Touch. I do, truly; for thou swear'st to me, thou art honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.

And. Would you not have me honest?

Touch. No, truly; unless thou wert hard-favour'd: for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest!

Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Aud. I am not a slut; though, I thank the gods, I am foul.

Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! sluttishness may come hereafter. But, be it as it may be, I will marry thee; and, to that end, I have been with sir Oliver Mar-text, the vicar of the next village; who hath promis'd to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.

Aud. Well, the gods give us joy!

Touch. Amen.—A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but hornbeasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said,—Many a man knows no end of his goods: right: many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 't is none of his own getting. Horns? Even so:Poor men alone?—No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore

blessed? No: as a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor.Come, sweet Audrey;

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Lawn, before a Cottage in the Forest.
Enter Rosalind, and Celia.

Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep.

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

Ros. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good cause as one would desire; therefore

weep.

Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay certainly, there is no truth in him.
Ros. Do you think so?

Cel. Yes I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer; but, for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten

nut.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in. Ros. You have heard him swear downright, he was. Cel. Was is not is: besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings: He attends here in the forest on the duke your father.

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him: He ask'd me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ?

Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely but all's brave, that youth mounts, and folly guides:—Who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Car. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquired After the shepherd that complain'd of love; Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

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

Ros. O, come, let us remove;

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:—
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say,
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

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 the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,

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:
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill

Sil. 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.

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. 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 some 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?
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:
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:
So, take her to thee, shepherd.—Fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.
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:—

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.

[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might; Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe,

The. 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.

Phe. 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.—
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 him; 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?

I marvel, why I answer'd not again :
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.