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SCENE IX. Enter Clown, Audrey, and Jaques.

Cl). 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 most capricious poet honest Ovid was among the Goths.

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

Clo. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding; it strikes à man more dead than a great šeckoning in a little room : truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.

Aud. I do not know what poetical is; is it honest in deed and word ? is it a true thing?

Clo. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers, they do feign,

Aud. Do you wish then, that the gods had made me poetical?

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

Aud. Would you not have me honest ?

Clo. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty coupled to beauty, is, to have honey a sauce to fugar.

Jag. A material fool!

Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods måke me honest !

Clo. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul sut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Aud. I am not a slut, 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 forest, and to couple us.

Jaq. I would fain see this meeting.
Aud. Well, the gods give us joy!

Clo. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what tho'? courage. As horns are odious, they are necessary. 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, that is the dowry of his wife, 'tis none of his own getting. Horns? even fo--poor men alone?

-No, no, the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore bleffed ? No. As a wall'd town is more worthier than a - village, so 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 dispatch us here under this tree, or shall 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, she 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


for your

last company! I am very glad to see you; even a toy in hand here, Sir: nay; pray, be covered.

Jaq. Will you be married, Notley ?

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

Jaq. 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 priest 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 shrunk 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 excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

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

Glo. Come, sweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Farewel, good Sir Oliver; not ofweet 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 fout me out of my calling. [Exeunt. SCENE X. Changes to a cottage in the foreft.

Enter Rosalind and Celia. Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do, I pr’ythee; but yet have the grace to consider, that tears do not become a man.

Ros. But have I not cause to weep?

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

Rof. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

Gel. Something browner than Judas's : marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

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

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

Rof. And his kissing is as full of sanctity, as the touch of holy beard *.

Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana; a nun of Winter's sisterhood kisses 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 so ?

Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horsestealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.

Ros. Not true in love?
Cel. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.
Rof. You have heard him swear downright, he was.
* Meaning the kiss of charity from bermits and holy nien.

Gel. Was, is not is; besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapiter; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings; he attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.

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

Gel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all’s brave that youth mouets, and folly guides. Who comes here?

Enter Corin.
Cor. Mistress and Master, you have oft inquired
After the shepherd that complain’d of love;
Whom you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play'd,
Between the pale complexion of true love,
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain;
Go hence a little, and I fall conduct you,

you will mark it.

Roj. O come, let us remove; The light of lovers feedeth those in love: Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say I'll prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt. SCENE XI. Changes to another part of the foreft.

Enter Sylvius and Phebe. Syl. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe; Say, that


love me not; but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th'accustom'd fight of death makes hard, Falls not the ax upon the humble neck, But first begs pardon : will you fterner be Than he that deals, and lives by, bloody drops.

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe. I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me, there is murder in mine eyes;
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut 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 swoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou can'ît not, oh, for shame, for shame,
Lye not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now shew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm fome nioment keeps; but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am sure, 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 some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. But till that time,
Come not thou near me; and when that time comes,
Aflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee.

Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your That you insult, exult, and rail, at once [mother, Over the wretched ? what though you have beauty, (As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed), Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? why do you look on me! I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's sale-work: odds, my little life! I think she means to tangle mine eyes too: No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;

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