Clo. Come, fweet Audrey :

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry, Farewell, good mafter Oliver!

Not-O fweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee;
But-Wind away,
Begone, I fay,

I will not to wedding with thee.

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all fhall flout me out of my calling. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV. A Cottage in the Foreft.

Enter ROSALIND, and CELIA.

Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep. Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to confider, that tears do not become a man. Rof. But have I not cause to weep.

Cel. As good caufe as one would defire; therefore weep:

Rof. His very hair is of the diffembling colour, Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kiffes are Judas's own children.

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

Cel. An excellent colour: your chefnut was ever the only colour.

Rof. And his kiffing is as full of fanctity as the touch of holy beard.

Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana: a nun of winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

F 2

Rof

Rof. But why did he fwear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay certainly, there is no truth in him.
Rof. 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.

Rof. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in. Rof. You have heard him swear downright, he

was.

Cel. Was is not is: befides, the oath of a lover is no ftronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings: He attends here in the foreft on the duke your father.

Rof. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him: He afked me, of what parentage I was; I told him of as good as he: fo he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is fuch a man as Orlando?

Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verfes, fpeaks brave words, fwears 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 goofe: but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides:-Who comes here?

Enter CORIN.

Cor. Miftrefs, and mafter, you have oft inquired After the fhepherd that complain'd of love; Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf, Praifing the proud difdainful fhepherdess

That

That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly play'd,
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of fcorn and proud difdain,
Go hence a little, and I fhall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Rof. O, come let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth thofe in love :-
Bring us but to this fight, and you fhall fay
I'll prove a bufy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V. Another Part of the Foreft.

Enter SYLVIUS, and PHEBE.

Syl. Sweet Phebe, do not fcorn me; do not,

Phebe :

Say, that you love me not; but fay not fo

In bitterness: the common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom'd fight 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?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and Corin.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'ft me, there is murder in mine eye:
'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,

That eyes that are the frail'ft and foftest things,
Who fhut 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 fwoon; why now fall down;
Or, if thou can'ft not, oh, for fhame, for fhame,
Lie not, to fay mine eyes are murderers!
Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some fear of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impreffure

Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

Syl. O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)

You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then fhall 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 fhall not pity thee.
Rof. And why, I pray you?-Who might be
your mother,

That you infult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have beauty
(As, by my faith, I fee no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed),
Muft you be therefore proud and pitilefs?"
Why, What means this? Why do you
look on me?
I fee no more in you, than in the ordinary
Of nature's fale-work :-'Od's my little life!
I think, the means to tangle mine eyes too:-
No, 'faith proud miftrefs, hope not after it;
Tis not your inky brows, your black-filk hair,

Your

Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.-
You foolish fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy fouth, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than fhe a woman: 'Tis fuch fools as you,
That makes the world full of ill favour'd children:
'Tis not her glafs, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you fhe fees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.-
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank heaven, fafting, 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 fcoffer;
So, take her to thee, fhepherd;-fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year to-
gether;

I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. Rof. [Afide.] He's fallen in love with her foulnefs, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger :-If it be fo, as fast as the anfwers thee with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words.-Why look fo upon me?

you

Phe. For no ill will I bear you.

Rof. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falfer than vows made in wine : Befides, I like you not: If you will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by :

Will you go, fifter?-Shepherd, ply her hard :Come, fifter:-Shepherdefs, look on him better, And be not proud: though all the world could fee, None could be fo abus'd in fight as he.

Come,