Well, that is the dowry of his wife; ’tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. Enter Sir Oliver Martext. Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel? Sir Oliver Martext Is there none here to give the woman? Touchstone I will not take her on gift of any man. Sir Oliver Martext Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. Jaques Advancing. Proceed, proceed I’ll give her. Touchstone Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t: 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. Jaques Will you be married, motley? Touchstone 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. Jaques 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: 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. Touchstone Aside. 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. Jaques Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. Touchstone

O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee:

but⁠—

Wind away,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee. Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone and Audrey.

Sir Oliver Martext ’Tis no matter: ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. Exit.

Scene IV

The forest.

	Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Rosalind	Never talk to me; I will weep.
Celia	Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.
Rosalind	But have I not cause to weep?
Celia	As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
Rosalind	His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Celia	Something browner than Judas’s marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.
Rosalind	I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.
Celia	An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.
Rosalind	And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
Celia	He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.
Rosalind	But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
Celia	Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Rosalind	Do you think so?
Celia	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.
Rosalind	Not true in love?
Celia	Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.
Rosalind	You have heard him swear downright he was.
Celia	“Was” is not “is:” besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke your father.
Rosalind	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; so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when 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 puisny 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 inquired 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 the 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, behind.
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