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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 borns 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 is 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 bow of a bachelor: and by how much defence + is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want.

Cel. Something browner than Judas': marry his kisses are Judas' own children.

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

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

Cel. He hath brought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously: the very ice of chastity is in them.

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

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 a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a

worm-eaten nut.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is

not in.

Ros. You have heard him swear downright he


Enter Sir OLIVER MARTEXT. Here comes Sir Oliver :-Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: Will you despatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel ? Cel. Was is not is: besides, the oath of a Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the wo-lover is no stranger than the word of a tapster; man? they are both the confirmers of false reckonings: He attends here in the forest on the duke your father.

Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man. Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much Jaq. [Discovering himself.] Proceed, pro-question with him: He asked me, of what ceed; I'll give her. parentage I was: I told him, of as good as be; so he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ?

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: 1 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 falcon 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.

Touch. I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him thau 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. 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. TоvсH. and AUDREY.

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical
knave of them all shall flout me out of my
SCENE IV.-The same.-Before a Cottage.

Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep.
Cel. Do, 1 pr'ythee; but yet have the grace
to consider, that tears do not become a man.
Ros. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

Cel. Oh! 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 titer 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.

Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft in.

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.

Cel. Well, 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. Oh! 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.-Another part of the Forest.


Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not,

Say, that you love me not; but say not so
In bitterness: The common executioner,
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death
makes bard,

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,
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;

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling co- I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.


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Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye. 'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

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That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest |'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by :


Who shut their coward gates on atomies,-
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderets!
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;
And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them
kill thee;

Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down ;
Or, if thou canst not, oh! for shame, for

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush
The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps but now mine


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


Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. But, till that time,

Will you go, sister ?-Shepherd, ply her bard :-
Come, sister-Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud: though all the world could

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Phe. Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;
And yet it is not, that 1 bear thee love:
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
But do not look for further recompense,
Than thine own gladuess that thou art em

Come not thou near me and, when that time I will endure; and I'll employ thee too :


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,

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

Over the wretched? What though you have To glean the broken ears after the man

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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

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 chil-


'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

And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's

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

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

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.

That the main harvest reaps; loose now and


A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

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

ere while ?

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.

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 then pleases those that

It is a pretty youth-not very pretty :-
But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride be-
comes him:

He'll make a proper man: The best thing in

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not fall; 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
Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd

In parcels as I did, would have gone near
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

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.

Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with I'll write to him a very taunting letter,

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The matter's in my head, and in my heart: I will be bitter with him, and passing short: Go with me, Silvius.


SCENE 1.-The same.

armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosa

[Exeunt.lind is virtuous.

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES. Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

Ros. Those, that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows; and betray them. selves to every modern censure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say thing.

Ros. And I am your Rosalind.

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he bath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent: What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?

Ort. I would kiss, before I spoke.

Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking (God warn us!) matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

Orl. How if the kiss be denied?

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Orl. Who could be out, being before his beno-loved mistress ?

Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty rauker than my wit.

Orl. What, of my suit?

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind? Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Ros. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects: and, indeed, the sundry con- Ori. Then, in mine own person, I die. templation of my travels, in which my often Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor rumination wraps me, is a most humorous sad-world is almost six thousand years old, and in


Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear, you have sold your own lands, to see other men's; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience.


Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it too.

Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Jaq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse. [Exit. Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable + all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.-Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover?-An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Ros. Break an hour's promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight; I had as lief be wooed of a snail. Orl. Of a snail ?

Ros. Ay, of a snail: for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman: Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

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Ros. Well, in her person, I say-I will not have you.

all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night: for, good youth, he weat but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was-Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms bave eaten them, but not for love.

Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill me.

Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly: But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

Orl. Then love me, Rosalind.

Ros. Yes, faith will 1, Fridays and Saturdays, and all.

Orl. And wilt thou have me?
Ros. Ay, and twenty such.
Orl. What say'st thou?
Ros. Are you not good?
Orl. I hope so.

Ros. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing ?-Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us-Give me your hand, Orlando :--What do you say, sister?

Orl. Pray thee, marry us.

Cel. I cannot say the words.

Ros. You must begin,--Will you Orlando,

Cel. Go to:-Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind ?

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There a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her


Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winged. Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, after you have possessed her.

Orl. For ever, and a day.

Ros. Say a day, without the ever: No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more newfangled than an ape; more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros. By my life, she will do as I do.
Orl. Ob! but she is wise.

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder : Make the doors ⚫ upon a woman's wit, and it will ont at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,- Wit, whither wilt?

Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.

Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse

that ?

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Ros. Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.

Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again.

Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways;-1 knew what you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less-that flattering tongue of your's won me :-'tis but one cast away, and so,-come, death.-Two o'clock is your hour?

Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.

Orl. With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: So adieu,

Ros. Well time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try: Adieu ! [Exit ORLANDO. Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own


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It was a crest ere thou wast born ; 1. Thy father's father wore it: The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, 2. And thy father bore it: Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.


SCENE III.-The forest.


Enter ROSALIND and CELIA. Ros. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock and here much Orlando!

Cel. I warrant yon, with pure love, and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth-to sleep: Look, who comes here.


Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth ;My gentle Phebe bid me give you this: [Giving a letter.

I know not the contents; but, as I guess,
By the stern brow, and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor: pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Ros. Patience herself would startle at this


And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:
She says, I am not fair; that I lack manners;
She calls me proud; and, that she could not
love me

Were man as rare as phoenix; Od's my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt :
Why writes she so to me ?-Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.

Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents; Phebe did write it.

Ros. Come, come, you are a fool, And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand she has a leathern band, A freestone colour'd hand; I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;

Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, She has a huswife's hand: but that's no matter: that thou didst know how many fathom deep I say, she never did invent this letter; I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my This is mau's invention, and his band. affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay Sil. Sure, it is her's. of Portugal.

Cel. Or rather bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

Bar the doors.

Ros. Why, 'tis a boisterous and cruel style,

• Melancholy. This noisy scene is introduced merely to fill up an interval which is to represent two hours,

A style for challengers; why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian: woman's gentle brain
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance :-Will you hear the
letter ?

Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

Ros. She Phebes me: Mark how the tyrant writes.


Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd ?—
Can a woman rail thus ?

Sil. Call you this railing?

Ros. Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart? Did you ever hear such railing ?—

Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.
Meaning me a beast.-

If the scorn of your bright eyne +
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect?
Whiles you chid me, I do love;
How then might your prayers move?
He, that brings this love to thee,
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I'll study how to die.

Sil. Call you this chiding?

Cel. Alas! poor shepherd!

Ros. Do not pity him? no he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a woman ?-What, to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee! not to be endured!-Well, go your way to her, (for I see, love hath made thee a tame snake,) and say this to her :-That if she love me, I charge her to love thee: if she will not, I will never have her, unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.


Oli. Good-morrow, fair one: Pray you, if
you know

Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
A sheep cote, fenc'd about with olive-trees ?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour

The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings you to the

But at this hour the house doth keep itself,
There's none within.

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then I should know you by description;
Such garments, and such years: The boy is

Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister: but the woman low,
And browner than her brother.


Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know of


What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkerchief was stain'd.

Cel. I pray you, tell it,

Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from you,

He left a promise to return again

Within an hour; and, pacing through the

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside,
And, mark, what object did present itself!
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with

And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, ap-

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush: under which bush's shade

A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,

Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like

When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast,

To prey on nothing that doth seen as dead :
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
Cel. Oh! I have heard him speak of that same

And he did render him the most unnatural
That liv'd 'mongst men.

Oli. And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.

Ros. But, to Orlando ;-Did he leave him

Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?
Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and pur-
pos'd so:

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him: in which hurt
ling +

From miserable slumber I awak'd.
Cel. Are you his brother?

Ros. Was it you he rescu'd ?

Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill
him ?

Oli, 'Twas I; but 'tis not 1: I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ?-
Oli. By, and by.

When from the first to last, betwixt us two,
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,
As, how I came into that desert place ;--
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh airay and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love;
Who led ine instantly into his cave,
There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he

Are not And cry'd, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him; bound up his wound;
And, after some small space, being strong at

The owner of the house I did enquire for?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we

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He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dy'd in this blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ? sweet Gany
mede ?
[ROSALIND faints.
Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on

1 Handkerchief.

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