of.

  TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break
    my shins against it.

  ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
    Is much upon my fashion.

TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.

  CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man
    If he for gold will give us any food;
    I faint almost to death.

TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!

ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman.

CORIN. Who calls?

TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.

CORIN. Else are they very wretched.

ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

  ROSALIND. 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 oppress'd,
    And faints for succour.

  CORIN. 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 recks 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 sheepcote 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.

ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

  CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
    That little cares for buying any thing.

  ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
    Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
    And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

  CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,
    And willingly could waste my time in it.

  CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
    Go with me; if you like upon report
    The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
    I will your very faithful feeder be,
    And buy it with your gold right suddenly. Exeunt

SCENE V.

Another part of the forest

Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS

SONG

  AMIENS. Under the greenwood tree
               Who loves to lie with me,
               And turn his merry note
               Unto the sweet bird's throat,
             Come hither, come hither, come hither.
               Here shall he see
               No enemy
             But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more.

AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.

AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.

  JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing.
    Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos?

AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.