Ros.

Never talk to me; I will weep.

Cel.

Do, I prithee; 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's: marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

Ros.

I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.

Cel.

An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.

Ros.

And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread ^note.

Cel.

He hath bought a pair of cast ^note lips of Diana: a nun of winter's ^note sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them ^note.

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 covered goblet 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 ^note is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the

confirmer ^note of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.

Ros.

I met the Duke yesterday and had much question with him: he asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed 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, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny ^note tilter, that spurs ^note his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose ^note: but all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides ^note. Who comes here?

Cor.
Mistress and master, you have oft inquired
After the shepherd that complain'd of love,
Who ^note 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 to ^note this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt.

^note

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