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SCENE VII.

Enter Orlando and Jaques.

OU bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?

Rof. 'Tis he; flink by, and note him.

[Cel. and Rof. retire.

Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good

faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

Orla. And fo had I; but yet for fashion fake, I thank you too for your society.

Jaq. God b'w' you, let's meet as little as we can.

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Orla. I do defire we may be better strangers.

Jaq. I pray you, marr no more trees with writing

love-fongs in their barks.

Orla. I pray you, marr no more of my Verses with

reading them ill-favouredly.

Jaq. Rofalind, is your love's name?

Orla. Yes, juft.

Jaq. I do not like her name.

Orla. There was no thought of pleasing you, when

she was christen'd.

Jaq. What ftature is the of?

Orla Just as high as my heart.

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers; have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths wives, and conn'd them out of rings?

Orla. Not fo: but I answer you right painted cur cloth, from whence you have studied your questions. Jaq. You have a nimble wit; I think, it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you fit down with me, and we two will rail against our mistress, the world, and all our misery.

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Orla. 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.

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Orla.

Orla. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your beft virtue; I am weary of you.

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

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

Jaq. There I shall fee mine own figure.

Orla. Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher. Jaq. I'll stay no longer with you; farewel, good Signior love!

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SCENE VIII.

[Exit.

Am glad of your departure; adieu, good
Monfieur melancholy! [Cel. and Rof. come

forward.

Rof. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him: do you hear, forester?

Orla. Very well; what would you ?
Rof. I pray you, what is't a clock ?

Orla. You should ask me, what time o'day; there's no clock in the Foreft.

Rof. Then there is no true lover in the Foreft; else, fighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of time, as well as a clock.

Orla. And why not the swift foot of time? had not that been as proper ?

Rof. 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?

Orla. I pr'ythee, whom doth he trot withal? Rof. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is folemniz'd: if the interim be but a fennight, time's pace is so hard that it feems the length of seven years. Orla. Who ambles time withal?

Rof.

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Rof. With a priest that lacks Latine, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one fleeps 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.

Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal?

Rof. With a thief to the gallows for though he go as foftly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too foon there.

Orla. Whom stays it still withal?

Rof. With lawyers in the vacation; for they fleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.

Orla. Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Rof. With this shepherdess, my fifter; here in the
fkirts of the foreft, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orla. Are you native of this place?

Rof. As the cony, that you fee dwell where she is kindled.

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

Rof. I have been told fo of many; but, indeed, an old religious Uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an in-land man, one that knew courtship too well; for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures againftit; 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 fex withal.

Orla. Can you remember any of the principal evils, that he laid to the charge of women? Rof. There were none principal, they were all like one another, as half-pence are; every one fault seeming monstrous, 'till his fellow fault came to match it. Orla. I pr'ythee, recount fome of them.

Rof. No; I will not cast away my phyfic, but on

thofe

those that are sick. There is a man haunts the Foreft, that abuses our young plants with carving Rofalind on their barks; hangs Odes upon hawthorns, and Elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rofalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him fome good counsel, for he seems to have the Quotidian of love upon him.

Orla. I am he, that is so love-shak'd; I pray you tell me your remedy.

Rof. 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 fure, you are not prifoner. Orla. What were his marks?

Rof. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and funken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your Having in beard is a younger Brother's revenue; then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your fleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, andevery thing about you demonstrating a careless defolation; but you are no fuch man, you are rather, point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself, than feeming the lover of any other.

Orla. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Rof. Me believe it? you may as foon make her, that you love, believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to confess she does; that is one of the points, in the which women still give the lie to their confciences. But, in good footh, are you he that hangs the Verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Orla. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rofalind, I am That he, that unfortunate he.

Rof. But are you so much in love, as your rhimes speak?

Orla.

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Orla. Neither rhime nor reason can express how much.

Rof. Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip, as mad men do: and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love too: yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Orla. Did you ever cure any fo?

Rof. Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to hid 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, blu longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconftant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every led paffion something, and for no paffion truly anything, 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 Ond him, then spit at him; that I drave my fuitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madfud ness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic; and thus I cur'd him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clear as a found sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

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Orla. I would not be cur'd, youth.

Rof. I would cure you if you would but call me Rofalind, and come every day to my cotte, and woo

me.

Orla. Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell me where it is.

Rof. Go with me to it, and I will shew it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the Foreft

do you live: will you go?

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Orla

Orla. With all my heart, good youth.

Rof. Nay, nay, you must call me Rofalind: come, fifter, will you go?

[Exeunt. SCENE

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