Shakespeare's First Folio Part 174

Enter Siluius and Phebe.

Sil. Sweet Phebe doe not scorne me, do not Phebe Say that you loue me not, but say not so In bitternesse; the common executioner Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard Falls not the axe vpon the humbled neck, But first begs pardon: will you sterner be Then he that dies and liues by b.l.o.o.d.y drops?

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner, I flye thee, for I would not iniure thee: Thou tellst me there is murder in mine eye, 'Tis pretty sure, and very probable, That eyes that are the frailst, and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomyes, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murtherers.

Now I doe frowne on thee with all my heart, And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: Now counterfeit to swound, why now fall downe, Or if thou canst not, oh for shame, for shame, Lye not, to say mine eyes are murtherers: Now shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee, Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remaines Some scarre of it: Leane vpon a rush The Cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palme some moment keepes: but now mine eyes Which I haue darted at thee, hurt thee not, Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes That can doe hurt

Sil. O deere Phebe, If euer (as that euer may be neere) You meet in some fresh cheeke the power of fancie, Then shall you know the wounds inuisible That Loues keene arrows make

Phe. But till that time Come not thou neere me: and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mockes, pitty me not, As till that time I shall not pitty thee

Ros. And why I pray you? who might be your mother That you insult, exult, and all at once Ouer the wretched? what though you haue no beauty As by my faith, I see no more in you Then without Candle may goe darke to bed: Must you be therefore prowd and pittilesse?

Why what meanes this? why do you looke on me?

I see no more in you then in the ordinary Of Natures sale-worke? 'ods my little life, I thinke she meanes to tangle my eies too: No faith proud Mistresse, hope not after it, 'Tis not your inkie browes, your blacke silke haire, Your bugle eye-b.a.l.l.s, nor your cheeke of creame That can entame my spirits to your worship: You foolish Shepheard, wherefore do you follow her Like foggy South, puffing with winde and raine, You are a thousand times a properer man Then she a woman. 'Tis such fooles as you That makes the world full of ill-fauourd children: 'Tis not her gla.s.se, but you that flatters her, And out of you she sees her selfe more proper Then any of her lineaments can show her: But Mistris, know your selfe, downe on your knees And thanke heauen, fasting, for a good mans loue; For I must tell you friendly in your eare, Sell when you can, you are not for all markets: Cry the man mercy, loue him, take his offer, Foule is most foule, being foule to be a scoffer.

So take her to thee Shepheard, fareyouwell

Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a yere together, I had rather here you chide, then this man wooe

Ros. Hees falne in loue with your foulnesse, & shee'll Fall in loue with my anger. If it be so, as fast As she answeres thee with frowning lookes, ile sauce Her with bitter words: why looke you so vpon me?

Phe. For no ill will I beare you

Ros. I pray you do not fall in loue with mee, For I am falser then vowes made in wine: Besides, I like you not: if you will know my house, 'Tis at the tufft of Oliues, here hard by: Will you goe Sister? Shepheard ply her hard: Come Sister: Shepheardesse, looke on him better And be not proud, though all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in sight as hee.

Come, to our flocke, Enter.

Phe. Dead Shepheard, now I find thy saw of might, Who euer lov'd, that lou'd not at first sight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe

Phe. Hah: what saist thou Siluius?

Sil. Sweet Phebe pitty me

Phe. Why I am sorry for thee gentle Siluius

Sil. Where euer sorrow is, reliefe would be: If you doe sorrow at my griefe in loue, By giuing loue your sorrow, and my griefe Were both extermin'd

Phe. Thou hast my loue, is not that neighbourly?

Sil. I would haue you

Phe. Why that were couetousnesse: Siluius; the time was, that I hated thee; And yet it is not, that I beare thee loue, But since that thou canst talke of loue so well, Thy company, which erst was irkesome to me I will endure; and Ile employ thee too: But doe not looke for further recompence Then thine owne gladnesse, that thou art employd

Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my loue, And I in such a pouerty of grace, That I shall thinke it a most plenteous crop To gleane the broken eares after the man That the maine haruest reapes: loose now and then A scattred smile, and that Ile liue vpon

Phe. Knowst thou the youth that spoke to mee yerewhile?

Sil. Not very well, but I haue met him oft, And he hath bought the Cottage and the bounds That the old Carlot once was Master of

Phe. Thinke not I loue him, though I ask for him, 'Tis but a peeuish boy, yet he talkes well, But what care I for words? yet words do well When he that speakes them pleases those that heare: It is a pretty youth, not very prettie, But sure hee's proud, and yet his pride becomes him; Hee'll make a proper man: the best thing in him Is his complexion: and faster then his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heale it vp: He is not very tall, yet for his yeeres hee's tall: His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well: There was a pretty rednesse in his lip, A little riper, and more l.u.s.tie red Then that mixt in his cheeke: 'twas iust the difference Betwixt the constant red, and mingled Damaske.

There be some women Siluius, had they markt him In parcells as I did, would haue gone neere To fall in loue with him: but for my part I loue him not, nor hate him not: and yet Haue more cause to hate him then to loue him, For what had he to doe to chide at me?

He said mine eyes were black, and my haire blacke, And now I am remembred, scorn'd at me: I maruell why I answer'd not againe, But that's all one: omittance is no quittance: Ile write to him a very tanting Letter, And thou shalt beare it, wilt thou Siluius?

Sil. Phebe, with all my heart

Phe. Ile write it strait: The matter's in my head, and in my heart, I will be bitter with him, and pa.s.sing short; Goe with me Siluius.

Exeunt.

Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.

Enter Rosalind, and Celia, and Iaques.

Iaq. I prethee, pretty youth, let me better acquainted with thee

Ros They say you are a melancholly fellow

Iaq. I am so: I doe loue it better then laughing

Ros. Those that are in extremity of either, are abhominable fellowes, and betray themselues to euery moderne censure, worse then drunkards

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

Ros. Why then 'tis good to be a poste

Iaq. I haue neither the Schollers melancholy, which is emulation: nor the Musitians, which is fantasticall; nor the Courtiers, which is proud: nor the Souldiers, which is ambitious: nor the Lawiers, which is politick: nor the Ladies, which is nice: nor the Louers, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine owne, compounded of many simples, extracted from many obiects, and indeed the sundrie contemplation of my trauells, in which by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadnesse

Ros. A Traueller: by my faith you haue great reason to be sad: I feare you haue sold your owne Lands, to see other mens; then to haue seene much, and to haue nothing, is to haue rich eyes and poore hands

Iaq. Yes, I haue gain'd my experience.

Enter Orlando.

Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather haue a foole to make me merrie, then experience to make me sad, and to trauaile for it too

Orl. Good day, and happinesse, deere Rosalind

Iaq. Nay then G.o.d buy you, and you talke in blanke verse

Ros. Farewell Mounsieur Trauellor: looke you lispe, and weare strange suites; disable all the benefits of your owne Countrie: be out of loue with your natiuitie, and almost chide G.o.d for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce thinke you haue swam in a Gundello. Why how now Orlando, where haue you bin all this while? you a louer? and you serue me such another tricke, neuer come in my sight more

Orl. My faire Rosalind, I come within an houre of my promise

Ros. Breake an houres promise in loue? hee that will diuide a minute into a thousand parts, and breake but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of loue, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapt him oth' shoulder, but Ile warrant him heart hole

Orl. Pardon me deere Rosalind

Ros. Nay, and you be so tardie, come no more in my sight, I had as liefe be woo'd of a Snaile

Orl. Of a Snaile?

Ros. I, of a Snaile: for though he comes slowly, hee carries his house on his head; a better ioyncture I thinke then you make a woman: besides, he brings his destinie with him

Orl. What's that?

Ros. Why hornes: w such as you are faine to be beholding to your wiues for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and preuents the slander of his wife