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And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, oh, for shame, for shame,

Lie 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 scar of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure

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.

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.

Phebe. 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.

Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your

mother,

That you insult, exult, and rail, at once
Over the wretched? what though you have beauty,
(As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,)

5. Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ?
Why, what means this? why do you look on me ?
I fee no more in you ou than in the ordinary
Of nature's sale-work: odds, 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 filk hair,
gs Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.

A

* the power of fancy,] i. e. the Arms of Love: As Poets talk of the Darts of Cupid in the Eyes of their Mistresses.

D 3

You

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 fuch fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;
'Tis not her glafs, but you, that flatter 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 heav'n, 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 found to be a fcoffer :
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.

Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and sne'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee, with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me? 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;
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, fifter; shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud; tho' all the world could fee,
None could be so abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin.
Phe. Deed shepherd, now I find thy Saw of might;
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?
Sil. Sweet Phebe!

Phe. Hah: what say'st thou, Silvius?

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe. Why I am forry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be;

If you do forrow at my grief in love,

1 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 fince 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:
5. But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

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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 25 A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

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Phe. Know'st thou the youth, that spoke to me cre while?

mt 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.

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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;

ghi 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

D 4

Than

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the dif

ference"

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
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 faid, mine eyes were black, and my hair black:
And, now I am remembred, scorn'd at me;
I marvel, why I anfwer'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?

1

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 paffing short:

Go with me, Silvius.

I

[Exeunt.

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Rof. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaq. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing.

Rof. Those, that are in extremity of either, are abo

minable fellows; and betray themselves to every mo

dern cenfure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad, and say nothing.

Rof.

di

Rof. Why then, 'tis good to be a poft. 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 foldier'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 fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the fundry contemad plation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humourous sadness.

Rof. A traveller ! by my faith, you have great reason to be fad: I fear, you have fold your own lands to fee other men's; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd me experience.

Enter Orlando.

Rof. And your experience makes you fad: I had rather 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! Jaq. Nay, then God b'w'y you, an you talk in blank verse.

Rof.

SCENE II.

[Exit.

FAREWEL, monfieur traveller; look, you

lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own Country; be out of love with int your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think, you have swam in a Gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a ab lover? an you serve me fuch another trick, never come

g.

mo

in my fight more.

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

g. my promife.

Ro

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