those that are fick. There is a man haunts the Foreft, that abuses our young plants with carving Rofalind on their barks; hangs Odes upon hawthorns, and Elegies on brambles; all, forfooth, deifying the name of Rofalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him fome good counsel, for he feems to have the Quotidian of love upon him.

Orla. I am he, that is fo love-shak'd; I pray you tell me your remedy.

Rof. 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 fure, you are not prifoner. Orla. What were his marks?

Rof. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and funken, which you have not; an unqueftionable 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 hofe fhould be ungaryour ter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your fleeve unbutton'd, your fhoe untied, and every thing about you demonftrating a careless defolation; but you are no fuch man, you are rather, point-device in your accoutre ments, as loving yourself, than feeming the lover of any other.

Orla. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Rof. Me believe it? you may as foon make her, that you love, believe it; which, I warrant, fhe is apter to do, than to confess fhe does; that is one of the points, in the which women ftill give the lie to their confciences. But, in good footh, are you he that hangs the Verfes on the trees, wherein Rofalind is fo admired?

Orla. I fwear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rofalind, I am That he, that unfortunate he.

Rof. But are you so much in love, as your rhimes speak?

Orla.

Orla. Neither rhime nor reafon can exprefs 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 so ordinary, that the whippers are in love too: yet I profess curing it by counfel.

He was to

Orla. Did you ever cure any fo? Rof. Yes, one, and in this manner. imagine me his love, his miftrefs: and I set him every day to woo me. At which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apifh, fhallow, inconftant, full of tears, full of fmiles; for every paffion fomething, and for no paffion 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 fuitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madnefs; which was, to forfwear the full ftream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monaftic; and thus I cur'd him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clear as a found fheep's heart, that there fhall not be one spot of love in't.

Orla. I would not be cur'd, youth.

Ref. I would cure you if you would but call me Rofalind, and come every day to my cotte, 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 fhall 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 Rofalind: come, fifter, will you go?

[Exeunt. SCENT

Clo.

Enter Clown, Audrey and Jaques.

OME apace, good Audrey, I will fetch up

your goats, Audrey; and now, Audrey, am I the man yet? doth my fimple 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 honeft Ovid was among the Goths. Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited, worfe than Jove in a thatch'd houfe!

Clo. When a man's verfes cannot be understood, nor a man's good Wit feconded with the forward child, Underftanding; 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'st to me, thou art honeft: now if thou wert a poet, I might have fome hope thou didst feign.

Aud. Would not you have me honest?

Clo. No, truly, unlefs 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 honeft!

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 foul.

Clo.

Clo. Well, praised be the Gods for thy foulnefs ! flutti hnefs 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 see this meeting.

Aud. Well, the Gods give us joy!

Well, that is own getting;

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-beasts. But what tho'? courage. As horns are odious, they are neceffary. It is faid, many a man knows no end of his goods: right: many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. the dowry of his wife, 'tis none of his horns? even fo-no, no, the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rafcal: is the fingle man therefore bleffed? 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 bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no fkill, fo much is a horn more precious to

want.

-poor men alone?.

Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.

Here comes Sir Oliver: Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met. Will you difpatch 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 mafter 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. Ꭰ

VOL. III.

Jaq.

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.

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 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 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. Clo. Come, fweet 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 fay, I will not to wedding with thee.

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my Calling. [Exeunt.

Rof.

Changes to a Cottage in the Foreft.

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

EVER talk to me, I will weep.

NE

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.