Ros. Thou speak'st wiser then thou art ware of
Clo. Nay, I shall nere be ware of mine owne wit, till I breake my shins against it
Ros. Ioue, Ioue, this Shepherds passion, Is much vpon my fashion
Clo. And mine, but it growes something stale with mee
Cel. I pray you, one of you question yon'd man, If he for gold will giue vs any foode, I faint almost to death
Clo. Holla; you Clowne
Ros. Peace foole, he's not thy kinsman
Cor. Who cals? Clo. Your betters Sir
Cor. Else are they very wretched
Ros. Peace I say; good euen to your friend
Cor. And to you gentle Sir, and to you all
Ros. I prethee Shepheard, if that loue or gold Can in this desert place buy entertainment, Bring vs where we may rest our selues, and feed: Here's a yong maid with trauaile much oppressed, And faints for succour
Cor. Faire Sir, I pittie her, And wish for her sake more then for mine owne, My fortunes were more able to releeue her: But I am shepheard to another man, And do not sheere the Fleeces that I graze: My master is of churlish disposition, And little wreakes to finde the way to heauen By doing deeds of hospitalitie. Besides his Coate, his Flockes, and bounds of feede Are now on sale, and at our sheep-coat 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 flocke and pasture? Cor. That yong Swaine that you saw heere but erewhile, That little cares for buying any thing
Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honestie, Buy thou the Cottage, pasture, and the flocke, And thou shalt haue to pay for it of vs
Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I like this place, and willingly could Waste my time in it
Cor. Assuredly the thing is to be sold: Go with me, if you like vpon report, The soile, the profit, and this kinde of life, I will your very faithfull Feeder be, And buy it with your Gold right sodainly.
Exeunt.
Scena Quinta.
Enter, Amyens, Iaques, & others.
Song.
Vnder the greene wood tree, who loues to lye with mee, And turne his merrie Note, vnto the sweet Birds throte: Come hither, come hither, come hither: Heere shall he see no enemie, But Winter and rough Weather
Iaq. More, more, I pre'thee more
Amy. It will make you melancholly Monsieur Iaques Iaq. I thanke it: More, I prethee more, I can sucke melancholly out of a song, As a Weazel suckes egges: More, I pre'thee more
Amy. My voice is ragged, I know I cannot please you
Iaq. I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you to sing: Come, more, another stanzo: Cal you 'em stanzo's? Amy. What you wil Monsieur Iaques
Iaq. Nay, I care not for their names, they owe mee nothing. Wil you sing? Amy. More at your request, then to please my selfe
Iaq. Well then, if euer I thanke any man, Ile thanke you: but that they cal complement is like th' encounter of two dog-Apes. And when a man thankes me hartily, me thinkes I haue giuen him a penie, and he renders me the beggerly thankes. Come sing; and you that wil not hold your tongues
Amy. Wel, Ile end the song. Sirs, couer the while, the Duke wil drinke vnder this tree; he hath bin all this day to looke you