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for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this color; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him;
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be passionate about everything, and then passionate about nothing as most young boys and women naturally act. I would like him one minute and hate him the next; accompany him and then send him away;
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now weep for him, then spit at him, that I drave my suitor from his mad humor of love to a living humor of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic.
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cry for him and then spit at him, until finally I drove out the whim of love and replaced it with the truer state of anger. My suitor then turned away from the flow of life, abandoning the world and hiding himself away as a monk.
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And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheeps heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in t.
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And so I cured him, and in this way I will cure you too washing your liver as clean as a healthy sheep's heart, until there isn't a single spot of love left in it.
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I would not be cured, youth.
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I don't want to be cured, youth.
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I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cote and woo me.
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I could cure you, though, if you would only call me "Rosalind" and come to my cottage every day to woo me.
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Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
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By the strength of my love, I will then. Tell me where it is.
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Go with me to it, and Ill show it you; and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
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Come with me to it, and I'll show you. Along the way you can tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go with me?
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With all my heart, good youth.
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With all my heart, good youth.
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Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?
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No, you must call me Rosalind now. Sister, will you come with us?
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Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? Am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
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Come along, good Audrey. I will fetch your goats for you, Audrey. And now, Audrey? Am I the man for you? Do the features of my simple appearance please you?
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Your features, Lord warrant us! What features?
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Your features, God protect us! What features?
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O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatched house.
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Oh, knowledge existing in someone as unworthy as this fool is worse than the king of the gods living in a thatched hut.
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When a mans verses cannot be understood nor a mans good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding,
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When a man's verses can't be understood and his good jokes aren't acknowledged or appreciated,
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it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
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it's worse than getting a large bill for renting a little room. Truly, I wish the gods had made you more poetical, Audrey.
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I do not know what œpoetical is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?
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I don't know what "poetical" means. Does it mean honest in word and deed? Does it mean being truthful?
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No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign.
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No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most imaginative and deceptive. Lovers are inclined towards poetry, and what they promise to be true in their poems is often a lie in real life.
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Do you wish then that the gods had made me poetical?
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Do you still wish that the gods had made me poetical, then?
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I do, truly, for thou swearst to me thou art honest. Now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.
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I do, truly. For you swore to me that you were a virgin, and if you were a poet, I might have some hope that you were lying.
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Would you not have me honest?
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What, you don't want me to be chaste?
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No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favored, for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
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No, truly, not unless you were ugly. For chastity alongside beauty in one woman is like sweetening sugar with honey.
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A material fool.
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A fool with good sense.
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Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.
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Well, I am not beautiful, so I pray that the gods will at least keep me chaste.
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Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.
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Yes, but to waste chastity on an ugly slut is like putting good meat into a dirty dish.
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I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
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I am not a slut, though I thank the gods that I am ugly.
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Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness; sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee;
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Well, may the gods be praised for your ugliness then. Maybe sluttishness will come later. But be that as it may, I will marry you.
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and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest and to couple us.
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To that end, I have spoken to Sir Oliver Martext, the priest from the nearby village, and he has promised to meet us in this part of the forest and marry us.
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I would fain see this meeting.
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I'd love to see this.
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Well, the gods give us joy.
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Well, may the gods bless our marriage.
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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 horn-beasts. But what though? Courage. As horns are odious, they are necessary.
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Amen. Another man, if he had a fearful heart, might falter at this point for this forest isn't a real temple, and there is no audience here but horned beasts. But who cares? Horns are hateful, but they are necessary.
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It is said, œMany 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; tis none of his own getting. Horns?
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It is said, "Many men are so wealthy that they don't even know how much they own." I agree: many men have good horns, and don't even know how big they are. Well, that is what the wife brings to the marriage; the man has nothing to do with getting his horns or his children. Horns?
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Even so. Poor men alone? No, no. The noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No.
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There they are. Are they only for poor men? No, no. The noblest deer's horns are as huge as those of the inferior deer. Is the single man the luckiest, then? No.
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As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honorable than the bare brow of a bachelor. And by how much defense is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want.
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As a town protected by a wall is worth more than a small village, so is a married man's horned forehead more honorable than a bachelor's bare forehead. Just as it's better to be skilled at defending oneself than to be defenseless, so is a horn more precious than no horn at all.
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Here comes Sir Oliver. Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
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Here comes Sir Oliver. Sir Oliver Martext, I'm glad to see you. Will you finish our business here under this tree, or should we go with you to your chapel?
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Is there none here to give the woman?
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Is there no one here to give the bride away?
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I will not take her on gift of any man.
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I won't take her as a secondhand gift from another man.
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Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.
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Truly, someone has to give her away, or the marriage isn't legal.
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Proceed, proceed. Ill give her.
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Continue, continue. I'll give her away.
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Good even, good Monsieur What-ye-callt. How do you, sir? You are very well met. God 'ild you for your last company. I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay, pray be covered.
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Good evening, good Mister What's-his-name. How do you do, sir? I am very glad to see you. May God reward you for being here right now. I am very glad to see you. This is just an unimportant matter here, sir. No, please keep your hat on.
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Will you be married, motley?
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Do you want to get married, fool?
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As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.
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As the ox has his yoke, the horse his bridle, and the falcon her tether, so a man has his desires, which must be restrained somehow
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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.
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But will you as a man of your breeding get married like a beggar under a bush, by an uneducated priest? Get yourself to a church and have a proper priest teach you the obligations of marriage.
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This fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot. Then one of you will prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, warp.
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This fellow here will just set you two alongside each other like two pieces of paneling. Then one of you will warp like green wood, and you will both be out of alignment.
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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.
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I think I'd rather have this fellow marry us than any other, for he isn't likely to marry us properly. And if we're not married properly, then I'll have a good excuse to leave my wife later on.
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Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
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Come with me, and let me advise you.
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Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
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Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, or else live in sin.
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Farewell, good Master Oliver, not
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[To SIR OLIVER MARTEXT] Farewell, good Master Oliver. We're not singing that song:
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O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver,
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Oh sweet Oliver, Oh brave Oliver,
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Leave me not behind thee But Wind away,
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Don't leave me behind, But Wind, go away,
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Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee.
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Go away, I say, For it's not you I'm marrying.
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Tis no matter. Ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.
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It doesn't matter to me. None of these crazy fools will ever convince me to abandon my position.
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Never talk to me. I will weep.
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Don't talk to me. I'll cry.
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Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.
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Go ahead and cry, but at least consider that tears aren't proper for a man.
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But have I not cause to weep?
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But don't I have good reason to cry?
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As good cause as one would desire. Therefore weep.
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As good a reason as you could want. So go on and cry.
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Something browner than Judass. Marry, his kisses are Judass own children.
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It's a bit browner than Judas'. Although, indeed, his kisses are betrayals, like Judas's kisses were.
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I' faith, his hair is of a good color.
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Honestly, his hair is a good color.
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An excellent color. Your chestnut was ever the only color.
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It is an excellent color. Chestnut is always the best color.
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And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
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And his kisses are as holy as Communion bread.
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But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
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But why would he swear to come this morning, and then not come?
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Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
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Well, certainly, he must be a complete liar.
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Do you think so?
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Do you think so?
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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.
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Yes. He's not a pickpocket or a horse-thief, but when it comes to honesty in love, I think he's as hollow as a covered cup or a worm-eaten nut.
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Not true in love?
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You think his love isn't true?
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Yes, when he is in, but I think he is not in.
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I think his love is true when he is in love, but I think he's not in love right now.
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You have heard him swear downright he was.
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But you've heard him swear outright that he was.
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œWas is not œis. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster.
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"Was" is not "is." He may have been in love, but he isn't anymore. Besides, the promises of a lover are no better than those of a swindling bartender:
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They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke your father.
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they both swear to their false accounts. Orlando is now staying in the forest and serving the duke your father.
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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.
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I met my father yesterday, and he had many questions for me. He asked me what rank my parents were, and I told him that they were as good as he is.
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So he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando?
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He laughed at that, and let me go. But why are we talking about fathers, when such a man as Orlando exists?
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Oh, thats 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,
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Oh, he's a brave man indeed. He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, makes brave promises and then bravely breaks them. He's like a bad jouster when it comes to his lover's heart
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as a puny tilter that spurs his horse but on one side breaks his staff like a noble goose; but alls brave that youth mounts and folly guides.
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he strikes sideways instead of head-on, and breaks his lance like a noble fool. But everything a young man does is brave, when he's mounted on his youth and guided by his folly.
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Who comes here?
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Who's that coming?
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Mistress and master, you have oft inquired After the shepherd that complained of love,
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Mistress and master, you have often asked me about that lovestruck shepherd,
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Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress.
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whom you once saw sitting at my side and praising the proud, disdainful shepherdess with whom he was in love.
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Well, and what of him?
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Well, what about him?
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If you will see a pageant truly played Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
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If you would like to see a performance being played out between someone who is pale with true, unrequited love, and someone red with scorn and proud disdain,
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Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it.
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then come with me a little ways and you can watch.
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O, come, let us remove. The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall say Ill prove a busy actor in their play.
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Oh, come, let's go. The sight of lovers is nourishment to those already in love. [To CORIN] Bring us to this scene, and you'll see me take a part in their play.
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Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. Say that you love me not, but say not so In bitterness.
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Sweet Phoebe, don't scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don't love me, but don't do it so bitterly.
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The common executioner, Whose heart th' accustomed sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon.
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Even the executioner whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death still begs his victim's pardon before he lets his axe fall.
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Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
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Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living through blood and killing?
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I would not be thy executioner. I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tellst me there is murder in mine eye.
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I don't want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won't hurt you. You tell me there is murder in my eyes.
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Tis pretty, sure, and very probable That eyes, that are the frailst and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.
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That's a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes which are the frailest, softest things, and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust should be tyrants, butchers, and murderers.
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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;
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Now I'm frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down
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Or if thou canst not, Oh, 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.
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or if you can't, oh, for shame, don't lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar.
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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.
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If you even lean on a rush , it leaves a visible impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I've hurled at you, haven't hurt you at all.
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Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt.
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Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
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O dear Phoebe, If ever as that ever may be near You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
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Oh, dear Phoebe, if you ever should fall in love with some fresh face,
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Then shall you know the wounds invisible That loves keen arrows make.
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then you will know about the invisible wounds that love's sharp arrows make.
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But till that time Come not thou near me. And when that time comes,
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But until that time comes, don't come near me. And when that time comes,
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Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not, As till that time I shall not pity thee.
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then you can mock me. But don't pity me, as I won't pity you now.
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[Advancing, as Ganymede] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched?
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[Coming forward, speaking as Ganymede] And why, I ask you? Who raised you, that you would insult this wretched man and exult over his injuries all at once?
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What though you have no beauty As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed
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Honestly, I don't see much in you no more brightness than could light my way to bed in the dark
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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 natures sale-work.
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so why must you be so proud and pitiless? Why, what's going on? Why do you look at me? There is no more to you than nature's ordinary, mass-produced product.
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Ods my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes, too.
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[To herself] God save my life, I think she intends to ensnare my affections as well.
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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.
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[To PHOEBE] No, proud mistress, don't hope for it. You can't tame my spirits and make me worship you not with your ink-black eyebrows; your black silky hair; your black, bead-like eyeballs; or your creamy complexion.
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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.
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[To SILVIUS] You foolish shepherd: why do you follow her like the foggy south wind, sighing and raining tears? You are a thousand times more handsome than she is.
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Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favored 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.
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It's fools like you who fill the world with ugly children by marrying women like her. It's not her mirror but you who flatters her, and she thinks herself more beautiful than she is because of your reflection of her.
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But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees And thank heaven, fasting, for a good mans love, For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
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[To PHOEBE] But mistress, know yourself. Get down on your knees and thank heaven for giving you a good man's love. I must tell you as a friend that you should sell while you can, for you won't have buyers for long.
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Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer. Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
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Ask for this man's mercy, love him, and take his offer. Ugliness is at its worst when it is scornful of others.
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