Phebe
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:
’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:
Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers!
Now show the wound mine eye hath 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 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.
Silvius
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.
Rosalind
And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,—
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 makes 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
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,
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.
Phebe
Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together:
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
Rosalind
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?
Phebe
For no ill will I bear you.
Rosalind
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 abused in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.
Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin
Phebe
Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,
‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’
Silvius
Sweet Phebe,—
Phebe
Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius?
Silvius
Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phebe
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Silvius
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 extermined.
Phebe
Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?
Silvius
I would have you.
Phebe
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 recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.
Silvius
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.
Phebe
Know’st now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Silvius
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.
Phebe
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:
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
Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference
Between 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?
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?
Silvius
Phebe, with all my heart.
Phebe
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.
Exeunt
ACT IV
/> SCENE I. THE FOREST.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques
Jaques
I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
Rosalind
They say you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaques
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
Rosalind
Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
Jaques
Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
Rosalind
Why then, ’tis good to be a post.
Jaques
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’s contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me m a most humorous sadness.
Rosalind
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.
Jaques
Yes, I have gained my experience.
Rosalind
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
Orlando
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Jaques
Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
Exit
Rosalind
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with 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 lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
Orlando
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
Rosalind
Break an hour’s promise 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 said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
Orlando
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Rosalind
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail.
Orlando
Of a snail?
Rosalind
Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman: besides he brings his destiny with him.
Orlando
What’s that?
Rosalind
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.
Orlando
Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.
Rosalind
And I am your Rosalind.
Celia
It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
Rosalind
Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?
Orlando
I would kiss before I spoke.
Rosalind
Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking — God warn us!— matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
Orlando
How if the kiss be denied?
Rosalind
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
Orlando
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
Rosalind
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
Orlando
What, of my suit?
Rosalind
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
Orlando
I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.
Rosalind
Well in her person I say I will not have you.
Orlando
Then in mine own person I die.
Rosalind
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, videlicit, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and being taken with the cramp was drowned and the foolish coroners of that age found it was ‘Hero of Sestos.’ But these are all lies: men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
Orlando
I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me.
Rosalind
By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will. I will grant it.
Orlando
Then love me, Rosalind.
Rosalind
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
Orlando
And wilt thou have me?
Rosalind
Ay, and twenty such.
Orlando
What sayest thou?
Rosalind
Are you not good?
Orlando
I hope so.
Rosalind
Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?
Orlando
Pray thee, marry us.
Celia
I cannot say the words.
Rosalind
You must begin, ‘Will you, Orlando —’
Celia
Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
Orlando
I will.
Rosalind
Ay, but when?
Orlando
Why now; as fast as she can marry us.
Rosalind
Then you must say ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.’
Orlando
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Rosalind
I might ask you for your commission; but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: there’s a girl goes before the priest; and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.
Orlando
So do all thoughts; they are winged.
Rosalind
Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.
Orlando
For ever and a day.
Rosalind
Say ‘a day,’ without the ’ever.’ No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.
Orlando
But will my Rosalind do so?
Rosalind
By my life, she will do as I do.
Orlando
O, but she is wise.
Rosalind
Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman’s wit and it will out at the casement; shut that and ’twill out at the key-hole; stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
Orlando
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say ‘Wit, whither wilt?’
Rosalind
Nay, you might keep that cheque for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.
Orlando
And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
Rosalind
Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool!
Orlando
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
Rosalind
Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
Orlando
I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o’clock I will be with thee again.
Rosalind
Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove: my friends told me as much, and I thought no less: that flattering tongue of yours won me: ’tis but one cast away, and so, come, death! Two o’clock is your hour?
Orlando
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Rosalind
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise and the most hollow lover and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure and keep your promise.
Orlando
With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so adieu.
Rosalind
Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try: adieu.
Exit Orlando
Celia
You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
Rosalind
O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.
Celia
Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.
Rosalind
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses every one’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
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