, praised be the gods for thy
foulness! sluttishness may come hereafter.
But be it as it may be, I will marry thee, and
to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext,
the vicar of the next village, who hath
promised to meet me in this place of the
forest and to couple us.

Jaq.
[Aside]
I would fain see this meeting.

Aud.
Well, the gods give us joy!

Touch.
Amen. A man may, if he were of
a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for
here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly
but horn-beasts. But what though?
Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary.
It is said, 'many a man knows no end
of his goods:' right; many a man has good
horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is
the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his own
getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone?
No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as
the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed?
No: as a walled town is more worthier than
a village, so is the forehead of a married man
more honorable than the bare brow of a
bachelor; and by how much defence is better
than no skill, by so much is a horn more
precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT.
Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: will you
dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we
go with you to your chapel?

Sir Oli.
Is there none here to give the woman ?

Touch.
I will not take her on gift of any man.

Sir Oli.
Truly, she must be given, or (71)
the marriage is not lawful.

Jaq.
[Advancing]
Proceed, proceed: I'll
give her.

Touch.
Good even, good Master What-ye-
call't: how do you, sir? You are very well
met: God 'ild you for your last company: I
am very glad to see you: even a toy in hand
here, sir: nay, pray be covered. (79)

Jaq.
Will you be married, motley?

Touch.
As the ox hath his bow, sir, the
horse his curb and the falcon her bells, so
man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so
wedlock would be nibbling.

Jaq.
And will you, being a man of your
breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar?
Get you to church, and have a good
priest that can tell you what marriage is: this
fellow will but join you together as they join
wainscot; then one of you will prove a (90)
shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, warp.

Touch.
[Aside]
I am not in the mind but I
were better to be married of him than of another:
for he is not like to marry me well;
and not being well married, it will be a good
excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

Jaq.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Touch.
Come, sweet Audrey:

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. (100)

Farewell, good Master Oliver: not,--

O sweet Oliver,

O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee: but,--

Wind away,

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee. [Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone and Audrey.


Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical
knave of them all shall flout me out of my (109)
calling. [Exit.


SCENE IV

The forest.
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Ros.
Never talk to me; I will weep.

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

Ros.
But have I not cause to weep?

Cel.
As good cause as one would desire;
therefore weep.

Ros.
His very hair is of the dissembling
color.

Cel.
Something browner than Judas's: (10)
marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

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

Cel.
An excellent color: your chestnut
was ever the only color.

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 (21)
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 covered goblet
or a worm-eaten nut.

Ros.
Not true in love?

Cel.
Yes, when he is in; but I think he is (30)
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 confirmer 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 asked me of
what parentage I was; I told him, of as good
as he; so he laughed 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 puisny
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. (50)

Cor.
Mistress and master, you have oft inquired

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,

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.

Ros.
O, come, let us remove: (60)

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.


SCENE V

Another part of the forest.
Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.

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 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, behind.


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,

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! (20)

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.

Sil.
O dear Phebe,

If ever,--as that ever may be near,--

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, (30)

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? Who might be your mother,

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-- (40)

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-favor'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.

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 she answers thee with frowning
looks. I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why (70)
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.

Sil.
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 extermined. (90)

Phe.
Thou hast my love: is not that neighborly?

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 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.

Sil.
So holy and perfect is my love, (100)

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 scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe.
Know'st now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

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; (110)

'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: (120)

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

Between 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? (130)

He said mine eyes were black and my hair black:

And, now I am remembered, 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 short.

Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt.

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