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
kindred.
Touch.
Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast
ever in court, shepherd?
Cor.
No, truly.
-- 48 --
Touch.
Then thou art damned.
Cor.
Nay, I hope,—
Touch.
Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted
egg, all on one side.
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
state8 note
, 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 tarred 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
-- 49 --
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.
Touch.
Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee,
shallow man! God make incision in thee7 note! thou art
raw.
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 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-wether, 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 damned for
this, the devil himself will have no shepherds: I cannot
see else how thou shouldst 'scape 11Q0340.
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.
-- 50 --
Touch.
I'll rhyme you so, eight years together, dinners,
and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is
the right butter-women's rank to market10 note.
Ros.
Out, fool!
Touch.
For a taste:—
“If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Wintred garments must be lin'd, 11Q0341
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest 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 verses: 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 fruit i' the
country1 note; for you'll be rotten e'er you be half ripe, and
that's the right virtue of the medlar.
-- 51 --
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 a desert be 11Q03422 note?
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
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven Nature charg'd
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart3 note,
Cleopatra's majesty,
Atalanta's better part,
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd,
-- 52 --
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches 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 cried, “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; 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 hanged 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-tree4 note: I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras'
time, that I was an Irish rat5 note, which I can hardly
remember.
-- 53 --
Cel.
Trow you, who hath done this?
Ros.
Is it a man?
Cel.
And a chain, that you once wore, about his
neck6 note? Change you colour?
Ros.
I pr'ythee, who?
Cel.
O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends to
meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes,
and so encounter7 note.
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I pr'ythee, 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 whooping8 note!
Ros.
Good my complexion! dost thou think, though
I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose
in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a Southsea
of discovery9 note; 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
-- 54 --
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 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
him, and relish it with good observance10 note. I found him
under a tree, like a dropped acorn.
Ros.
It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops
forth such fruit11 note.
Cel.
Give me audience, good madam.
-- 55 --
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, I pr'ythee; it curvets
unseasonably1 note. He was furnish'd like a hunter.
Ros.
O 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.
[Rosalind and Celia 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.
Good bye, you: 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 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 christened.
Jaq.
What stature is she of?
Orl.
Just as high as my heart.
-- 56 --
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 cloth2 note,
from whence you have studied your questions.
Jaq.
You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas 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.
Orl.
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.
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 I shall 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.—Rosalind and Celia come forward.
Ros. [Aside to Celia.]
I will speak to him like a
saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with
him. [To him.] Do you hear, forester?
Orl.
Very well: what would you?
Ros.
I pray you, what is't o'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
-- 57 --
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 marriage, 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.
Orl.
Who stays it still withal?
11Q0343
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 removed a dwelling.
-- 58 --
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 inland 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 touched with so many giddy
offences, as he hath generally taxed 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 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 physic, 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 Rosalind3 note:
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 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 in beard is a younger brother's revenue.—Then,
your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet
unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied,
-- 59 --
and every thing about you demonstrating a careless
desolation. But you are no such man: you are rather
point-device4 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 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 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 loathe him; then entertain
him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit
at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour
-- 60 --
of love, to a loving humour of madness5 note; which was, to
forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a
nook, merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and
this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as
clean as a sound sheep's heart, 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.
SCENE III.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques behind, 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 you?
Aud.
Your features? Lord warrant us! what features?
Touch.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the
most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the
Goths.
-- 61 --
Jaq. [Aside.]
O knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than
Jove in a thatch'd house6 note!
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 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?
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
feign.
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. [Aside.]
A material fool.
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
foul.
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-text7 note, the vicar of the next village,
-- 62 --
who hath promised 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!
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 though? 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 11Q03448 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 defence is better than no skill, by so
much is a horn more precious than to want.
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 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. [coming forward.]
Proceed, proceed: I'll give
her.
Touch.
Good even, good Mr. 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 cover'd.
Jaq.
Will you be married, motley?
-- 63 --
Touch.
As the ox hath his bow1 note, sir, the horse his
curb, and the falcon 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.
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.
Jaq.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Touch.
Come, sweet Audrey2 note:
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good master Oliver! Not
O sweet Oliver!
O brave Oliver!
Leave me not behind thee:
But wind away3 note,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee. 11Q0345
[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey.
Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical knave of
them all shall flout me out of my calling.
[Exit.
-- 64 --
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's4 note. 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 bread5 note.
Cel.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana6 note:
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 covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.
Ros.
Not true in love?
-- 65 --
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 lover7 note 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 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 puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one
side, breaks his staff like a noble goose8 note. But all's
brave, that youth mounts, and folly guides.—Who
comes here?
Enter Corin.
Cor.
Mistress, and master, you have oft inquir'd
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:
-- 66 --
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.—
Bring us to this sight9 note, 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 th' 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 drops 11Q034610 note?
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind.
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 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 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
-- 67 --
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush11 note,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps, 11Q0347 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 fancy,
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. [Advancing.]
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 beauty1 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-work:—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 worship.—
-- 68 --
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 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 fallen in love with your foulness, and she'll
fall in love with my anger2 note. 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 he.
Come, to our flock.
[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe.
Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;
-- 69 --
“Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight 11Q03483 note
?”
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 farther recompense,
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
-- 70 --
A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.
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 of4 note.
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 cause5 note to hate him than to love him;
For what had he to do to chide at me? 11Q0349
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.
-- 71 --
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.
J. Payne Collier [1842–1844], The works of William Shakespeare. The text formed from an entirely new collation of the old editions: with the various readings, notes, a life of the poet, and a history of the Early English stage. By J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. In eight volumes (Whittaker & Co. [etc.], London) [word count] [S10101].
