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Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d 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

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 rememb’red, scorn’d at me.

I marvel why I answer’d 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?

Sil.

Phebe, with all my heart.

Phe.

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.

¶

Enter Rosalind and Celia and Jaques.

Jaq. I prithee, pretty youth, let me [be] better acquainted with thee.

Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

Ros. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.