Touchstone.
Cor.
And how like you this shepherd's life,
master Touchstone?
Touch.
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is
a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's
life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like
it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a
very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it
pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the
court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you,
it fits my humour well; but as there is no more
plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach.
Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?
Cor.
No more, but that I know, the more one
sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that
wants money, means, and content, is without three
good friends:—That the property of rain is to wet,
and fire to burn: That good pasture makes fat
sheep; and that a great cause of the night, is lack
of the sun: That he, that hath learned no wit by
nature nor art, may complain of good breeding, or
comes of a very dull kindred2 note
.
-- 418 --
Touch.
Such a one is a natural philosopher3 note
.
Wast ever in court, shepherd?
Cor.
No, truly.
Touch.
Then thou art damn'd.
Cor.
Nay, I hope,—
Touch.
Truly, thou art damn'd; like an ill-roasted
egg4 note
, all on one side.
-- 419 --
Cor.
For not being at court? Your reason.
Touch.
Why, if thou never wast at court, thou
never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st
good manners, then thy manners must be wicked;
and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation: Thou
art in a parlous state, shepherd.
Cor.
Not a whit, Touchstone: those, that are
good manners at the court, are as ridiculous in the
country, as the behaviour of the country is most
mockable at the court. You told me, you salute
not at the court, but you kiss your hands; that
courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.
Touch.
Instance, briefly; come, instance.
Cor.
Why, we are still handling our ewes; and
their fells, you know, are greasy.
Touch.
Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat?
and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as
the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: A better
instance, I say; come.
Cor.
Besides, our hands are hard.
Touch.
Your lips will feel them the sooner.
Shallow, again: A more sounder instance, come.
Cor.
And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery
of our sheep; And would you have us kiss tar?
The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.
Touch.
Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat,
in respect of a good piece of flesh: Indeed!—Learn
of the wise, and perpend: Civet is of a baser birth
than tar; the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend
the instance, shepherd.
Cor.
You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.
-- 420 --
Touch.
Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee,
shallow man! God make incision in thee5 note
! thou
art raw6 note.
Cor.
Sir, I am a true labourer; I earn that I eat,
get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's
-- 421 --
happiness; glad of other men's good, content with
my harm: and the greatest of my pride is, to see
my ewes graze, and my lambs suck.
Touch.
That is another simple sin in you; to
bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer
to get your living by the copulation of cattle: to be
bawd to a bell-wether7 note; and to betray a she-lamb
of a twelvemonth, to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly
ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou
be'st not damn'd for this, the devil himself will
have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou
shouldst 'scape.
Cor.
Here comes young master Ganymede, my
new mistress's brother.
Enter Rosalind, reading a paper.
Ros.
From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures, fairest lin'd8 note,
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind9 note
.
-- 422 --
Touch.
I'll rhyme you so, eight years together;
dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted;
it is the right butter-woman's rate to market1 note
.
Ros.
Out, fool!
Touch.
for a taste:—
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
-- 423 --
If the cat will after kind,
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Winter-garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap, must sheaf and bind;
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sowrest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find,
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses2 note; Why do you
infect yourself with them.
Ros.
Peace, you dull fool; I found them on a
tree.
Touch.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Ros.
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff
it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit3 note
in the country: for you'll be rotten e'er you be half
ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.
Touch.
You have said; but whether wisely or no,
let the forest judge.
Enter Celia, reading a paper.
Ros.
Peace!
Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
Cel.
Why should this desert silent be4 note
?
For it is unpeopled? No;
-- 424 --
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show5 note
.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage;
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age.
Some, of violated vows
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend:
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence' end,
Will I Rosalinda write;
Teaching all that read, to know
-- 425 --
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show6 note
.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd7 note
That one body should be filld
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty;
Atalanta's better part8 note
;
Sad9 note
Lucretia's modesty.
-- 426 --
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd;
-- 427 --
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches1 note
dearest priz'd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.
Ros.
O most gentle Jupiter!—what tedious homily
of love have you wearied your parishioners
withal, and never cry'd, Have patience, good people!
Cel.
How now! back friends;—Shepherd, go
off a little:—Go with him, sirrah.
Touch.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
retreat; though not with bag and baggage,
yet with scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt Corin and Touchstone.
Cel.
Didst thou hear these verses?
Ros.
O, yes, I heard them all, and more too;
-- 428 --
for some of them had in them more feet than the
verses would bear.
Cel.
That's no matter; the feet might bear the
verses.
Ros.
Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not
bear themselves without the verse, and therefore
stood lamely in the verse.
Cel.
But didst thou hear, without wondering
how thy name should be hang'd and carved upon
these trees?
Ros.
I was seven of the nine days out of the
wonder, before you came; for look here what I
found on a palm-tree2 note; I was never so be-rhymed
since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat3 note
,
which I can hardly remember.
Cel.
Trow you, who hath done this?
Ros.
Is it a man?
-- 429 --
Cel.
And a chain, that you once wore, about
his neck: Change you colour?
Ros.
I pr'ythee, who?
Cel.
O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends
to meet4 note
: but mountains may be removed with
earthquakes, and so encounter5 note.
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.
Cel.
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after
that out of all whooping6 note
!
Ros.
Good my complexion7 note
! dost thou think,
-- 430 --
though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet
and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay
more is a South-sea of discovery8 note
; I pr'ythee, tell
me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace: I would
-- 431 --
thou couldst stammer, that thou might'st pour this
concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes
out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle; either too much
at once, or none at all. I pr'ythee take the cork
out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
Cel.
So you may put a man in your belly.
Ros.
Is he of God's making? What manner of
man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth
a beard?
Cel.
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Ros.
Why, God will send more, if the man will
be thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard,
if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
Cel.
It is young Orlando; that tripp'd up the
wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an instant.
Ros.
Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak
sad brow, and true maid9 note.
Cel.
I' faith, coz, 'tis he.
Ros.
Orlando?
Cel.
Orlando.
Ros.
Alas the day! what shall I do with my
doublet and hose?—What did he, when thou saw'st
him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein
went he1 note? What makes he here? Did he ask for
me? Where remains he? How parted she with
thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer
me in one word.
Cel.
You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth2 note
-- 432 --
first: 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this
age's size: To say, ay, and no, to these particulars,
is more than to answer in a catechism.
Ros.
But doth he know that I am in this forest,
and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he
did the day he wrestled?
Cel.
It is as easy to count atomies3 note
, as to resolve
the propositions of a lover:—but take a taste of my
finding him, and relish it with a good observance.
I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn.
Ros.
It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it
drops forth such fruit4 note
.
Cel.
Give me audience, good madam.
Ros.
Proceed.
-- 433 --
Cel.
There lay he, stretch'd along, like a wounded
knight.
Ros.
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground5 note
.
Cel.
Cry, holla! to thy tongue6 note
, I pr'ythee; it
curvets very unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a
hunter.
Ros.
O ominous! he comes to kill my heart7 note
.
Cel.
I would sing my song without a burden:
thou bring'st me out of tune.
Ros.
Do you not know I am a woman? when I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Cel.
You bring me out:—Soft! comes he not
here?
-- 434 --
Ros.
'Tis he; slink by, and note him.
[Celia and Rosalind retire.
Jaq.
I thank you for your company; but, good
faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.
Orl.
And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake,
I thank you too for your society.
Jaq.
God be with you* note; let's meet as little as we
can.
Orl.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
Jaq.
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing
love-songs in their barks.
Orl.
I pray you mar no more† note of my verses
with reading them ill-favouredly.
Jaq.
Rosalind is your love's name?
Orl.
Yes, just.
Jaq.
I do not like her name.
Orl.
There was no thought of pleasing you,
when she was christen'd.
Jaq.
What stature is she of?
Orl.
Just as high as my heart.
Jaq.
You are full of pretty answers: Have you
not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and
conn'd them out of rings?
Orl.
Not so; but I answer you right painted
cloth8 note
, from whence you have studied your questions.
-- 435 --
Jaq.
You have a nimble wit; I think 't was
made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with
-- 436 --
me? and we two will rail against our mistress the
world, and all our misery.
Orl.
I will chide no breather in the world9 note
, but
myself; against whom I know most faults.
Jaq.
The worst fault you have, is to be in love.
Orl.
'Tis a fault I will not change for your best
virtue. I am weary of you.
Jaq.
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when
I found you.
Orl.
He is drown'd in the brook; look but in,
and you shall see him.
Jaq.
There shall I see mine own figure.
Orl.
Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher.
Jaq.
I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good
signior love.
Orl.
I am glad of your departure; adieu, good
monsieur melancholy.
[Exit Jaques.—Celia and Rosalind come forward.
Ros.
I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and
under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you
hear, forester?
-- 437 --
Orl.
Very well; What would you?
Ros.
I pray you, what is't a clock?
Orl.
You should ask me, what time o'day; there's
no clock in the forest.
Ros.
Then there is no true lover in the forest;
else sighing every minute, and groaning every hour,
would detect the lazy foot of time, as well as a
clock.
Orl.
And why not the swift foot of time? had
not that been as proper?
Ros.
By no means, sir: Time travels in divers
paces with divers persons: I'll tell you who Time
ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time
gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orl.
I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal?
Ros.
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid,
between the contract of her marriage1 note, and the day
it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight,
Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of
seven years.
Orl.
Who ambles Time withal?
Ros.
With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich
man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps
easily, because he cannot study; and the other
lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one
lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning;
the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury:
These Time ambles withal.
Orl.
Who doth he gallop withal?
Ros.
With a thief to the gallows: for though he
go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too
soon there.
-- 438 --
Orl.
Who stays it still withal?
Ros.
With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep
between term and term, and then they perceive
not how time moves.
Orl.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Ros.
With this shepherdess, my sister: here in
the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orl.
Are you native of this place?
Ros.
As the coney, that you see dwell where she
is kindled.
Orl.
Your accent is something finer than you
could purchase in so removed2 note
a dwelling.
Ros.
I have been told so of many: but, indeed,
an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak,
who was in his youth an in-land man3 note
; one that
knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love.
I have heard him read many lectures against it;
and I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touch'd
with so many giddy offences as he hath generally
tax'd their whole sex withal.
Orl.
Can you remember any of the principal
evils, that he laid to the charge of women?
Ros.
There were none principal; they were all
-- 439 --
like one another, as half-pence are: every one fault
seeming monstrous, till his fellow fault came to
match it.
Orl.
I pr'ythee, recount some of them.
Ros.
No; I will not cast away my physick, but
on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the
forest, that abuses our young plants with carving
Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns,
and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth,
deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet
that fancy-monger, I would give him some good
counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love
upon him.
Orl.
I am he that is so love-shaked; I pray you,
tell me your remedy.
Ros.
There is none of my uncle's marks upon
you: he taught me how to know a man in love;
in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not
prisoner.
Orl.
What were his marks?
Ros.
A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue
eye4 note, and sunken; which you have not: an unquestionable
spirit5 note
; which you have not: a beard
-- 440 --
neglected; which you have not:—but I pardon
you for that; for, simply, your having6 note
in beard is
a younger brother's revenue:—Then your hose
should be ungarter'd7 note
, your bonnet unbanded, your
sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every
thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation.
But you are no such man; you are rather
point-device8 note in your accoutrements; as loving
yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.
Orl.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee
believe I love.
Ros.
Me believe it? you may as soon make her
that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is
apter to do, than to confess she does: that is one
of the points in the which women still give the lie
to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you
-- 441 --
he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein
Rosalind is so admired?
Orl.
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand
of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
Ros.
But are you so much in love as your rhymes
speak?
Orl.
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how
much.
Ros.
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you,
deserves as well a dark house, and a whip, as madmen
do: and the reason why they are not so punished
and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary,
that the whippers are in love too: Yet I profess
curing it by counsel.
Orl.
Did you ever cure any so?
Ros.
Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to
imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him
every day to woo me: At which time would I, being
but a moonish youth9 note
, grieve, be effeminate,
changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical,
apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles;
for every passion something, and for no passion truly
any thing, as boys and women are for the most part
cattle of this colour: would now like him, now
loath him; then entertain him, then forswear him;
now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave
my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living
humour of madness1 note
; which was, to forswear the
-- 442 --
full stream of the world, and to live in a nook
merely monastick: And thus I cured him; and this
way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean
as a sound sheep's heart2 note, that there shall not be
one spot of love in't.
Orl.
I would not be cured, youth.
Ros.
I would cure you, if you would but call me
Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo
me.
Orl.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell
me where it is.
Ros.
Go with me to it, and I'll show it you:
and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the
forest you live: Will you go?
Orl.
With all my heart, good youth.
Ros.
Nay, you must call me Rosalind:—Come,
sister, will you go?
[Exeunt.
-- 443 --
SCENE III.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey3 note; Jaques at a distance, observing them.
Touch.
Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch
up your goats, Audrey: And how, Audrey? am I
the man yet? Doth my simple feature content
you4 note
?
Aud.
Your features! Lord warrant us! what features?
Touch.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as
-- 444 --
the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among
the Goths5 note
.
Jaq.
O knowledge ill-inhabited6 note
! worse than
Jove in a thatch'd house!
[Aside.
Touch.
When a man's verses cannot be understood,
nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward
child, understanding, it strikes a man more
dead than a great reckoning in a little room7 note:—
Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
-- 445 --
Aud.
I do not know what poetical is: Is it honest
in deed, and word? Is it a true thing?
Touch.
No, truly; for the truest poetry is the
most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and
what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers,
they do feign8 note
.
Aud.
Do you wish then, that the gods had made
me poetical?
Touch.
I do, truly: for thou swear'st to me, thou
art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have
some hope thou didst feign.
Aud.
Would you not have me honest?
Touch.
No truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd:
for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a
sauce to sugar.
Jaq.
A material fool9 note
!
[Aside.
Aud.
Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray
the gods make me honest!
Touch.
Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a
foul slut, were to put good meat into an unclean
dish.
Aud.
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I
am foul1 note
.
-- 446 --
Touch.
Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness!
sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it
as it may be, I will marry thee: and to that end, I
have been with Sir Oliver Mar-text, the vicar of the
next village; who hath promised to meet me in this
place of the forest, and to couple us.
Jaq.
I would fain see this meeting.
[Aside.
Aud.
Well, the gods give us joy!
Touch.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a
fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we
have no temple but the wood, no assembly but
horn-beasts. But what though2 note? Courage! As
-- 447 --
horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said,—
Many a man knows no end of his goods: right:
many a man has good horns, and knows no end of
them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis
none of his own getting. Horns? Even so:—
Poor men alone?—No, no; the noblest deer hath
them as huge as the rascal3 note. Is the single man
therefore blessed? No: as a wall'd town is more
worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married
man more honourable than the bare brow of a
bachelor: and by how much defence4 note is better than
no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than
to want.
Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.
Here comes sir Oliver5 note
:—Sir Oliver Mar-text, you
-- 448 --
are well met: Will you dispatch us here under this
tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
Sir Oli.
Is there none here to give the woman?
Touch.
I will not take her on gift of any man.
Sir Oli.
Truly, she must be given, or the marriage
is not lawful.
Jaq. [Discovering himself.]
Proceed, proceed;
I'll give her.
Touch.
Good even, good master What ye call't:
How do you, sir? You are very well met: God'ild
you5 note
for your last company: I am very glad to see
you:—Even a toy in hand here, sir:—Nay; pray,
be cover'd.
Jaq.
Will you be married, motley?
Touch.
As the ox hath his bow6 note
, sir, the horse
his curb, and the faulcon her bells, so man hath
his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would
be nibbling.
Jaq.
And will you, being a man of your breeding,
be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get
you to church, and have a good priest that can tell
you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you
together as they join wainscot; then one of you
will prove a shrunk pannel, and, like green timber,
warp, warp.
-- 449 --
Touch.
I am not in the mind, but I were better
to be married of him than of another: for he is
not like to marry me well: and not being well
married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter,
to leave my wife.
[Aside.
Jaq.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Touch.
Come, sweet Audrey:
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry,
Farewell, good master Oliver!
Not—O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver7 note
,
Leave me not behind thee:
But—Wind away,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.
[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey.
-- 450 --
Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical
knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.
[Exit.
-- 451 --
SCENE IV.
The same. Before a Cottage.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Ros.
Never talk to me, I will weep.
Cel.
Do, I pr'ythee; 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's8 note
: marry,
his kisses are Judas's own children.
-- 452 --
Ros.
I'faith, his hair is of a good colour9 note.
Cel.
An excellent colour: your chesnut was
ever the only colour.
Ros.
And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the
touch of holy bread1 note.
Cel.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of
Diana2 note: a nun of winter's sisterhood3 note
kisses not
-- 453 --
more religiously; the very 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?
Cel.
Yes: I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a
horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think
him as concave as a cover'd goblet4 note
, 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 confirmers of false reckonings: He attends
here in the forest on the duke your father.
Ros.
I met the duke yesterday, and had much
question5 note
with him: He ask'd me, of what parentage
I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he
laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers,
when there is such a man as Orlando?
Cel.
O, that's a brave man! he writes brave
-- 454 --
verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and
breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart6 note
the
-- 455 --
heart of his lover7 note
; as a puny 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 enquired
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.
Cel.
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.
Ros.
O, come, let us remove;
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:—
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:
Say, that you love me not; but say not so
-- 456 --
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 drops8 note
?
-- 457 --
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, at a distance.
Phe.
I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye:
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable9 note,
That eyes,—that are the frail'st 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
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush1 note,
The cicatrice and capable impressure2 note
-- 458 --
Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not:
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
Than can do hurt.
Sil.
O dear Phebe,
If ever, (as that ever may be near,)
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy3 note,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
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? [Advancing.] Who might be your mother4 note,
That you insult, exult, and all at once5 note
,
-- 459 --
Over the wretched? What though you have mo beauty6 note
,
-- 460 --
(As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,)
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you, than in the ordinary
Of nature's sale-work7 note:—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 eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship8 note
.—
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman: 'Tis such fools as you,
That make 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, fasting, for a good man's love:
-- 461 --
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 scoffer9 note.
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 her foulness1 note, 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.
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 abus'd in sight as he2 note
.
Come, to our flock.
[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe.
Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight3 note
?
-- 462 --
Sil.
Sweet Phebe,—
Phe.
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;
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief,
Were both extermin'd.
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:
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 smile4 note
, and that I'll live upon.
-- 463 --
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 master of5 note.
Phe.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy6 note
:—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 tall7 note
:
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
Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask8 note.
-- 464 --
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
I have more cause9 note 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, 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.
[Exeunt.
James Boswell [1821], The plays and poems of William Shakspeare, with the corrections and illustrations of various commentators: comprehending A Life of the Poet, and an enlarged history of the stage, by the late Edmond Malone. With a new glossarial index (J. Deighton and Sons, Cambridge) [word count] [S10201].
