Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon; Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance.
Phe. 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 can'st 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.

Sil.

O dear Phebe,

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee.

Ros. And why, I pray you? [Advancing.] Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have more
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 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 south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman : 'Tis such fools as you,
That make 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.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year to-
gether;

I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Ros. He's fallen in love with her 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? Phe. For no ill will I bear you.

Ros. 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 abus'd in sight as he.
Come to our flock.

[Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;

Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
Sil. Sweet Phebe,

Phe.

Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

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

Phe. Know'st 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 carlot once was master of.

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for

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?
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 passing short:
Go with me, Silvius.

SCENE I. The same. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and Jaques. Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ras. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. Res. 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. Res. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. 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 soldier'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 these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects: and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me, is a most humorous sadness.

Ras. 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.

Jag. Yes, I have gained my experience.

Enter ORLANDO.

Ras. 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.

Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! Jag. Nay then, God be wi' you, and you talk in blank verse.

[Exit. Ras. Farewell, monsieur traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the beneits 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.

Ort. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Ret. 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 clapp'd him o'the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.

Ori. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

[Exeunt.

Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman: Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

Orl. What's that?

Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Ros. And I am your Rosalind. Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

Ros. 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?

Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.

Ros. 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, Orl. How if the kiss be denied?

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Orl. Who could be out, being before his bel mistress?

Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

Orl. What, of my suit?

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?

Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Ros. Well, in her person, I say I will not have

you.

Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die.

Ros. 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, videlicet, 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 chroniclers 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

Orl. Of a snail?

Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill me.

Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again.

Ros. 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.

Orl. Then love me, Rosalind.

Ros. 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

this Rosalind?

Orl. I will.

Ros. Ay, but when?

Orl. Why now; as fast as she can marry us. Ros. Then you must say, — I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

Ros. I might ask you for your commission; but, — I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: There a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her actions.

Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winged. Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, after you have possessed her.

Orl. For ever, and a day.

Ros. 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 cockpigeon 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.

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros. By my life, she will do as I do,
Orl. O, but she is wise.

Ros. 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.

Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, Wit, whither wilt?

Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.

Orl." And what wit could wit have to excuse that? Ros. 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.

Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.

come, death. Two o'clock is your hour?

Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Ros. 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.

Orl. With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: So, adieu.

Ros. Well, time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try: Adieu! [Exit ORLANDO,

Cel. You have simply misus'd 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.

Ros. 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.

Cel. Or, rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

Ros. 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. Cel. And I'll sleep. [Exeuni.

Or else by him my love deny,

And then I'll study how to die.

Cd. I warrant you, with pure love, and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth-to sleep:- Look, who comes here.

Enter SILVIUS.

Sal. My errand is to you, fair youth; My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:

Sil. Call you this chiding?

Cel. Alas, poor shepherd!

I know not the contents; but, as I guess,
By the stern brow, and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor: pardon me,

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Ros. Patience herself would startle at this letter, And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all : She says, I am not fair; that I lack manners;

She calls me proud; and, that she could not love

Sil. Sure, it is hers.

Ret. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style, A style for challengers; why, she defies me, Like Turk to Christian: woman's gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance:- Will you hear the letter?

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

Ras. She Phebes me: Mark how the tyrant writes.

Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,

That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?

Can a woman rail thus?

Call you this railing?

Ros. Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?

Did you ever hear such railing?

[Reads.

Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me, —

Meaning me a beast. —

If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect?
Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How then might your prayers move?
He, that brings this love to thee,
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take

Of me, and all that I can make;

I see, love hath made thee a tame snake,) and say this to her; That if she love me, I charge her to love thee: if she will not, I will never have her, unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more com[Exit SILVIUS. pany.

Enter OLIVER.

Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones: Pray you, if you know

Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive-trees?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour
bottom,

The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place:
But at this hour the house doth keep itself,
There's none within.

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then I should know you by description; Such garments, and such years: The boy is fair, Of female favour, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister: but the woman low, And browner than her brother. Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for? Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we are. Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both; And to that youth, he calls his Rosalind, He sends this bloody napkin; Are you he?

Ros. I am: what must we understand by this? Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was stain'd.

Cel.

I pray you, tell it. Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from

you,

He left a promise to return again
Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside,
And, mark, what object did present itself!
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,

And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush: under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,

Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast,

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same

Ros. But, to Orlando ;- Did he leave him there, Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so: But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awak'd.

Cel. Are you his brother?

Ros.

Was it you he rescued? Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him? Oli. Twas I; but 'tis not I: I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. Ros. But, for the bloody napkin? Oli. By, and by. When from the first to last, betwixt us two, Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd, As, how I came into that desert place ;In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, Who gave me fresh array, and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother's love; Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, And cry'd, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover'd him; bound up his wound; And, after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

To tell this story, that you might excuse

His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dy'd in this blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede? sweet Gany-
mede?
[ROSALIND faints.
Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
Cel. There is more in it :- Cousin - Ganymede!
Oli. Look, he recovers.
Ros.

I would, I were at home. Cel. We'll lead you thither :

I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
Oli. Be of good cheer, youth:- You a man?-
You lack a man's heart.

Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would think this was well counterfeited: I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. - Heigh ho!

Oli. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your complexion, that it was a passion

of earnest.

Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you.

Oli. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.

Ros. So I do: but i'faith I should have been a woman by right.

Cel. Come, you look paler and paler; pray you, draw homewards: - Good sir, go with us.

Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. Ros. I shall devise something: But, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go? [Exeuni

SCENE I. The same.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.

Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

Aud. 'Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman's saying.

Touch. A most wicked sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Mar-text. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

Aud. Ay, I know who 'tis ; he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean.

Enter WILLIAM.

Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: By my troth, we that have good wits, have much to answer for; we shall be flouting; we cannot hold. Will. Good even, Audrey.

Aud. God ye good even, William.
Will. And good even to you, sir.

Touch. Good even, gentle friend: Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee, be covered. How old are you, friend?

Will. Five and twenty, sir.

Touch. A ripe age: Is thy name William?
Will. William, sir.

Touch. A fair name: Wast born i' the forest here?

Will. Ay, sir, I thank God.

Touch. So, so, is good, very good, very excellen good: -and yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise?

Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

Touch. Why, thou say'st well. I do now re member a saying; The fool doth think he is wise but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. Th heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat grape, would open his lips when he put it into hi mouth; meaning thereby, that grapes were mad to eat, and lips to open. You do love this maid?

Will. I do, sir.
Touch. Give me your hand: Art thou learned?
Will. No, sir.

Touch. Then learn this of me; To have, ist have: For it is a figure in rhetorick, that drink being poured out of a cup into a glass, by fillin the one doth empty the other: For all your writer do consent, that ipse is he; now you are not iss for I am he.

Will. Which he, sir?

Will. 'Faith, sir, so, so.

thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy wi