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Enter fir Oliver Mar-text.
Here comes fir Oliver. - Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met.
Will you despatch us here under this tree, or Thall 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 master What ye call: how do
call: how do you, sir? you are very well met: god’ild
your last company! I am
very glad to see you; even a toy in hand here, fır: nay; pray
be married, Motley ? Clo. As the ox hath his bow, fir, the horse his curb, and the falcon his bells, so man hath his desire; and as pigeons bill, so 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
prove a shrunk 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
wife. Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. Člo. Come, sweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry. — Farewel, good master Oliver :
Not, o sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee;
Be gone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee. Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knaye of them all shall Alout me out of my calling.
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.
Rof. But have I not cause to weep?
Cel. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
Ros. His very hair is of a dissembling colour.
Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kisses are
Judas's own children.
Rof. I' faith his hair is of a good colour.
. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only
Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy beard.
Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana; a nun of winter's fifterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.
Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and
Cel. Nay, certainly there is no truth in him.
Ros. Do you think fo?
Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pickpurse, nor a horseftealer ;
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 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
Mearing the kiss of charity from hermits and holy men.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 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; quite traverse athwart the heart of his lover, as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a nose-quill’d goose; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here ?
Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquir’d
After the shepherd that complain’d of love,
you saw fitting 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.
Rof. O, come, let us remove;
The light of lovers feedeth those in love :
Bring us but to this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.
Enter Sylvius, and Phebe.
Sył. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phebe;
love me not, but say 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 first begs pardon: will you sterner be
Than he that lives and thrives by bloody drops ?
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe. I would not be thy executioner ;
I fy thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me, there is murder in mine eyes;
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'ft and softest things,
Who shut 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 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 eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but 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 no force in eyes
That can do
Syl. O my 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 wound's invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
Phe. But, till that time,
Come not thou near me; and, when that times comes,
AMiet me with thy mocks, pity me not ;
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee.
Rof. And why, I pray you who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and domineer
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)
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 salework: odd's my little life !
I think, she means toʻtangle 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 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 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 you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.
But, mistress, know yourself, down' on your knees,
And thank heav’ň, 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 feoffer:
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.
Rof. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as fhe answers thee with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?
Phe. For no ill-will I bear you.
Rof. I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am faller 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:
By the word foul here is meant frowning, low'ring.