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SCENE II,

The Forest of Arden.

Enter Orlando, with a Paper.

Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love: And, thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I'll character; That every eye, which in this forest looks, Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. Run, run, Orlando; carve, on every tree, The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

Enter Corin, and TOUCHSтone.

[Exit.

Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life, master Touchstone?

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but, in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but, in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but, in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but, as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philo sophy in thee, shepherd?

Cor. No more, but that I know, the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends: That the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn: That good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night, is lack of the sun: That he, that hath learn'd no wit by nature nor art, may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

D

Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

Cor. No, truly.

Touch. Then, thou art damn'd.
Cor. Nay, I hope,-

Touch. Truly, thou art damn'd; like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

Cor. For not being at court? Your reason.

Touch, Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation: Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone. I am a true labourer; I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm: and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes graze, and my lambs

suck.

Touch. That is another simple sin in you; to bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle: to be bawd to a bell-wether; and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth, to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damn'd for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape.

Cor. Here comes young master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.

Enter Rosalind, who takes down the Paper, which Orlando just now fix'd on the Tree, and reads it.

Ros. From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures, fairest lin'd,

Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind.

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Touch. I'll rhyme you so, eight years together; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted :' it is the right butter-woman's rank to market.

Ros. Out, fool!

Touch. For a taste:

If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.

They that reap, must sheaf and bind;
Then to cart with Rosalind.

This is the very false gallop of verses: Why do you infect yourself with them?

Ros. Peace, you dull fool; I found them on a tree.
Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

Ros. Peace!

Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
Enter Celia, reading a Paper.

Cel. Why should this desert silent be?
For it is unpeopled? No;

Tongues I'll hang on every tree,

That shall civil sayings show.
Some, of violated vows

'Twixt the souls of friend and friend :
upon the fairest boughs,

But

Or at every sentence' end,
Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read, to know

The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show;

Helen's cheek, but not her heart;

Cleopatra's majesty ;

Atalanta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.

Ros. O most gentle Jupiter!what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners. withal, and never cry'd, Have patience, good people!

Cel. How now! back friends?—Shepherd, go off a little-Go with him, sirrah.

Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

[Exeunt Corin and Touchstone.

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses?

Ros. O, yes; I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

Cel. But didst thou hear, without wondering how thy name should be hang'd and carv'd upon these trees?

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder, before you came; for look here what I found on yonder tree.

Cel. Trow you, who hath done this?

Ros. Is it a man?

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck: Change you colour?

Ros. I pr'ythee, who?

Cel. O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.

Ros. Nay, but who is it?
Cel. Is it possible?

Ros. Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!

Ros. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? I pr'ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace: I would thou couldst stammer, that thou might'st pour this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a

narrow-mouth'd bottle; either too much at once, or none at all. I pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings. What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros. Why, heaven will send more, if the man will be thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

Cel. It is young Orlando; that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an instant, Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking,

Cel. I' faith, coz, 't is he,

Ros. Orlando?

Cel. Orlando.

Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?—What did he, when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word,

Cel. You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth first: 't is a word too great for any mouth of this age's size: To say, ay, and no, to these particulars, is more than to answer in a catechism.

Ros. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

Cel. It is as easy to count atomies, as to resolve the propositions of a lover but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with a good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn.

Ros. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit.

Cel. Give me audience, good madam.

Ros. Proceed,

Cel. There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight. He was furnished like a hunter.

Ros. O ominous! he comes to kill my heart, Cel. I would sing my song without a burden: thou bring'st me out of tune.

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