Cel.
Why should this desert silent9 note
be?
For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show1 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
This quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd2 note
That one body should be fill'd
-- 322 --
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty;
Atalanta's better part3 note
note mean her virtue or virgin chastity,
with which nature had graced Rosalind, together with Helen's
beauty without her heart or lewdness, with Cleopatra's dignity
of behaviour, and with Lucretia's modesty, that scorned to
survive the loss of honour? Pliny's Nat. Hist. b. xxxv. c. 3.
mentions the portraits of Atalanta and Helen, utraque excellentissima
forma, sed altera ut virgo. That is, “both of them for
beauty, incomparable, and yet a man may discerne the one [Atalanta]
of them to be a maiden, for her modest and chaste countenance,”
as Dr. P. Holland translated the passage, of which probably
our poet had taken notice, for surely he had judgment in
painting.
Tollet.
I suppose Atalanta's better part is her wit, i. e. the swiftness of
her mind.
Farmer.
Shakespeare might have taken part of this enumeration of distinguished
females from John Grange's Golden Aphroditis, 1577.
“—who seemest in my sight faire Helen of Troy, Polixene,
Calliope, yea Atlanta hir selfe in beauty to surpasse, Pandora in
qualities, Penelope and Lucretia in chastenesse to deface.”
Again, ibid:
“Polixene fayre, Caliop, and
“Penelop may give place;
“Atlanta, and dame Lucres fayre
“She doth them both deface.”
Again, ibid: “Atlanta who sometyme bore the bell of beauties
price in that hyr native soyle.”
Johnson.
;
4 noteSad Lucretia's modesty.
-- 323 --
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd;
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches5 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.
Clo.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
retreat: though not with bag and baggage, yet with
scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt Corin, and Clown.
Cel.
Didst thou hear these verses?
Ros.
O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; 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 wondring how
thy name should be hang'd and carv'd upon these
trees?
Ros.
I was seven of the nine days out of wonder,
before you came; for look here what I found on a
palm-tree: 6 note
I was never so be-rhimed since Pythagoras'
-- 324 --
time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can
hardly remember.
Cel.
Trow you, who hath done this?
Ros.
Is it a man?
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 meet7 note
; but mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes,
and so encounter. 9Q0366
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I pry'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 whooping!
Ros.
8 note
Good my complexion! dost thou think,
-- 325 --
though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet
and hose in my disposition? 9 note
One inch of delay more
is a South-sea off discovery. I pr'ythee, tell me, who
is it? quickly, and speak apace: I would 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
-- 326 --
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 maid.
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 he?
What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where
remains he? How parted he with thee? and when
shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.
Cel.
You must borrow me Garagantua's 1 note
mouth
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 atomies, as to resolve the
propositions of a lover:—but take a taste of my finding
-- 327 --
him, and relish it with good observance. I found
him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn2 note
.
Ros.
It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it
drops forth such fruit.
Cel.
Give me audience, good madam.
Ros.
Proceed.
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 ground.
Cel.
Cry, holla! to thy tongue 9Q0367, I pr'thee; it curvets
unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter.
Ros.
Oh ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
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?
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.
Orla.
And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I
thank you too for your society.
Jaq.
God be with you; let's meet as little as we can.
Orla.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
-- 328 --
Jaq.
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing
love-songs in their barks.
Orla.
I pray you, mar no more of my verses with
reading them ill-favouredly.
Jaq.
Rosalind is your love's name?
Orla.
Yes, just.
Jaq.
I do not like her name.
Orla.
There was no thought of pleasing you, when
she was christen'd.
Jaq.
What stature is she of?
Orla.
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?
Orla.
Not so: 3 note
but I answer you right painted
cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
-- 329 --
Jaq.
You have a nimble wit; I think it was made
of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me; and
we two will rail against our mistress, the world, and
all our misery.
Orla.
I will chide no breather in the world, but myself,
against whom I know most faults.
Jaq.
The worst fault you have is, to be in love.
Orla.
'Tis a fault I would 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.
Orla.
He is drown'd in the brook; look but in,
and you shall see him.
Jaq.
There I shall see mine own figure.
Orla.
Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher.
-- 330 --
Jaq.
I'll tarry no longer with you: farewel, good
signior love.
[Exit.
Orla.
I am glad of your departure: adieu, good
monsieur melancholy.
[Cel. and Ros. come forward.
Ros.
I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and
under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you
hear, forester?
Orla.
Very well; What would you?
Ros.
I pray you, what is't a clock?
Orla.
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.
Orla.
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.
Orla.
I pr'ythee, whom doth he trot withal?
Ros.
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between
the contract of her marriage and the day it is
solemniz'd: if the interim be but a se'nnight, time's
pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.
Orla.
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.
Orla.
Whom 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.
Orla.
Who stays it still withal?
-- 331 --
Ros.
With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep
between term and term, and then they perceive not
how time moves.
Orla.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Ros.
With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the
skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orla.
Are you a native of this place?
Ros.
As the coney, that you see dwell where she is
kindled.9Q0369
Orla.
Your accent is something finer than you
could purchase in so removed 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 4 notein-land man; 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.
Orla.
Can you remember any of the principal evils,
that he laid to the charge of women?
Ros.
There were none principal; they were all like
one another, as half-pence are: every one fault seeming
monstrous, 'till his fellow fault came to match it.
Orla.
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.
Orla.
I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you,
tell me your remedy.
-- 332 --
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.
Orla.
What were his marks?
Ros.
A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue
eye, and sunken5 note; which you have not: an unquestionable
spirit6 note
; which you have not: a beard neglected;
which you have not:—but I pardon you for that; for,
simply, your having 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.
-- 333 --
Orla.
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 lye to
their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he
that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind
is so admired?
Orla.
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 rhimes
speak?
Orla.
Neither rhime 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 punish'd and
cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the
whippers are in love too: Yet I profess curing it by
counsel.
Orla.
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 youth, 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 madness9 note;
which was, to forswear the full stream of the
-- 334 --
world, and to live in a nook merely monastick: And
thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take upon me
to wash your liver as clear as a sound sheep's heart,
that there shall not be one spot of love in't.
Orla.
I would not be cur'd, youth.
Ros.
I would cure you, if you would but call me
Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo
me.
Orla.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell
me where it is.
Ros.
Go with me to it, and I will shew it you: and,
by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you
live: Will you go?
Orla.
With all my heart, good youth.
Ros.
Nay, nay, you must call me Rosalind:—Come,
sister, will you go?
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter Clown and Audrey, Jaques watching them.
Clo.
Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up
your goats, Audrey: And how, Audrey? am I the
man yet? doth my simple feature content you2 note
?
-- 335 --
Aud.
Your features! Lord warrant us! what features?
Clo.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most
capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.
Jaq. [aside]
O knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than
Jove in a thatch'd house!
Clo.
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 room3 note: Truly, I would the gods
had made thee poetical.
Aud.
I do not know what poetical is: Is it honest
in deed, and word? Is it a true thing?
Clo.
No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most
feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what
-- 336 --
they swear in poetry4 note, may be said, as lovers, they
do feign.
Aud.
Do you wish then, that the gods had made
me poetical?
Clo.
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?
Clo.
No truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd: for
honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce
to sugar.
Jaq. [aside.]
A material fool5 note!
Aud.
Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the
gods make me honest!
Clo.
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 foul6 note
.
Cla.
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 promis'd to meet me in this place of
the forest, and to couple us.
Jaq. [aside]
I would fain see this meeting.
Aud.
Well, the gods give us joy!
Clo.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful
-- 337 --
heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no
temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts.
But what though7 note? Courage! As 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 rascal. 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 batchelor: and by how much defence is better
than no skill, so much is a horn more precious than
to want.
Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.
Here comes sir Oliver:—Sir Oliver Mar-text8 note
, you
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?
Clo.
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.
-- 338 --
Clo.
Good even, good master What ye call't: How
do you, sir? You are very well met: God'ild you9 note
for your last company: I am very glad to see you:—
Even a toy in hand here, sir: Nay; pray, be covered.
Jaq.
Will you be married, motley?
Clo.
As the ox hath his bow1 note, sir, the horse his
curb, and the faulcon her bells, so man hath his desires;
and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibling.
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.
Clo.
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.
Jaq.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Clo.
Come, sweet Audrey;
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good master Oliver!
Not—2 note
note See B. Jonson's
Underwood, vol. VI. p. 407:
“All the mad Rolands and sweet Olivers.”
And, in Every Man in his Humour, p. 88, is the same allusion:
“Do not stink, sweet Oliver.
Tyrwhitt.
This observation may be supported by the following passage in
Decker's Honest Whore, 1635:
“&lblank; This sweet Oliver will eat mutton till he be ready to burst.”
Again, in Nash's Lenten-Stuff, &c. 1599:
“&lblank; if you be boni socii, and sweet Olivers, &c.”
In the books of the Stationers' Company, Aug. 6, 1584, was entered
by Richard Jones the ballad of,
“O sweete Olyver
“Leave me not behinde thee.”
Again, “The answere of O sweete Olyver.”
Again, in 1586: “O sweet Oliver altered to the Scriptures.”
Steevens.
I often find a part of this song applied to Cromwell. In a paper
called, A Man in the Moon, discovering a World of Knavery
under the Sun, “the juncto will go near to give us the bagge, if
O brave Oliver come not suddenly to relieve them.” The same
allusion is met with in Cleaveland. Wind away, and wind off are
still used provincially: and I believe, nothing but the provincial
pronunciation is wanting to join the parts together. I read:
“Not—O sweet Oliver!
“O brave Oliver!
“Leave me not behi' thee &lblank;
“But—wind away,
“Begone, I say,
“I will not to wedding wi' thee.”
Farmer.
Wind is used for wend in Cæsar and Pompey, 1607:
“Winde we then, Anthony, with this royal queen.”
Steevens.O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee;
-- 339 --
But—Wind away,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.
-- 340 --
Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave
of them all shall flout me out of my calling.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A cottage in the forest.
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's2 note
: marry, his
kisses are Judas's own children.
-- 341 --
Ros.
I'faith, his hair is of a good colour3 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 beard4 note.
Cel.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana:
a nun of winter's sisterhood5 note
kisses not more religiously;
the very ice of chastity is in them.
-- 342 --
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 goblet6 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
question7 note with him: He asked 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 verses,
speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks
them bravely, quite traverse, athwart8 note
the heart of
-- 343 --
his lover; 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;
Whom you saw sitting by me on the turf,
-- 344 --
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 but to 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
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 be9 note
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
-- 345 --
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe.
I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
-- 346 --
Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye;
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
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 do I 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 can'st not, oh, for shame, for shame,
Lye not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now shew the wound mine eyes have made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure1 note
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
That can do hurt.
Sil.
O dear Phebe,
If ever (as that ever may be near)
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy2 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?—Who might be your mother3 note,
-- 347 --
That you insult, exult, and all at once4 note
,
Over the wretched? What though you have beauty5 note
,
(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-work6 note:—Od's, my little life!
I think, she means to tangle mine eyes too:—
No, 'faith proud mistress, hope not after it;
-- 348 --
'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 worship7 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:
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 scoffer8 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. [aside.]
He's fallen in love with her foulness9 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
-- 349 --
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 see1 note
,
None could be so abus'd in sight as he.
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? 9Q0371
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.
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,
-- 350 --
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.
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,
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
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
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 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;
-- 351 --
The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:
Go with me, Silvius.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
