And let me counsel thee

Ol. Come sweete Audrey,
We must be married, or we must liue in baudrey:
Farewel good Mr Oliuer: Not O sweet Oliuer, O braue
Oliuer leaue me not behind thee: But winde away, bee
gone I say, I wil not to wedding with thee

Ol. 'Tis no matter; Ne're a fantastical knaue of them
all shal flout me out of my calling.

Exeunt.

Scoena Quarta.

Enter Rosalind & Celia.

Ros. Neuer talke to me, I wil weepe

Cel. Do I prethee, but yet haue the grace to consider,
that teares do not become a man

Ros. But haue I not cause to weepe?
Cel. As good cause as one would desire,
Therefore weepe

Ros. His very haire
Is of the dissembling colour

Cel. Something browner then Iudasses: