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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 :

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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 abus'd in sight as he. 690 Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Ros. CEL. and CORIN. Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might; Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe !

Phe. Hah! 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 extermin'd.

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Phe. Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly? 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:

Bu

But do not look for further recompence,

Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my love,

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.

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Phe. Know'st thou 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, 720 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
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:
There was a pretty redness in his lip;
A little riper, and more lusty red

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Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference Betwixt 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

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I have mo e cause to hate him than to love him:
For what ad he to do to chide at me:

He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black,
And, now I am remembred, 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.

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[Exeunt.

ACT IV. SCENE 1.

The Forest. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.

Jaques.

I PRYTHEE, pretty youth, let me be better ac

quainted 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.

Jag.

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 politick; 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 in a most humorous sadness. 18 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. Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd my experience.

Enter ORLANDO.

Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it too.

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Orla. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! Jaq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse. [Exit. Ros. Farewel, monsieur traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a

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gondola.-Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover?—An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more. Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. 39

Ros. Break an hour's promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath clapt him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heartwhole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight; I had as lief be woo'd of a snail.

Orla. Of a snail?

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Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman: Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

Orla. What's that?

Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife. Orla. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Ros. And I am your Rosalind.

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Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent :

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