The Complete Works of Shakespeare. William Shakespeare

holy and so perfect is my love,

      And I in such a poverty of grace,

      That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

      To glean the broken ears after the man

      That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then

      A scatt’red smile, and that I’ll live upon.

       Phe.

      Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me yerwhile?

       Sil.

      Not very well, but I have met him oft,

      And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

      That the old carlot once was master of.

       Phe.

      Think not I love him, though I ask for him;

      ’Tis but a peevish boy—yet he talks well—

      But what care I for words? Yet words do well

      When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

      It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—

      But sure he’s proud—and yet his pride becomes him.

      He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him

      Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

      Did make offense, his eye did heal it up.

      He is not very tall—yet for his years he’s tall;

      His leg is but so so—and yet ’tis well;

      There was a pretty redness in his lip,

      A little riper and more lusty red

      Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference

      Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

      There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him

      In parcels as I did, would have gone near

      To fall in love with him; but for my part

      I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

      Have more cause to hate him than to love him,

      For what had he to do to chide at me?

      He said mine eyes were black and my hair black,

      And, now I am rememb’red, scorn’d at me.

      I marvel why I answer’d not again.

      But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance.

      I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,

      And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius?

       Sil.

      Phebe, with all my heart.

       Phe.

      I’ll write it straight;

      The matter’s in my head and in my heart.

      I will be bitter with him and passing short.

      Go with me, Silvius.

       Exeunt.

       ¶

      ACT IV

      Scene I

       Enter Rosalind and Celia and Jaques.

      Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me [be] better acquainted with thee.

      Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow.

      Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

      Ros. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.

      Jaq. Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.

      Ros. Why then ’tis good to be a post.

      Jaq. I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which [my] often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

      Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

      Jaq. Yes, I have gain’d my experience.

       Enter Orlando.

      Ros. And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too!

      Orl. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

      Jaq. Nay then God buy you, and you talk in blank verse.

      Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gundello. [Exit Jaques.] Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

      Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

      Ros. Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapp’d him o’ th’ shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.

      Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

      Ros. Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be woo’d of a snail.

      Orl. Of a snail?

      Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure I think than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

      Orl. What’s that?

      Ros. Why, horns! which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for. But he comes arm’d in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.

      Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

      Ros. And I am your Rosalind.

      Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

      Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, and I were your very very Rosalind?

      Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.

      Ros. Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravell’d for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators when they are out, they will spit, and for lovers lacking (God warn us!) matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

      Orl. How if the kiss be denied?

      Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

      Orl. Who could be out, being before his belov’d mistress?

      Ros. Marry, that should you if I were your