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 consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

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?

Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

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 ordinary that the whippers are in love too: yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Orl. Did you ever cure any so?

He was

Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. 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 anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loathe 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 would not be cured, youth.

Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me.

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

Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll shew it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

Orl. With all my heart, good youth. Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind.-Come, sister, will you go?

SCENE III.

[Exeunt.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES at a distance, observing them.

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?

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.

Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than [Aside. 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.

Jove in a thatched house!

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 hardfavoured; for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

[Aside.

Jaq. A material fool! 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.

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 Martext, 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 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 walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable that 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 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?

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

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

Touch. Good even, good master what-yecall 't: how do you, sir? you are very well met: God 'ield you for your last company: I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir: -nay; pray, be covered.

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 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. 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!

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit.

SCENE IV. The same. Before a Cottage.

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Ros. Never talk to me; I will weep.

Cel. Do, I pr'y thee; 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.

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.

Cel. He hath bought 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 pickpurse, nor a horsestealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered 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 was.

Cel. "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 much question with him. He asked me, of what parentage I was? I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed, 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 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.

Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquired After the shepherd that complained of love; Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

SCENE V.—Another part of the Forest.

Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.

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 accustomed sight of death makes
hard,

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;

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,
That eyes,—that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,—
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers!
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, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
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 eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have more

beauty

(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-favoured 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 shew 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 to-
gether;

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 house, 'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by.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 abused in sight as he.— Come, to our flock.

[Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;

"Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?" Sil. Sweet Phebe,

Phe Ha! what sayst 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 extermined.

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 employed.
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: lose now and then
A scattered 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 him; "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 :But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes

him:

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
Than that mixed in his cheek; 't was just the dif-
ference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, bad they marked him
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 mine hair black;
And, now I am remembered, scorned at me:
I marvel, why I answered 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's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.

Jaq. I pr'y thee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Juq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. Ros. Those that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern censure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing. Ros. Why then, 't is 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 contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

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.

Enter ORLANDO.

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