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Will you go, fifter? Shepherd, ply her hard.
Come, fifter. Shepherdefs, look on him better,

And be not proud; though all the world could fee ye
None could be so abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock.

[Ex. Rof. Cel. and Cor.

Phe. 'Deed, fhepherd, now I find thy faw of might,
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?

Syl. Sweet Phebe !

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;

If 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 covetoufness.

Sylvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

And yet it is not, that I bear thee love:

But fince that thou canft talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erft 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.
Syl. So holy and fo perfect is my love,
And fuch a poverty of grace attends it,
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'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,
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, 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 faster than his tongue

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:
He is not 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 be some women, Sylvius, 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?

He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
And, now I am remember'd, fcorn'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, Sylvius?
Syl. 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 paffing fhort:
Go with me, Sylvius.



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Pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. Rof. They fay, you are a melancholy fellow.

faq. 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 these : but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the fundry 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 sad : 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.

Faq. Yes, I have gain'd experience.

Enter Orlando.

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


Orla. Good day, and happiness, dear Rofalind!
Jaq. Nay then, god b'w'y you, an you talk in blank verfe.



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 swam in a 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 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 said 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; besides, he brings his destiny with him. Orla. What's that?

Rof. Why, horns; which fuch 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 Rosalind is virtuous. Rof. And I am your Rofalind.

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 Rofalind?


Orla. I would kiss, before I fpoke.

Rof. Nay, you were better speak firft; and when you were gravell❜d for lack of matter, you might take occafion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will fpit; and for lovers lacking, god warn us, matter, the cleanlieft shift is to kiss. Orla. How if the kifs be denied?

Rof. Then fhe 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


Rof. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your fuit. Am not I your Rofalind?

Orla. I take fome joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Rof. Well, in her perfon, I fay, I will not have you.
Orla. Then, in mine own perfon, I die.

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 thefe 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 Rosalind 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.
Orla. And wilt thou have me?




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