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Wind away,

Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.

[Eceunt Jaques, Touchstone and Audrey. Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter : ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.


SCENE IV. The forest.


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 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 chestnut was ever the only colour.

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

Cet. He hath bought a pair of chaste lips of Diana: a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously ; the


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 ?

20 Cel. Yes ; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horsestealer, 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 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


30 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 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.

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.

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.

O, come, let us remove :


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The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
Bring us to see this sight, and you


say I'll prove a busy'actor in their play.


SCENE V. 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 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 tellst me there is murder in mine eye :
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frailst 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 !
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee :
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

me scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps ; but now mine eyes,

20 If ever,

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,
,-as that ever may be near, -
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible

30 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 some beauty, As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bedMust you be therefore proud and pitiless ?

40 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 ?

50 You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman : 'tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favour'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, fascing, 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 look you so upon me? Phe. For no ill will I bear you.

70 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, 80 'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight ?'

Sil. Sweet Phebe,-

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 :

you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined.

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

Why, that were covetousness. 90 Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,

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