SILVIUS. So 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 scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon. PHOEBE. Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? SILVIUS. 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. PHOEBE. 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 offence, 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 mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked 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 I 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 remembered, scorned at me. I marvel why I answered 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? SILVIUS. Phoebe, with all my heart. PHOEBE. 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. The Forest of Arden Enter Rosalind, Celia and Jaques. JAQUES. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. ROSALIND. They say you are a melancholy fellow. JAQUES. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. ROSALIND. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards. JAQUES. Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing. ROSALIND. Why then, ’tis good to be a post. JAQUES. 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.