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SCENE IX. Enter Clown, Audrey, and Jaques.

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 honeft Ovid was among the Goths.

Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited, worfe than Jove in á thatch'd house!

Clo. When a man's verfes cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit feconded with the forward child, understanding; it ftrikes 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 trueft poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they fwear in poetry, may be faid, as lovers, they do feign. Aud. Do you wish then, that the gods had made me poetical?

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

Aud. Would you not have me honeft?

Clo. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honefty 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 caft away honefty upon a foul flut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

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

Clo. Well, praifed 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 village, who hath promis'd to meet me in this place of the foreft, and to couple us.

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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 heart, ftagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no affembly but horn-beafts. But what tho'? courage. As horns are odious, they are neceffary. It is faid, 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 fo-poor men alone?—No, no, the nobleft deer hath them as huge as the rafcal. Is the fingle man therefore bleffed? No. As a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, fo 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, 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 difpatch us here under this tree, or fhall we go with you to your chapel ?

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?
Clo. I will not take her on gift of any man.

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

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

Clo. Good even, good Mafter What-ye-call: how do you, Sir? you are very well met. God 'ild you for your laft company! I am very glad to fee you; even a toy in hand here, Sir: nay; pray, be covered.

Jaq. Will you be married, Motley?

Clo. As the ox hath his bow, Sir, the horse his curb, and the faulcon his bells, fo`man hath his defire; and as pidgeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibbling.

Faq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bufh 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 fhrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.

Clo. 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 excufe for me hereafter to leave my wife.

Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Clo. Come, fweet Audrey, we must be married, or we muft live in bawdry. Farewel, good Sir Oliver; not O fweet 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. SCENE X. Changes to a cottage in the foreft. Enter Rofalind and Celia.

Rof. Never 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?

Gel. As good caufe as one would defire, therefore weep.

Rof. His very hair is of the diffembling colour. Gel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kiffes are Judas's own children.

Rof. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.

Cel. An excellent colour: your chefnut was ever the only colour.

Rof. And his kiffing 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 fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; 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-purfe nor a horseftealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. Ref. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in. Rof. You have heard him fwear downright, he was.

Meaning the kifs of charity from hermits and holy men.

Gel. Was, is not is; befides, the oath of a lover is no ftronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of falfe reckonings; he attends here in the foreft on the Duke your father.

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

Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, Speaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puifny tilter, that fpurs his horfe but on one side, breaks his ftaff like a noble goose; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides. Who comes here? Enter Corin.

Cor. Miftrefs and Master, you have oft inquired
After the fhepherd that complain'd of love;
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praifing the proud difdainful fhepherdess
That was his miftrefs.

Gel. Well, and what of him?

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

If

Rof. O come, let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth thofe in love:

Bring us but to this fight, and you fhall fay
I'll prove a bufy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.

SCENE XI. Changes to another part of the foreft. Enter Sylvius and Phebe.

Syl. Sweet Phebe, do not fcorn me; do not, Phebe; Say, that you love me not; but fay not fo

In bitterness. The common executioner,

Whose heart th' accuftom'd fight of death makes_hard, Falls not the ax upon the humble neck,

But firft begs pardon: will you fterner 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'ft me, there is murder in mine eyes;
'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail'ft and softest things,
Who fhut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now do I frown on thee with all my heart,

And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to fwoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou can'ft not, oh, for fhame, for fhame,
Lye not, to fay mine eyes are murderers.
Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some fear of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impreffure

Thy palm fome moment keeps; but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

Syl. O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)

You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invifible

That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. But till that time,

Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As, till that time, I fhall not pity thee.

Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your That you infult, exult, and rail, at once

[mother, Over the wretched? what though you have beauty, (As, by my faith, I fee no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed), Muft you be therefore proud and pitilefs? Why, what means this? why do you look on me? I fee no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's fale-work: odds, my little life! I think she means to tangle mine eyes too: No, faith, proud miftrefs, hope not after it;

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