Who fhut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murtherers!
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'st not, oh, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to fay mine eyes are murtherers.

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.

Sil. O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)

You meet in fome 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 fhall not pity thee.

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

That you infult, exult, and rail, at once

Over the wretched? (11) 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 pitiless?
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: odds, my little life!

(11) What though you have no Beauty,] Tho' all the printed Copies agree in this Reading, it is very accurately obferv'd to me by an ingenious unknown Correfpondent, who figns himself L. H. (and to Whom I can only here make my Acknowledgements) that the Negative ought to be left out.

I think

I think, fhe means to tangle mine eyes too:
No, faith, proud miftrefs, 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 fpirits to your worship.
You foolish fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy South, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than fhe 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 fhe fees her felf more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.

But, mistress, know your felf; 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 foul to be a fcoffer:
So take her to thee, fhepherd; 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 fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as fast as she anfwers thee, with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look you fo 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; Befides, I like you not. If you will know my houfe, 'Tis at the tuft of Olives, here hard by : Will you go, Sifter? fhepherd, ply her hard: Come, fifter; fhepherdefs, look on him better, And be not proud; tho' all the world could fee, None could be fo abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel, and Corin. Phe. Dead fhepherd, now I find thy Saw of might; Whoever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe !

Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Silvius ?

0 3

Sil.

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,

By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou haft 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 canft talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erft 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 fo perfect is my love,

And I in fuch a poverty of grace,

That I fhall think it a moft 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 mafter 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 fpeaks 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 rednefs in his lip,
A little riper, and more lufty red

Than

As You LIKE IT..

319

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas juft the difference
Betwixt the conftant 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 said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black:
And, now I am remembred, fcorn'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?
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 fhort:

Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE continues in the FOREST.

I

Pry'thee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Rof. They fay, you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaq. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing. Rof. Thofe, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themfelves to every modern cenfure, worfe than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and fay nothing.
Rof. Why then, 'tis good to be a poft.
0 4

Jaq. I have neither the fcholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantaftical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the foldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all thefe; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the fundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a moft humorous fadness.

:

Rof. A traveller! by my faith, you have great reason to be fad I fear, you have fold your own lands, to fee other mens; then, to have feen 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 verfe.

[Exit. Rof. Farewel, monfieur traveller; look, you lifp, and wear strange fuits; difable all the benefits of your own Country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that counmance you are; or I will scarce think, you have fwam in a Gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover? an you ferve me fuch another trick, never come in my fight more.

Orla. My fair Rofalind, I come within an hour of my promife.

Rof. Break an hour's promife in love! 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 faid of him, that Cupid hath clapt him o'th' fhoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rofalind.

Rof.