Ref. Gentleman, (5) Wear this for me; one out of fuits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. Shall we go, coz ? [Giving him a chain from her neck. Cel. Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman. Orla. Can I not fay, I thank you ?—my better parts Are all thrown down; and that, which here ftands up, (6) Is but a quintaine, a mere lifeless block. Rof. He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes. I'll ask him, what he would. Did you call, Sir? Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown More than your enemies. Cel. Will you go, coz? you; fare you well. [Exeunt Rof. and Cel. (5) Wear this for me;] There is nothing in the fequel of this fcene,, expreffing what it is that Rofalind here gives to Orlando: nor has there been hitherto any marginal direction to explain it. It would have been no great burden to the editor's fagacity, to have fupply'd the note I have given in the margin: for afterwards, in the third act, when Rofalind has found a copy of verfes in the woods writ on herself, and Celia afks her whether the knows who hath done this, Refalind replies, by way of question, Is it a man? to which Celia again replies, Ay, and a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. (6) Is but a quintaine, ---] This word fignifies in general a post or butt fet up for feveral kind of martial exercises. It ferved fometimes. to run against, on horseback, with a lance: and then one part of it was always moveable, and turn'd about an axis. But, befides this, there was another quintaine, that was only a poft fix'd firmly in the ground; on which they hung a buckler, and threw their darts, and thot their arrows against it and to this kind of quintaine it is that Shakespeare here alludes: and taking it in this latter fenfe, there is an extreme beauty and justness in the thought. "I am now, fays Orlando, only a quintaine, a more lifeless block, on which love only exercises his "arms in jeft; the great difparity between me and Rofalind, in con"dition, not fuffering me to hope that ever love will make a ferious "matter of it." Regnier, the famous fatirift, who died about the time our author did, applies this very metaphor to the same subject,, tho' the thought be fomewhat different. Et qui depuis dix ans, jusqu'en fes derniers jours, Laffe enfin de fervir au peuple de quintaine, Mr. Warburton, Orla. What paffion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her; yet fhe urg'd conference. Enter Le Beu. O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown ; That he misconftrues all that you have done. Le Beu. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners; But that the people praise her for her virtues, [Exit. I fhall defire more love and knowledge of you. [Exit. SCENE SCENE changes to an Apartment in the Palace. Re-enter Celia and Rofalind. Cel. WHY, coufin; why Rofalind; Cupid have mercy; not a word! Rof. Not one to throw at a dog. Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be caft away upon curs, throw fome of them at me; come, lame me with reafons. Rof. Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one fhould be lam'd with reafons, and the other mad without any. Cel. But is all this for your father? Ref. (7) No, fome of it is for my child's father. Oh, how full of briars is this working-day-world! Cel. They are but burs, coufin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. Rof. I could fhake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart. Cel. Hem them away. Rof. I would try, if I could cry, hem, and have him. Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. Rof. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself. Cel. O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in defpight of a fall;-but turning thefe jefts out of fervice, let us talk in good earnett: is it poffible on fuch a fudden you should fall into fo ftrong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest fon? Rof. The Duke my father lov'd his father dearly. (7) No, fome of it is for my father's child.] I have chofen to restore here the reading of the older copies, which evidently contains the poet's fentiment. Rofalind would fay, "no, all my diftrefs and melancholy " is not for my father; but fome of it for my fweetheart, whom I hope "to marry and have children by.". In this sense the stiles him her child's father. Cel Cel. Doth it therefore enfue, that you fhould love his fon dearly? by this kind of chafe, I fhould hate him; for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando. Rof. No, faith, hate him not, for my fake. Cel. Why fhould I? doth he not deferve well? Enter Duke, with Lords. Rof. Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do. Look, here comes the Duke. Cel With his eyes full of anger. Duke. Miftrefs, difpatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court. Rof. Me, uncle ! Duke. You, coufin. Within these ten days if that thou be'st found Rof. I do befeech your Grace, Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me: Or have acquaintance with my own defires; Duke. Thus do all traitors; If their purgation did confift in words, Rof. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor;` Tell me, wherein the likelihood depends. Duke. Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough. Rof. So was I, when your Highness took his Dukedom; So was I, when your Highness banish'd him; Treason is not inherited, my Lord; Or if we did derive it from our friends, Cel. Cel. Dear Sovereign, hear me fpeak. Duke. Ay, Celia, we but ftaid her for your fake; Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay; Still we went coupled, and infeparable. Duke. She is too fubtile for thee; and her smoothness, Her very filence and her patience, Speak to the people, and they pity her: Thou art a fool; the robs thee of thy name, And thou wilt show more bright, and feem more virtuous, When fhe is gone; then open not thy lips : Firm and irrevocable is my doom, Which I have past upon her; fhe is banish'd. Cel. Pronounce that fentence then on me, my Liege; I cannot live out of her company. Duke. You are a fool: you, niece, provide yourfelf; If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour, And in the greatnefs of my word, you die. [Exeunt Duke, &c. Cel. O my poor Rofalind; where wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers! I will give thee mine: I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am. Rof. I have more cause. Cel. Thou haft not, coufin; Pr'ythee, be cheerful; know'ft thou not, the Duke Rof. That he hath not. Cel. No? hath not? (8) Rofalind lacks then the love, Which teacheth me that thou and I am one: (8) -Rofalind lacks then the love, Which teaches thee that thou and I am one]. Shall Tho' this be the reading of all the printed copies, 'tis evident, the poet wrote; Which teacheth me for |