47

I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar
of the next village, 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. Is the
single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled
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. Here comes
Sir Oliver.

Enter Sir OLIVER MARTEXT.

Sir Oliver Martext, 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

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. Exit. 111

SCENE IV. Another Part of the Forest.
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

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.

10

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.

Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast 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. 20
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.

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 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 ?

Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar? Cel. O that's a brave man. He writes brave Get you to church, and have a good priest that verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, can tell you what marriage is: this fellow will and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart bat join you together as they join wainscot; the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like green timber, warp, warp. 92 like a noble goose. But all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?

Touch. Aside. 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 Audrey:
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good Master Oliver: not,

but,

O sweet Oliver!

O brave Oliver!

Leave me not behind thee:

Wind away,
Begone, I say,

101

I will not to wedding with thee.
Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE,
and AUDREY.

Enter CORIN.

50

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:
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
Bring us unto 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.

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,

59

Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
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 be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
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: 10
'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;

30

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.

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 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.

ΤΟ

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.

80

Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN. Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:

'Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?' 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.

90

Phe. Thou hast my love: is not that neigh-
bourly?
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,

Ros. And why, I pray you? Who might be I will endure, and I'll employ thee too;
your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty

40

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 eyeballs, 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 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

5)

100

But do not look for further 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
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.

110

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: you that countenance you are; or I will scarce

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

120

your nativity, and almost chide God for making think you have swam in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the another trick, never come in my sight more. 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 ?

131

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.
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.

ACT IV.

Exeunt.

SCENE I.-The Forest of Arden. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.

Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

9

Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. Ros. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards. Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing. Ros. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

20

Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then, to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel for

it too!

Enter ORLANDO.

30

42

Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

He

Ros. Break an hour's promise in love! that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole. Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

50

Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Ros. And I am your Rosalind.

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?

Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.

72

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of
Am not I your Rosalind?
your suit.
Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because
I would be talking of her.

Ros. Well, in her person I say I will not have you.

Orl. Then in mine own person I die. Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; Orl. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind! yet he did what he could to die before, and he Jaq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would in blank verse. Exit. have lived many a fair year, though Hero had Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midlisp and wear strange suits, disable all the bene-summer-night: for, good youth, he went but fits of your own country, be out of love with forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and being

SCENE II.]

Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:
I know not the contents; but, as I guess
By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenour: pardon me;
I am but as a guiltless messenger.

10

Ros. Patience herself would startle at this letter,
And play the swaggerer: bear this, bear all.
She says I am not fair; that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me
Were man as rare as phoenix. 'Od's my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:
Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.

Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents:
Phebe did write it.

20

Ros.
Come, come, you are a fool,
And turn'd into the extremity of love.
I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,
A freestone-colour'd hand: I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands:
She has a housewife's hand; but that's no matter:
I say she never did invent this letter;
This is a man's invention, and his hand.
Sil. Sure, it is hers.

30

Ros. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style,
A style for challengers; why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brain
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the
letter?

Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

Ros. She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant
writes.

Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?

Can a woman rail thus ?

Sil. Call you this railing?
Ros. Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing?

Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.

Meaning me a beast.

If this scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine
Alack in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect.

40

Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How then might your prayers move!
He that brings this love to thee
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me and all that I can make ;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I'll study how to die.

Sil. Call you this chiding?
Cel. Alas, poor shepherd!

60

Ros. Do you pity him? no; he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee! not to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word, for Exit SILVIUS. here comes more company.

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheepcote fenc'd about with olive-trees?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour
bottom:

80

The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream
Left on your right hand brings you to the place.
But at this hour the house doth keep itself;
There's none within.

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description;
Such garments and such years: "The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Are not you
Like a ripe forester : the woman low,
And browner than her brother.'
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
Ros. I am what must we understand by this?
Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know

of me

90

What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkercher was stain'd.
Cel.

I pray you, tell it. Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from you

100

He left a promise to return again
Within an hour; and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo! what befell; he threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself:
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with
age,

And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd
50 The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,

And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush; under which bush's shade

111