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Clo. When a man's verfes cannot be understood, not 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 honest now if thou wert a poet, I might have fome hope thou didft 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, praised 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.

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 said, many a man knows no end of his goods: right: many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them.

Well

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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 blessed? 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 batchelor and by how much defence is better than
no fkill, 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 dispatch us here under this tree, or
fhall we go with you to your chapel ?

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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 master 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 pigeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibling.

Faq. 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 prieft that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will but join you together, as they join wainfcot; 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 must live in bawdry: farewel, good Sir Oliver; not
Ofweet Olivar, O brave Oliver, leave me not behind

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thee:

thee: but wind away, begone I will not to wedding with thee.

Sir Oli. "Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all fhall flout me out of my calling.

[Exeunt. SCENE changes to a Cottage in the Forest.

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

Ever talk to me, I will

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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?

Cel. As good caufe as one would defire, therefore weep. Rof. His very hair is of the diffembling colour.

Cel. 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. (19) And his kiffing is as full of fanctity, as the touch of holy beard.

Cel. (20) He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana; a

nun

(19) And bis kiffing is as full of fanctity, as the touch of boly bread.] Tho' this be the reading of the oldest copies, I have made no fcruple to fubftitute an emendation of Mr. Warburton, which mightily adds to the propriety of the fimile. What can the poet be fuppos'd to mean by boly bread? not the facramental, fure; that would have been prophanation, upon a fubject of fo much levity. But boly beard very beautifully alludes to the kifs of a holy Saint, which the ancients call'd the kifs of charity. And for Rofalind to fay, that Orlando kifs'd as holily as a Saint, renders the comparison very juft.

(20) He bath bought a pair of chafte lips of Diana; a nun of Winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.] This pair of chafte lips is a corruption as old as the fecond edition in Folio; I have reftor'd with the first Folio, a pair of caft lips, i. e. a pair left off by Diana. Again, what idea does a nun of Winter's fifterhood give us? tho' I have not ventur'd to disturb the text, it seems more probable to me that the poet wrote;

A nun of Winifred's fifter bood, &c.

Not, indeed, that there was any real religious order of that denomination: but the legend of St. Winifred is this. She was a christian vir

nun of winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religioufly; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Rof. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes nct?

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. Rof. 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.

Cel. 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 question with him: he afk'd me, of what parentage I was: I told him, of as good as he fo he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of father, 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 fide, breaks his staff like a noble goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and fully guides: who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor. Miftrefs and master, you have oft enquir'd
After the fhepherd that complain'd of love,
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praifing the proud difdainful shepherdefs
That was his mistress.

gin at Holywell a small town in Flintfire, fo tenacious of her chastity, that when a tyrannous governor laid fiege to her, he could not reduce her to compliance, but was obliged to ravish, and afterwards be headed her in revenge of her obftinacy. Vid. Cambden's Britannia by Dr. Gibson, p. 688. This tradition forts very well with our poet's allufion.

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Cel. 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,
If you will mark it,

Rof. O come, let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth those in love:
Bring us but to this fight, and you fhall fay
I'll prove a bufy actor in their play.

[Exeunt

SCENE changes to another part of the Foreft.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

Weet Phebe, do not fcorn me; do not Phebe;

Sil. Way, that you love me not; but fay not fo

In bitterness; the common executioner,

Whofe heart th' accuftom'd fight of death makes hard,
Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,

But first begs pardon : (21) 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 fofteft things,
Who fhut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd 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 fwoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou can'ft not, oh, for fhame, for shame.

(21) will you fterner be,

Than be that dies and lives by bloody drops?

This is fpoken of the executioner. He lives, indeed, by bloody drops, if you will: but how does he die by bloody drops? the poet must certainly have wrote that deals and lives &c. i. e, that gets his bread, and makes a trade of cutting off heads, Mr. Warburton.

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