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.Corin.Mistresse and Master, you haue oft enquiredAfter the Shepheard that complain'd of loue,Who you saw sitting by me on the Turph,Praising the proud disdainfull ShepherdesseThat was his MistresseCel.Well: and what of him?Cor.If you will see a pageant truely plaidBetweene the pale complexion of true Loue,And the red glowe of scorne and prowd disdaine,Goe hence a little, and I shall conduct youIf you will marke itRos.O come, let vs remoue,The sight of Louers feedeth those in loue:Bring vs to this sight, and you shall sayIle proue a busie actor in their play.Exeunt.Scena Quinta.Enter Siluius and Phebe.Sil.Sweet Phebe doe not scorne me, do not PhebeSay that you loue me not, but say not soIn bitternesse; the common executionerWhose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hardFalls not the axe vpon the humbled neck,But first begs pardon: will you sterner beThen he that dies and liues by bloody drops?Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.Phe.I would not be thy executioner,I flye thee, for I would not iniure thee:Thou tellst me there is murder in mine eye,'Tis pretty sure, and very probable,That eyes that are the frailst, and softest things,Who shut their coward gates on atomyes,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murtherers.Now I doe frowne on thee with all my heart,And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:Now counterfeit to swound, why now fall downe,Or if thou canst not, oh for shame, for shame,Lye not, to say mine eyes are murtherers:Now shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee,Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remainesSome scarre of it: Leane vpon a rushThe Cicatrice and capable impressureThy palme some moment keepes: but now mine eyesWhich I haue darted at thee, hurt thee not,Nor I am sure there is no force in eyesThat can doe hurtSil.O deere Phebe,If euer (as that euer may be neere)You meet in some fresh cheeke the power of fancie,Then shall you know the wounds inuisibleThat Loues keene arrows makePhe.But till that timeCome not thou neere me: and when that time comes,Afflict me with thy mockes, pitty me not,As till that time I shall not pitty theeRos.And why I pray you? who might be your motherThat you insult, exult, and all at onceOuer the wretched? what though you haue no beautyAs by my faith, I see no more in youThen without Candle may goe darke to bed:Must you be therefore prowd and pittilesse?Why what meanes this? why do you looke on me?I see no more in you then in the ordinaryOf Natures sale-worke? 'ods my little life,I thinke she meanes to tangle my eies too:No faith proud Mistresse, hope not after it,'Tis not your inkie browes, your blacke silke haire,Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheeke of creameThat can entame my spirits to your worship:You foolish Shepheard, wherefore do you follow herLike foggy South, puffing with winde and raine,You are a thousand times a properer manThen she a woman.'Tis such fooles as youThat makes the world full of ill-fauourd children:'Tis not her glasse, but you that flatters her,And out of you she sees her selfe more properThen any of her lineaments can show her:But Mistris, know your selfe, downe on your kneesAnd thanke heauen, fasting, for a good mans loue;For I must tell you friendly in your eare,Sell when you can, you are not for all markets:Cry the man mercy, loue him, take his offer,Foule is most foule, being foule to be a scoffer.So take her to thee Shepheard, fareyouwellPhe.Sweet youth, I pray you chide a yere together,I had rather here you chide, then this man wooeRos.Hees falne in loue with your foulnesse, & shee'llFall in loue with my anger.If it be so, as fastAs she answeres thee with frowning lookes, ile sauceHer with bitter words: why looke you so vpon me?Phe.For no ill will I beare youRos.I pray you do not fall in loue with mee,For I am falser then vowes made in wine:Besides, I like you not: if you will know my house,'Tis at the tufft of Oliues, here hard by:Will you goe Sister? Shepheard ply her hard:Come Sister: Shepheardesse, looke on him betterAnd be not proud, though all the world could see,None could be so abus'd in sight as hee.Come, to our flocke,Enter.Phe.Dead Shepheard, now I find thy saw of might,Who euer lov'd, that lou'd not at first sight?Sil.Sweet PhebePhe.Hah: what saist thou Siluius?Sil.Sweet Phebe pitty mePhe.Why I am sorry for thee gentle SiluiusSil.Where euer sorrow is, reliefe would be:If you doe sorrow at my griefe in loue,By giuing loue your sorrow, and my griefeWere both extermin'dPhe.Thou hast my loue, is not that neighbourly?Sil.I would haue youPhe.Why that were couetousnesse:Siluius; the time was, that I hated thee;And yet it is not, that I beare thee loue,But since that thou canst talke of loue so well,Thy company, which erst was irkesome to meI will endure; and Ile employ thee too:But doe not looke for further recompenceThen thine owne gladnesse, that thou art employdSil.So holy, and so perfect is my loue,And I in such a pouerty of grace,That I shall thinke it a most plenteous cropTo gleane the broken eares after the manThat the maine haruest reapes: loose now and thenA scattred smile, and that Ile liue vponPhe.Knowst thou the youth that spoke to mee yerewhile?Sil.Not very well, but I haue met him oft,And he hath bought the Cottage and the boundsThat the old Carlot once was Master ofPhe
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