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you too for
Ros. O ominous, he comes to kill
. I would fing my song without a burden ; thou bring’tt me out of tune.
Rof. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think,
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
[Cel. and Ros. retire. Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. Orla. And so had I; but yet for fashion fake, I thank
Jaq. I pray you marr no more trees with writing 2 love-longs in their barks.
Orla. (17) I pray you, marr no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.
Jaq. Rosalind, is your love's name?
Orla. There was no thought of pleasing you, when She was christen’d.
Jaq. What stature is the of?
Jaq. You are full of pretty answers ; have been acquainted with goldimiths wives, and conn’d them out of rings?
Orla. Not fo: (18) but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
Jag. (17) I pray you, marr no more of my verses with reading them illa favouredly.] The poet seems to have had in his eye this diftich of Martial; Lib. I. Epigr. 39.
Quem recitas, meus eft, o Fidentine, libellus ;
Sed malè dum recitas, incipit efe suus. (18) But I answer you rigbt, painted cloth.] This alludes fashion, in old tapestry hangings, of mottos and moral sentences from
Faq. You have a nimble wit; I think it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you fit down with me, and we two will rail against our mistress, the world, and all our mifery.
Orla. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
Jaq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love.
Orla. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best vir. tue ; I am weary of you.
Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when I
Orla. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him.
Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure.
Jag. I'll stay no longer with you; farewel, good
[Exit. Orla. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur melancholy ! (Cel. and Ros. come forward.
Rof. I will speak to him like a faucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him: Do you hear, forefter?
Orla. Very well; what would you ?
Orla. You should ask me, what time o' day; there's no clock in the foreft.
Rol. Then there is no true lover in the forest ; else, fighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect che lazy foot of time, as well as a clock.
Orla. And why not the swift foot of time? had not that been as proper ?
Ros. By no means, Sir; time travels in divers paces, with divers persons; I'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands ftill withal?
Orla. I prythee, whom doth he trot withal ? the mouths of the figures work'd or painted in them. The poet again hints at this custom in his poem, callid Tarquin and Lucrece: Who fears a sentence, or an old man's
law, Sball by a painted cloth be kept in awe.
Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemniz'd: if the interim be but a se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.
Orla, who ambles time withal ?
Ref. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man. that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury.
These time ambles withal. Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal !
Rof. With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as foftly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
Orla. Whom stays it still withal ?
Ref. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.
Orla. Where dwell you, pretty youth? Ros. With this shepherdess, my fifter ; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orla. Are you native of this place?
Rof. As the cony, that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Orla. Your accent is something finer, than you could purchase in fo removed a dwelling.
Rof. I have been told fo of many; but, indeed, an olda religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man, one that knew courtship too well; for there he fell in love. I have heard him read
many lectures against it ; I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.
Orla. Can you remember any of the principal evils, that he laid to the charge of women ?
Reos. There were none principal, they were all like one another, as half pence are ; every one fault seeming monstrous, 'till his fellow fault came to match it.
Orla. I pr’ythee, recount some of them.
those that are fick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks ; hangs odes upon hawthorn's, and elegies bles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. IfI could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love
Orla. I am he that is so love-lak’d; I pray you, tell me your remedy.
Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you ; he taught me how to know a man in love ; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner.
Orla. What were his marks?
Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not ; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not;
--but I pardon you for that, for fimply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue ; -then
your kose should be ungarter’d, your bonnet upbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are no such man, you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of
other. Orla. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Ros. Me believe it? you may as soon make 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 lye to their consciences. But, in good footh, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?
Orla. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
Rof. But are you so much in love, as your rhymes speak?
Orla. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Rof. Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deferves as well a dark house and a whip, as mad men do: and the reason why they are not fo punish'd and cured,
is, that the lunacy is fo ordinary, that the whippers are in love too : yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Orla. Did you ever cure any so?
Ref. Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress : and I set him every day to wove me. At which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, thallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; forevery paflion something, and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loath him; then entertain him, then forfwear 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 forfwear the full Itream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monaftick; and thus I cur'd him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clear as a found theep's heart, that there shall not be ono spot of love in't.
Qrla. I would not be cur’d, youth.
Rof. I would cure you if you would but call me Rojalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me.
Orla. Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell me where it is.
Rof. Go with me to it, and I will fhew it you; and, by the way, you fall tell me where in the forest you live: will you go?
Orla. With all my heart, good youth. Rof. Nay, nay, you must call me Rofalixd: come, fifter, will you go?
(Exeunt. 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 simple feature content you ?
Aud. Your features, Lord warrant us; what features?
Clo. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the moft capricious poet honeft Ovid was among the Goths.
Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatch'd house! Vol. II.