Lye not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now shew 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 some moment keeps : 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 meer in some fresh cheek the power of faney,
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,
Amict me with thy mocks, pity me not ;
As, 'till that time, I shall not pity thee.

Ref. And why, I pray you ? who might be your mother, -
(22) That you insult, exult, and rail, at once
Over the wretched ? (23) what though you have beauty,
(As, by my faith, I fee no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,)
Mult you be therefore proud and pitilefs :
Why, what means this? why do you look on me...
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature's fale-work: odds, my little life !
I think, the means to tangle mine eyes too:

all at once,

(22) That you infuli, exult. and all at once

Over i be wretched ?] If the speaker only intended to accuse the person spoken to, for insulting and exulting, initead of it ought to have been, boob at once. But on examining, according 10 fact, the crime of the person accus'd, we shall find we ought to read the line thus;

That you insult, exult, and rail at once, &c. For these three things Phehe was guilty of.

Mr. Warburton. (23) -Wbat though you Bave no beauty,] Tho' all the printed copies agree in this reading, it is very accurately observ'd to me by an ingenious unknown correspondent, who signs himself L. H. (and 10 whom I can only here make my acknowledgments) that the Negative ought to be left out.

NO

Q4

1

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black filk 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 fouth puffing with wind and rain ?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than the a woman.

'Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatter her;
And out of you the fees herself more proper,
'Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourself ; down on your knees,
And thank heav'n, faking, 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.

Pbe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together ; I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with ny anger. If it be fo, as fast as the 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.

Raf. I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am faller 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, fifter ? fhepherd, ply her hard : Come, fifter : shepherdess look on him better, And be not proud ; tho' all the world could see, None could be so abus’d in fight as he. Come, to our flock.

[Exit. Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy faw of might; Who ever lov’d, that lov'd not at first sight?

Sil. Sweet Pbebe!
Phe. Hah: what say'st thou, Silvius ?
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe.

;

Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

Sil. Where-ever forrow 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 further recompence,
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.

Pbe. Know'ft 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 Cartot 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, fure, 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 fo fo, 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 damak.

There

OS

There be fome 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

ack: And, now I am rem

emembred, 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. Phehe, with all my heart.

Pbe. I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head, and in my heart,
I will be bitter with him, and pafling short :
Go with me, Silvius.

Exeunt,

0000000000000000000000

ACT

IV.,

SCENE continues in the Forest.

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.

JA QUE s.
Pr’ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted

with thee.
Rof. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.
Yaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

Roj. 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.
Rof. Why then, pois good to be a post.

Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation ; nor the musician's, which is fantastical ; aor the courtier's, which is proud ; por the soldier's,

and poor

which is ambitious ; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; por 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 fundry contemplation of my travels, in which

my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

Ros. A traveller! by my faith, you have great reason
to be fad : I fear, you have sold your own lands, to see
other mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing,
is to have rich
eyes

hands.
Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd my experience.

Enter Orlando.
Rof. And your experience makes you fad : I had ra.
ther have a fool to make me merry, than experience to
make me fad, and to travel for it too.

Orla. Good-day, and happiness, dear Rofalind!

Jag. Nay, then God b’w'y you, an you talk in blank verse.

[Exit. Ros. Farewel, monsieur traveller; look, you lifp, and wear strange faits ; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almoft chide God for making you that countenance you ase ; or I will scarce 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 another trick, never come in my light more.

Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promie.

Rof. Break an hour's promife in love d he 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 clapt him o'th' shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Rof. Nay, an you be fo tardy, como no more in my
Sight; I had as lief be woo'd of a fnail.
Orla. Of a snail?
Rof. Any of a fail, for tho' he comes flowly, carrier