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Will you go, fifter? Shepherd, ply her hard.
Phe. Hah! what fay'ft thou, Sylvius?
Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe. Why, I am forry for thee, gentle Sylvius.
Syl. Wherever forrow is, relief would be;
you do forrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your forrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.
Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly?
Syl. I would have you.
Phe. Why, that were covetoufnefs.
Sylvius, the time was, that I hated thee;
Phe. Know'ft thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Syl. Not very well, but I have met him oft;
And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds,
Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;
But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him
Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
There be fome women, Sylvius, had they mark'd him
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more caufe to hate him than to love him:
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He faid, mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance:
The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
Continues in the Foreft.
Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Jaques.
Pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
Jaq. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing. Rof. Thofe that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern cenfure, worse than drunkards.
Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and say nothing.
Rof. 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 foldier'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 thefe: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
Rof. A traveller! by my faith, you have great reason to be fad : I fear, you have fold your own lands, to fee other men's; then, to have feen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd experience.
Rof. And your experience makes you fad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad, and
to travel for it too.
Orla. Good day, and happiness, dear Rofalind!
Rof. Farewel, monfieur traveller; look, you lifp, and wear strange fuits; difable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almoft chide god for making you that countenance you are; or I will fcarce think you have fwam in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? you a lover? an you serve me fuch another trick, never come in my fight more.
Orla. My fair Rofalind, I come within an hour of my promise. Rof. 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 faid of him, that Cupid hath clap'd him o'th' fhoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.
Orla. Pardon me, dear Rofalind.
Rof. Nay, an you be fo tardy, come no more in my fight; I had as lief be woo'd of a fnail.
Orla. Of a fnail?
Rof. Ay, of a fnail; for though he comes flowly, he carries his houfe on his head: a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman; befides, he brings his destiny with him.
Orla. What's that?
Rof. 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 flander of his wife.
Orla. Virtue is no hornmaker; and my Rofalind is virtuous.
Cel. It pleases him to call you fo; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
Rof. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holyday humour, and like enough to confent: what would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind?
Orla. I would kiss, before I spoke.
Rof. Nay, you were better speak firft; and when you were gravell❜d for lack of matter, you might take occafion to kifs. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking, god warn us, matter, the cleanlieft shift is to kiss. Orla. How if the kifs be denied?
Rof. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter. Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress? Rof. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
Orla. What, of my fuit?
Rof. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your fuit. Am not I your Rofalind?
Orla. I take fome joy to fay you are, because I would be talking of her.
Rof. Well, in her perfon, I fay, I will not have you.
Rof. No, faith, die by attorney: the poor world is almost fix thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own perfon, videlicet, in a love-caufe: Troilus had his brains dafh'd out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midfummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash in the Hellefpont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drown'd; and the foolish coroners of that age found it Hero of Seftos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
Orla. I would not have my right Rofalind of this mind; for, I proteft, her frown might kill me.
Rof. By this hand, it will not kill a fly: but come; now I will be your Rofalind in a more coming-on difpofition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.
Orla. Then love me, Rofalind.
Rof. Yes, faith, will I, fridays and faturdays, and all.