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But upon the fairest, boughs,

Or at every sentence' end, Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read, to know
The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd

That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty ;
Atalanta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis'd;
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest priz'd. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave.

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Ros. Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who is it?

Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, ana after that, out of all whooping!

Ros. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South-sea-off discovery. I pr'ythee tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace : I would thou could'st stammer, that thou might'st pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle; either too much at once, or none at all. I pr'ythee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.

Cel So you may put a man in your belly. Ros Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chiu worth a beard?

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros. Why, God will send more, if the man will be thankful; let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his

chin.

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Ros. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

Cel. It is as easy to count atomies, as to resolve the propositions of a lover :-but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with a good observance. I found him under a tree like a dropp'd acorn.

Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit.

Cel. Give me audience, good madam.

Ros. Proceed.

Cel. There he lay, stretch'd along, like a wounded knight.

Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.

Cel. Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets very unseasonably. He was furnish'd

like a hunter.

Ros. O ominous! he comes to kill my heart. Cel. I would sing my song without a burden: thou bring'st me out of tune.

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman! when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.

Enter Orlando and Juques.

Cel. You bring me out.-Soft! comes he not here?

Ros. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him. [they retire. Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. Orl. And so had I: but yet, for fashion's sake, I thank you too for your society.

Jaq. God be with you! let's meet as little as we

can.

Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.

Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

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Jaq. You have a nimble wit; I think it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery.

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world, but myself; against whom I know most faults.

Jaq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love. Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when I found you.

Orl. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see, him.

Jaq. There shall I see mine own figure. Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cypher.

Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good signior Love.

Orl. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good monsieur Melancholy. [exit Jaques. [Celia and Rosalind come forward. Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?

Orl. Very well; what would you?
Ros. I pray you, what is't o'clock?

Orl. You should ask me what time o'day? there's no clock in the forest.

Ros. Then there's no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute, groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of time, as well as a clock. Orl. And why not the swift foot of time? had not that been as proper?

Ros. By no means, sir; time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

Orl. I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal ? Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight, time's pace is so hard, that it seems the length of seven years.

Orl. Who ambles time withal?

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury: these time ambles withal.

Orl. Who doth he gallop withal?

Ros. With a thief to the gallows; for, though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Orl. Who stays it still withal?

Ros With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth?

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Orl. Are you native of this place?

Ros. As the coney, that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

Ros. I have been told so of many: but, indeed, an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Ros. There were none principal; they were like one another, as halfpence are: every one fault seeming monstrous, till his fellow fault

came to match it.

Orl. I pr'ythee, recount some of them.

Ros. No; I will not cast away my physic, but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies upon brambles; all forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.

Orl. I am he, that is so love shaked; I pray you, tell me your remedy.

Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not a prisoner.

Orl. What were his marks?

Ros. A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye, and sunken; which you have not: an unquestionable spirit; which you have not: a beard neglected; which you have not:-but 1

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Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loath him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? [how much. Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip, as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordi-your'd: for honesty, coupled to beauty, is to have nary, that the whippers are in love too. Yet I honey a sauce to sugar. profess curing it by counsel.

Jaq. A material fool!

Orl. Did you ever cure any so?

Laside Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest!

Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

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Aud Your features? Lord warrant us: what features?

Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

Orl. With all my heart, good youth.

Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind.-Come,
Fister, will you go?
[ereunt.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques at a dis-
tance, observing them.

SCENE III.

Touch. Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?

Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than Jove in a thatch'd house! faside. Touch. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. -Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. Aud. I do not know what poetical is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?

Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers, they do feign.

Aud. Do you wish then, that the gods had made me poetical?

Touch. I do, truly; for thou swear'st to me, thou art honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.

Aud. Would you not have me honest?
Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-fa

Aud. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.

Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee: and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Mar-text, the vicar' of the next village; who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us, Jaq. I would fain see this meeting. [aside. Aud. Well, the gods give us joy! Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said, Many a man knows no end of his goods; right; many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his own getting.-Horns? Even so ;- Poor men alone?- -No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No; as a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor: and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want. Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text. Here comes Sir Oliver:-Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met. Will you despatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?

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Touch. I will not take her on the gift of auy | think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a

worm-eaten nut.

man.

Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

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Jaq. [discovering himself.] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.

Touch. Good even, good master What ye call't: How do you, sir? You are very well met. God'ild you for your last company: I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir.-Nay; pray, be cover'd.

Jaq. Will you be married, motley?

Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the faulcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.

Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest, that can tell you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. BEFORE A COTTAGE.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.

Touch. I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him, than of another: for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. [aside.

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Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquir'd
After the shepherd that complain'd of love;
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Touch. Come, sweet Audrey;
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good master Oliver!

Not-O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behi' thee;
But-wind away,
Begone, I say.

I will not to wedding wi' thee. [exeunt Jaq. Touch. and Audrey. Sir Ok.' Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [exit.

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

Ros. I'faith, his hair is of a good colour. Cel. An excellent colour: your chesnut was ever the only colour.

Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think he is not in. Ros. You have heard him swear downrights he was.

Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not inore religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. Ros. But why did he swear he would come his morning, and comes not?

er:

Cèl. Was is not is; besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke, your father.

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had mach question with him. He asked me, of what parentage I was? I told him, of as good as he; so he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ?

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Ros. Do you think so?

Cel. Yes: I think he is not a pick-purse, nor horse-stealer; but, for his verity in love, I do

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Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover: as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all's brave, that youth mounts, and folly guides:-Who comes here? Enter Corin.

Sil. Sweet Phebe,do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:
Say, that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes

Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, [hard, consider, that tears do not become a man.

Ros. But have I not cause to weep?
Cel. As good cause as one would desire; there-
fore weep.

But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, at a distance.
Phe. I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye:
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

Cel. Why, and what of him?

Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play'd
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Ros. O, come, let us remove;

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.-
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

SCENE V.

Lexeunt.

ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,-
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; [thee,
And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill
Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;
Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. [thee:
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean bus upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps: but now miuc eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt.

Sil. O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near),
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wound's invisible,
That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. But, till that time,

[comes,

Come not thou near me; and, when that time
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee.

Ros. And why, I pray you? [advancing] Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once, [beauty,
Over the wretched? What though you have more
(As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed)
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you, than in the ordinary
Of nature's sale-work.-Od's my little life!
I think she means to tangle my eyes too :-
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black-silk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.—
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children:
Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can show her.—
But, mistress, know yourself'; down on your knees,
And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,-
Sell when you can; you are not for all markets;
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So, take her to thee, shepherd;-fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year
together;

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I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger: if it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words.-Why look you so upon me?

Phe. For no ill will I bear you.

Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine: Besides, I like you not: If you will know my Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by:- [house, Will you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard.Come, sister:-Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud; though all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in sight as he. Come, to our flock.

[exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;

SCENE I. THE SAME.

Enter Rosulind, Celia, and Jaques.

Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight? Sil. Sweet Phebe,

Phe. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly? Sil. I would have you.

Phe. Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;
And yet it is not, that I bear thee love:
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompense,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil. 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 scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon,

Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

Sil. 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. [him;

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for '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 :+--- [him: But, sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes 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 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 [ference Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difBetwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd In parcels as I did, would have gone near [bim 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 remember'd, 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 is in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius.

[exeunt

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