SCENE V. Another part of the forest. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE. Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe: Say that you love me not; but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard, But first begs pardon: will you sterner be Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind. 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: That eyes-that are the frail'st and softest things, And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable(104) impressure Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt. (105) 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. Phe. 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. Ros. [coming forward] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, (106) Over the wretched? What though you have some beauty,— As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed,—(107) Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together: I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. Ros. He's fallen in love with her(108) 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, Will you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard.- 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 Phe. Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly? Phe. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee; 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 erewhile? Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds * "Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?"] A line from Christopher Marlowe's Hero and Leander, First Sestiad,-Works, p. 281, ed. Dyce, 1858. Phe. 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, But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him : Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet I(110) have more cause to hate him than to love him : He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; I marvel why I answer'd not again : But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius? I'll write it straight; The matter's in my head and in my heart: Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAques. Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be(112) better acquainted with thee. Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. Ros. 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. Ros. 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 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 contemplation of my travels, which, by often(113) rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness. Ros. 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. Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. Ros. 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. Orl. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind! Jaq. Nay, then, God b'wi' you, an you talk in blank verse! Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own coun |