Clown.
Cor.
And how like you this Shepherd's Life, Mr. Touchstone?
Clown.
Truly, Shepherd, in respect of it self, 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. Has't 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 Mony, 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 the lack of the Sun: That he that hath learned no Wit
-- 628 --
by Nature, nor Art, may complain of good Breeding, or
comes of a very dull Kindred.
Clown.
Such a one is a natural Philosopher.
Was't ever in Court, Shepherd?
Cor.
No truly.
Clown.
Then thou art Damn'd.
Cor.
Nay, I hope—
Clown.
Truly thou art Damn'd, like an ill-roasted Egg, all
on one side.
Cor.
For not being at Court? Your reason.
Clown.
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 have 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 Courtesie would be uncleanly, if Courtiers
were Shepherds.
Clown.
Instance, briefly; come, instance.
Cor.
Why, we are still handling our Ewes, and their Fels,
you know, are greasie.
Clown.
Why, do not your Courtiers Hands sweat? And
is not the Grease of Mutton as wholsome as the Sweat of a
Man? Shallow, shallow, a better Instance, I say: Come.
Cor.
Besides, our Hands are hard.
Clown.
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 Courtiers
Hands are perfumed with Civet.
Clown.
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.
Clown.
Wilt thou rest Damn'd? God help thee, shallow
Man; God make incision in thee, thou art raw.
-- 629 --
Cor.
Sir, I am a true Labourer, I earn that I eat; get
that I wear; owe no Man Hate, envy no Man's Happiness;
glad of other Mens good, content with my harm; and the
greatest of my Pride, is to see my Ewes graze, and my
Lambs suck.
Clown.
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 a Bawd to a Bell-weather,
and to betray a She-Lamb of a Twelve-month 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 how thou should'st
'scape.
Cor.
Here comes Mr. Ganimed, my new Mistress's Brother.
Enter Rosalind with a Paper.
Ros.
From the East to Western Inde,
No Jewel is like Rosalind,
Her Worth being mounted on the Wind,
Through all the World bears Rosalind.
All the Pictures fairest Lind,
Are but black to Rosalind;
Let no Face be kept in mind,
But the most fair Rosalind.
Clown.
I'll Rhime you so, eight years together; dinners,
and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: It is the right
Butter-womens rank to Market.
Ros.
Out Fool.
Clown.
For a taste.
If a Hart doth lack a Hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
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 Meat hath sowrest Rind,
Such a Nut is Rosalind.
-- 630 --
He that sweetest Rose will find,
Must find Loves prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of Verses; why do you infect
your self with them?
Ros.
Peace, you dull Fool, I found them on a Tree.
Clown.
Truly, the Tree yields bad Fruit.
Ros.
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with
a Medler; than it will be the earliest Fruit i'th' Country;
for you'll be rotten e'er you be half ripe, and that's the right
Vertue of the Medler.
Clown.
You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the
Forest judge.
Enter Celia with a Writing.
Ros.
Peace, here comes my Sister reading, stand aside.
Cel.
Why should this a Desart be?
For it is unpeopled. No;
Tongues I'll hang on every Tree,
That shall civil Sayings show.
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'd,
That one Body should be fill'd
With all the Graces wide enlarg'd;
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's Cheeks, but not her Heart,
Cleopatra's Majesty;
Atalanta's better part;
Sad Lucretia's Modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts,
By heav'nly Synod was devis'd,
-- 631 --
Of many Faces, Eyes and Hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Heav'n 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.
Clown.
Come, Shepherd, let us make an Honourable Retreat,
tho' not with Bag and Baggage, yet with Scrip and
Scrippage.
[Exit Cor. 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; I
was never so berhim'd since Pythagoras's time, that I was an
Irish Rat, which I can hardly remember.
Cel.
Tro 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 prethee who?
Cel.
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for Friends to
meet; but Mountains may be remov'd with Earthquakes,
and so encounter.
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I prethee 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
hoping.
-- 632 --
Ros.
Good my Complexion, dost thou think, though I
am caparison'd like a Man, I have a Doublet and a Hose in
my disposition? One inch of delay more, is a South Sea of
discovery. I prethee tell me, who is it, quickly, and speak
apace? I would thou could'st 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 prethee 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 trip'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 Gargantua's 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 easie to count Atoms as to resolve the Propositions
of a Lover; but take a taste of my finding him,
and relish it with good observance. I found him under a
Tree like a dropp'd Acorn.
-- 633 --
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.
Tho' it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes
the Ground.
Cry.
Cry halla, to thy Tongue, I prethee; it curvets unseasonably.
He was furnish'd like a Hunter.
Ros.
O ominous, he comes to kill my Heart.
Cel.
I would sing my Song without a burthen, 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.
Jaq.
I thank you for your Company; but good faith, I
had as lief have been my self alone.
Orla.
And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake,
I thank you too, for your Society.
Jaq.
God b'w' you, let's meet as little as we can.
Orla.
I do desire we may be better Strangers.
Jaq.
I pray you marr no more Trees with writing Love-Songs
in their Barks.
Orla.
I pray you marr 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: But I answer you right, painted Cloth,
from whence you have studied your Questions?
Jaq.
You have a nimble Wit; I think it was made of
-- 634 --
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 Brother in the World but my self,
against whom I know no faults.
Jaq.
The worst fault you have, is to be in Love.
Orla.
'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.
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.
Jaq.
I'll stay no longer with you; farewel, good Signior
Love.
[Exit.
Orla.
I am glad of your Departure: Adieu, good Monsieur
Melancholy.
Ros.
I will speak to him like a sawcy Laquey, 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 Places,
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 prethee, 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 sennight, 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
-- 635 --
study, and the other lives merrily, because he feels no
pain: The one lacking the burthen of lean and wasteful
Learning; the other knowing no burthen 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.
Whom 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.
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 Native of this Place?
Ros.
As the Cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.
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
Unkle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his
Youth an Inland Man, one that knew Courtship too well;
for there he fell in Love. I have heard him read many Lectures
against it. 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's fault seeming monstrous,
'till his fellow fault came to match it.
Orla.
I prethee 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.
-- 636 --
Orla.
I am he that is so Love-shak'd; I pray you, tell me
your Remedy.
Ros.
There is none of my Unkle'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
sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable Spirit,
which you have not; a Beard neglected, which you have
not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having no
Beard, is a younger Brother's Revenue; Then your Hose
should be ungarter'd, your Bonnet unbanded, your Sleeve
unbutton'd, your Shoo untied, and every thing about you
demonstrating a careless Desolation; but you are no such
Man, you are rather Point device in your Accoutrements,
as loving your self, than seeming the Lover of any other.
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 Lie 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 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 meerly a Madness, and, I tell you, deserves
as well a dark House, and a Whip, as mad Men 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
-- 637 --
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 this Suitor from his mad
Humour of Love, to a living Humour of Madness, which
was to forswear the full Stream of the World, and to live
in a Nook meerly 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, Audrey and Jaques.
Clo.
Come apace, good Audrey, I will fetch up your
Goats, Audrey; and now, Audrey, am I the Man yet? Doth
my simple Feature content you?
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.
O Knowledge ill inhabited, worse than Jove in a
Thatch't 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 Room; 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 Poety is the most feigning,
-- 638 --
and Lovers are given to Poetry; and what they swear in
Poetry, 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 were hard-favour'd; for Honesty
coupled to Beauty, is to have Honey a Sauce to Sugar.
Jaq.
A material Fool.
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
foul.
Clo.
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.
I would fain see this Meeting.
Aud.
Well, the Gods give us Joy.
Clo.
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 tho'?
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.
-- 639 --
Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.
Here comes Sir Oliver: Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well
met. Will you dispatch us here under this Tree, or shall
we go with you to your Chappel?
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.
Proceed, proceed! I'll give her.
Clo.
Good Even, good M. What ye call't: How do you
Sir, you are very well met: Godild you 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 Bow, Sir, the Horse his Curb,
and the Falcon his Bells, so Man hath his Desire; 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
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:
Farewel good Mr. Oliver; not O sweet Oliver, O brave
Oliver, leave me not behind thee: But wind away, be gone
I say, I will not to wedding with thee.
Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical Knave of them
all shall flout me out of my Calling.
[Exeunt.
-- 640 --
SCENE IV.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Ros.
Never talk to me, I will weep.
Cel.
Do I prethee, 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 Chesnut was ever the only Colour.
Ros.
And his Kissing is as full of Sanctity,
As the touch of holy Bread.
Cel.
He hath bought a Pair of chaste Lips of Diana, a Nun
of Winter's sisterhood Kisses not 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 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 is no
stronger than the Word of a Tapster; they are both the
Confirmer 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 askt 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?
-- 641 --
Cel.
O that's a brave Man, he writes brave Verses, speaks
brave Words, swears brave Oaths, and breaks them bravely,
quite travers athwart the Heart of his Lover, as a puisny
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 enquir'd
After the Shepherd that complain'd of Love,
Whom 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 plaid
Between the pale Complection 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 this Sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busie Actor in their Play.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
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 th' accustom'd Sight of Death makes hard,
Falls not the Ax upon the humbled Neck,
But first begs Pardon: Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody Drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin.
Phe.
I would not be thy Executioner,
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee:
Thou tell'st me there is Murther in mine Eyes;
'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, Murtherers.
-- 642 --
Now, I do frown on thee with all my Heart,
And if mine Eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to swound, why now, fall down,
Or if thou can'st not, oh for Shame, for Shame,
Lie not, to say mine Eyes are Murtherers.
Now shew 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 Rush,
The Cicatrice and capable Impressure
Thy Palm some Moment keeps: But now mine Eyes
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am sure, is there no such force in Eyes
That can do hurt.
Sil.
O dear Phebe,
If ever, as that ever may be near,
You met in some fresh Cheek the Power of Fancy,
Then shall you know the Wounds invisible
That Love's keen Arrows make.
Phe.
But 'till that time
Come thou not 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 Mother
That you insult, exult, and all at once
Over the wretched? What though you have no Beauty,
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-work? 'ods my little Life,
I think she means to tangle mine 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 Worship.
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 makes the World full of ill-favour'd Children:
-- 643 --
'Tis not her Glass, but you that flatters her,
And out of you she sees her self more proper
Than any of her Lineaments can show her.
But Mistress, know your self, down on your Knees,
And thank Heav'n, fasting, for a good Man's Love;
For I must tell you friendly in your Ear,
Sell what 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 Scoffer:
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 fall'n in love with your Foulness, 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; tho' all the World could see,
None could be so abus'd in Sight as he.
Come to our Flock.
[Exit.
Phe.
Deed Shepherd, now I find thy Saw of Might,
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first Sight?
Sil.
Sweet Phebe.
Phe.
Hah: What sayst thou, Silvius?
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe.
Why I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil.
Where-ever 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;
-- 644 --
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 imploy'd.
Sil.
So holy and so perfect is my Love,
And such a Poverty of Grace attends it,
That I shall think it a most plenteous Crop
To glean the broken Ears after the Man
That the main Harvest reaps: Lose now and then
A scattered Smile, and that I'll live upon.
Phe.
Know'st thou the Youth that spoke to me e'er 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 of.
Phe.
Think not I love him, tho' 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?
-- 645 --
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.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
