fool I. When I was at home, I was in a better place, but travellers must be content.
Enter Corin and Silvius.
Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a young man and an old in solemn talk.
Cor.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
Sil.
O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!
Cor.
I partly guess; for I have lov’d ere now.
Sil.
No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
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?
Cor.
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil.
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.
Ros.
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of [thy wound],
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
Touch. 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 chopp’d hands had milk’d; and I remember the wooing of a 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.
Ros. Thou speak’st wiser than thou art ware of.
Touch. Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.
Ros.
Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion
Is much upon my fashion.
Touch. And mine, but it grows something stale with me.
Cel.
I pray you, one of you question yond man,
If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.
Touch.
Holla! you clown!
Ros.
Peace, fool, he’s not thy kinsman.
Cor.
Who calls?
Touch.
Your betters, sir.
Cor.
Else are they very wretched.
Ros.
Peace, I say. Good even to [you], friend.
Cor.
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
Ros.
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 oppressed,
And faints for succor.
Cor.
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 reaks 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 sheep-cote 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.
Ros.
What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor.
That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
That little cares for buying any thing.
