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.
Rof. Do you think fo?

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 fwear 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 foreft on the Duke your father.

Rof. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much queftion with him he afkt 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 fuch 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 travers athwart the heart of his lover; as a puifny tilter, that fpurs his horfe but one fide, breaks his staff like a noble goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor. Miftrefs and mater, you have oft enquired

Not, indeed, that the e was any real religious Order of that Denomination: but the Legend of St. Winifred is this. She was a Chriftian Virgin at Holywell a fmall Town in Flitfire, fo tenacious of her Chastity, that when a tyrannous Governor laid Siege to her, he could not reduce her to Compliance, but was obliged to ravifh, and afterwards beheaded her in Revenge of her Obftinacy. Vid. Cambden's Britannia by Dr. Gibfon, page 688. This Tradition forts very well with our Poet's Allufion.

After

After the fhepherd that complain'd of love;
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praifing the proud difdainful fhepherdefs
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,
And the red glow of fcorn and proud disdain;
Go hence a little, and I fhall condu&t 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 fay
I'll prove a bufy Actor in their Play.

[Exeunt.

Sil. Weet Phebe, do not fcorn me, do not, Phebe;
Say, that you love me not; but fay not fo

In bitterness; the common executioner,

Whose heart th' accuftom'd fight of death makes hard,
Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon: (10) will you fterner be
Than he that deals, 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 eyes;
'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail'it and foftest things,

(10)

will you ferner be,

Than He that dies and lives by bloody drops?

This is fpoken of the Executioner. He lives indeed, by bloody Drops if you will: but how does he die by bloody Drops? The Poet must certainly have wrote -that deals and lives, &c. i.e. that gets his Bread, and makes a Trade of cutting off Heads. Mr. Warburton.

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;
Or if thou can'ft not, oh, for fhame, for fhame,
Lye not to fay 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)

You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invifible

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.

Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your mother, That you infult, exult, and rail, at once,

Over the wretched? (11) what though you have beauty,
As, by my faith, I fee no more in your

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 crdinary
Of nature's fale-work: odds, my little life!
I think, the means to 'tangle mine eyes too:

(11) What though you have no Beauty,] Though all the printed Copies agree in this Reading, it is very accurately obferved to me by an ingenious unknown Correfpondent, who figns himself L. H. (and to whom I can only here make my Acknowledgements) thas the Negative ought to be left out.

No,

No, faith, proad 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 fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy South, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand 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 flatter her;
And out of you the fees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.
But, miftrefs, know yourfelf; down on your knees,
And thank heav'n, fafting, 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 fcoffer:
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 your foulnefs, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as fast as fhe 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:
Will you go, Sifter? fhepherd, ply her hard:
Come, fifter; fhepherdefs, look on him better,
And be not proud; tho' all the world could fee,
None could be fo abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock..

[Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin. Phe. Dead fhepherd, now I find thy Saw of might; Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe!

Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Silvius ?

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

O 3

Phe

Phe. Why, I am forry for thee, Gentle Silvius.
Sil. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be;
If you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief
Were both exterm in'd.

Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?
Sil. I would have you.

Phe. Why, that were Covetoufness.

Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

And yet it is not, that I bear thee love;
But fince that thou canst talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too :
But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil. So holy and fo perfect is my love,
And I in fuch a poverty of grace,

That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop.
To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then

A fcatter'd fmile, and that I'll live upon.

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. mafter of.

Phe. Think not, I love him, tho' 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 fpeaks them, pleases those that hear:
It is a pretty youth, not very pretty;

But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him;
He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him
Is his Complexion; and fafter 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 fo fo, and yet 'tis well;
There was a pretty redness in his lip,

A little riper, and more lufty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask.

There