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Enter fir Oliver Mar-text.

Here comes fir Oliver. Sir Oliver Mar-text, you ate well met. Will you despatch us here under this tree, or fhall we go with you to your chapel?

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?

Clo. I will not take her on gift of any man.

Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. Jaq. Proceed, proceed! I'll give her.

Clo. Good even, good mafter What ye call: how do you, fir? you are very well met: god'ild you for your last company! I am very glad to fee you; even a toy in hand here, fir: nay; pray be covered.

Jaq. Will you be married, Motley?

Clo. As the ox hath his bow, fir, the horse his curb, and the falcon his bells, fo man hath his defire; and as pigeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibling.

Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar ? get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a fhrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.

Clo. I am not in the mind, but I were better to be married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Clo. Come, fweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry. - Farewel, good mafter Oliver:

Not, o fweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee;

But wind away,

Be gone, I fay,

I will not to wedding with thee.

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.

[Exeunt. SCENE

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Enter Rofalind, and Celia.

Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to confider that tears do not become a man.

Rof. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good caufe as one would defire; therefore weep.
Rof. His very hair is of a diffembling colour.

Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kiffes are
Judas's own children.

Rof. I' faith his hair is of a good colour.

Cel. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.

Rof. And his kiffing is as full of fanctity as the touch of holy beard."

Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana; a nun of winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Rof. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and

comes not?

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Cel. Nay, certainly there is no truth in him.

Rof. Do

you think fo?

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pickpurse, nor a horsestealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a wormeaten nut.

Rof. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in.
Rof. You have heard him fwear downright, he was.
Cel. Was, is not, is; befides, the oath of a lover is no stronger
than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of falfe
reckonings; he attends here in the forest on the duke your father.

Rof. met the duke yesterday, and had much queftion with
him: he ask'd me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good


Meaning the kifs of charity from hermits and holy men.
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as he; fo he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is fuch a man as Orlando?

Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely; quite traverse athwart the heart of his lover, as a puifny tilter, that fpurs his horse but on one fide, breaks his ftaff like a nofe-quill'd goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor. Mistress, and mafter, you have oft inquir'd
After the shepherd that complain'd of love,
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praifing the proud difdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly play'd
Between the pale complexion of true love,
And the red glow of fcorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I fhall conduct you,
you will mark it.

Rof. O, come, let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth those in love:
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say
I'll prove a bufy actor in their play.


Enter Sylvius, and Phebe.

Sył. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phebe ; Say, that you love me not, but fay not so

In bitterness: the common executioner,


Whose heart the accustom'd fight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,

But firft begs pardon: will you fterner be
Than he that lives and thrives by bloody drops?


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Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'ft me, there is murder in mine eyes;
'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'ft and softest things,
Who fhut 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 fwoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, o, for fhame, for fhame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now show 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 any hurt.

Syl. O my 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 wound's invisible

That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. But, till that time,

Come not thou near me; and, when that times 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 domineer
Over the wretched? what though you have fome beauty,
(As, by my faith, I fee no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed)

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Muft 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 falework: odd's my little life F
I think, the means to tangle mine eyes too:
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black filk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my fpirits to your worship.
You foolish fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy fouth 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 illfavour'd children;
'Tis not her glass, but you that flatter her;
And out of fhe fees herself more proper
Than any
of her lineaments can fhow 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 foul to be a feoffer:
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 her foulnefs, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as faft as fhe answers thee with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look fo upon me?


Phe. For no ill-will I bear you.

Ros. 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 house,
'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by:

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