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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,
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.
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.
Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kiffes are
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
Cel. Nay, certainly there is no truth in him.
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. met the duke yesterday, and had much queftion with
Meaning the kifs of charity from hermits and holy men.
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?
Cor. Mistress, and mafter, you have oft inquir'd
Cel. Well, and what of him?
Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly play'd
Rof. O, come, let us remove;
The fight of lovers feedeth those in love:
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,
But firft begs pardon: will you fterner be
Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe. I would not be thy executioner;
And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now show the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
The cicatrice and capable impreffure
Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
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,
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,
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Muft you be therefore proud; and pitiless?
Sell when you can, you are not for all markets:
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together;
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,