Clo.

COME

apace, good Audrey, I will fetch up your goats, Audrey; and now, Audrey, am I the man yet? doth my fimple feature content you? Aud. Your features, lord warrant us! what features? Clo. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet honest Ovid was among the Goths. Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatch'd house!

Clo. 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 honeft in deed and word? is it a true thing?

Clo. 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?

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

Aud. Would not you have me honeft?

Clo. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty coupled to beauty, is, to have honey a fauce to fugar.

Jaq. A material fool!

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

Clo. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul flut, were to put good meat into an unclean dith. Aud. I am not a flut, though I thank the Gods I am. foul.

Clo.

Clo. Well, praised be the Gods for thy foulness ! fluttishness 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 vil

Echt lage, who hath promis'd to meet me in this place of

am

you

ture

e mo

the forest and to couple us.

Jaq. I would fain fee this meeting.
Aud. Well, the Gods give us joy!

Clo. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful ths heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no aj temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beafts. But what tho'? courage. As horns are odious, they

ftoo are necessary. It is faid, many a man knows no wal end of his goods: right: many a man has good da horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is uly the dowry of his wife, 'tis none of his own getting;

horns? even fo-poor men alone?-no, no, the mont noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal: is the fingle 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

wha

eyd of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, so much is a horn more precious to

mad

u ai

want.

Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.

fom Here comes Sir Oliver: Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

r'd

eyi

pra

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?
Clo. I will not take her on gift of any man.
Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage
is not lawful.

Jaq. Proceed, proceed! I'll give her.

Clo. Good even, good master what ye call: how do fou 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 covered.

Is

Clo

VOL. III.

D

Jaq. Jaq. Will you be married, Motley?

Clo. As the ox hath his bow, Sir, the horfe his curb, and the faulcon his bells, so man hath his defire; and as pigeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibling.

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 prieft 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.

Clo. I am not in the mind, but I were better to be married of him than 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.

Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. Clo. Come, sweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry: farewel, good Sir Oliver; not Ofweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, leave me not behind thee, but wind away, begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee.

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my Calling. [Exeunt.

i

Rof-N

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

EVER talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace

to confider, that tears do not become a man. Rof. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good cause as one would defire, therefore

weep.

Rof. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry his

kifsfes are Judas's own children.

Rof.

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

the only colour.

Rof. And his kissing is as full of fanctity, as the touch of holy beard.

Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana; a nun of Winter's sisterhood kiffes not more religioufly; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Rof. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Rof. Do you think fo?

Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten

et nut.

Rof. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in.
Rof. You have heard him swear downright, he was.
Cel. Was, is not is; befides, the oath of a lover is

no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both n the confirmers of false reckonings; he attends here eus in the Forest on the Duke your Father.

ra

Rof. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him: he askt me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; fo he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando?

Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of this lover; as a puifny tilter, that spurs his horfe but one fide, breaks his staff like a noble goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here?

fo

Enter Corin.

Cor. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired

After the shepherd that complain'd of love;

R

D2

Whom

Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly plaid,
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.

Rof. O come, let us remove;
The fight of lovers feedeth those in love:
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall fay
I'll prove a busy Actor in their Play.

[Exeunt.

WEET Phebe, do not scorn me; do not,

Sil.

S Phebe;

Say, that you love me not; but say not fo
In bitterness; the common executioner,

Whose heart th' accustom'd fight of death makes

hard,

Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon: will you sterner be

Than he that deals, and lives by, bloody drops.

Enter Rofalind, Celia and Corin.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner; I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'ist me, there is murder in mine eyes; 'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable, 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 do I frown on thee with all my heart,

And