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As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow. |
But if thy love were ever like to mine, |
As sure I think did never man love so, |
How many actions most ridiculous |
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy? |
CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. |
SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily! |
If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly |
That ever love did make thee run into, |
Thou hast not lov'd; |
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, |
Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise, |
Thou hast not lov'd; |
Or if thou hast not broke from company |
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, |
Thou hast not lov'd. |
O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! Exit Silvius |
ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound, |
I have by hard adventure found mine own. |
TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my |
sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to |
Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the |
cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember |
the wooing of peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, |
and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these |
for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers; |
but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal |
in folly. |
ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of. |
TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break |
my shins against it. |
ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion |
Is much upon my fashion. |
TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me. |
CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man |
If he for gold will give us any food; |
I faint almost to death. |
TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown! |
ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman. |
CORIN. Who calls? |
TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir. |
CORIN. Else are they very wretched. |
ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend. |
CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. |
ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold |
Can in this desert place buy entertainment, |
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. |
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd, |
And faints for succour. |
CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her, |
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, |
My fortunes were more able to relieve her; |
But I am shepherd to another man, |
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze. |
My master is of churlish disposition, |
And little recks to find the way to heaven |
By doing deeds of hospitality. |
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed, |
Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now, |
By reason of his absence, there is nothing |
That you will feed on; but what is, come see, |
And in my voice most welcome shall you be. |
ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture? |
CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, |
That little cares for buying any thing. |
ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, |
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, |
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. |
CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place, |
And willingly could waste my time in it. |
CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold. |
Go with me; if you like upon report |
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, |
I will your very faithful feeder be, |
And buy it with your gold right suddenly. Exeunt |
SCENE V. |
Another part of the forest |
Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS |
SONG |
AMIENS. Under the greenwood tree |
Who loves to lie with me, |
And turn his merry note |
Unto the sweet bird's throat, |
Come hither, come hither, come hither. |
Here shall he see |
No enemy |
But winter and rough weather. |
JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more. |
AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. |
JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy |
out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more. |
AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you. |
JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. |
Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos? |
AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques. |
JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will |
you sing? |
AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself. |
JAQUES. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but |
that they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes; |
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