Cor.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.

Sil.
O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

Cor.
I partly guess, for I have lov'd ere now.

Sil.
No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
Tho' in thy youth thou wast as true a lover,
As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow;
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
(As sure I think never man did love so)
How many actions most ridiculous,
Hast thou been drawn to, by thy fantasie?

Cor.
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

Sil.
O thou didst then ne'er love so heartily;† ^note
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd.
Or if thou hast not fate, as I do now,
Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise
Thou hast not lov'd.
Or if thou hast not broke from company,
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov'd.
O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! [Exit Sil.

Ros.
Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
I have, by hard adventure, found my own.

Touch.

And I mine. I remember when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that, for coming a-nights to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batlet,* ^note and the cows dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I

took two cods, and giving her them again, said, with weeping tears, Wear these for my sake. We that are true lovers, run into strange capers; but all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love, mortal in folly.

Ros.

Thou speak'st wiser than thou art aware of.

Touch.

Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of my own wit, till I break my shins against it.

Cel.
I pray you, one of you question yon man,
If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.

Touch.
Holla; you, clown.

Ros.
Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

Cor.
Who calls?

Touch.
Your betters, sir.

Cor.
Else they are very wretched.

Ros.
Peace, I say. Good, even to you, friend.

Cor.
And to you, gentle sir; and to you all.

Ros.
I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and feed.
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
And faints for succour.

Cor.
Fair sir, I pity her,
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her;
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not sheer the fleeces that I graze:
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little wreaks to find the way to heav'n,
By doing deeds of hospitality.
Besides, his cot, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
Are now on sale, and at our sheep-cote now;
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on. But what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

Ros.
What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

Cor.
That young swain that you saw here, but ere while,
That little cares for buying any thing.

Ros.
I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Cel.
And we will mend thy wages.
I like this place, and willingly could waste
My time in it.

Cor.
Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
Go with me: if you like upon report,
The foil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly. [Exeunt. Enter Amiens and Jaques.

Jaq.

More, more, I pr'ythee, more.

Ami.

It will make you melancholy, monsieur Jaques.

Jaq.

I thank it; more, I pr'ythee, more; I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. Come, warble, warble.