William Shakespeare - The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

TOUCHSTONE

[Aside] 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.

JAQUES

Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

TOUCHSTONE

Come, sweet Audrey; We must be married or we must live in bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver!—Not—

“O sweet Oliver,

O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee.”

But,—

“Wind away,—

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee.”

[Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY.]

MARTEXT

‘Tis no matter; ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.

[Exit.]

SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage

[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

ROSALIND

Never talk to me; I will weep.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

But have I not cause to weep?

CELIA

As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

ROSALIND

His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

CELIA

Something browner than Judas’s: marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.

ROSALIND

I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.

CELIA

He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

ROSALIND

Do you think so?

CELIA

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.

ROSALIND

Not true in love?

CELIA

Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.

ROSALIND

You have heard him swear downright he was.

CELIA

“Was” is not “is”: besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke, your father.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

O, that’s a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose: but all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. —Who comes here?

[Enter CORIN.]

CORIN

Mistress and master, you have oft enquired

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.

CELIA

Well, and what of him?

CORIN

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.

ROSALIND

O, come, let us remove:

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V. Another part of the Forest

[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]

SILVIUS

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.]

PHEBE

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 called 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 canst 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 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 not force in eyes

That can do hurt.

SILVIUS

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.

PHEBE

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.

ROSALIND

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

That you insult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched? What though you have no 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 eyeballs, 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 makes 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.

PHEBE

Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together:

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

ROSALIND

He’s fall’n in love with your 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?

PHEBE

For no ill-will I bear you.

ROSALIND

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 abused in sight as he.