Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
Title: Search
Ros. 'Tis not your inkie browes, your blacke silke haire,
Ros. Your bugle eye‑balls, nor your cheeke of creame
Ros. That can entame my spirits to your worship:
Ros. You foolish Shepheard, wherefore do you follow her
Ros. Like foggy South, puffing with winde and raine,
Ros. You are a thousand times a properer man
Ros. Then she a woman. 'Tis such fooles as you
Ros. That makes the world full of ill‑fauourd children:
Ros. 'Tis not her glasse, but you that flatters her,
Ros. And out of you she sees her selfe more proper
Ros. Then any of her lineaments can show her:
Ros. But Mistris, know your selfe, downe on your knees
Ros. And thanke heauen, fasting, for a good mans loue;
Ros. For I must tell you friendly in your eare,
Ros. Sell when you can, you are not for all markets:
Ros. Cry the man mercy, loue him, take his offer,
Ros. Foule is most foule, being foule to be a scoffer.
Ros. So take her to thee Shepheard, fareyouwell.
Phe. Phe.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a yere together,