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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 th' 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 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 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. |
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