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No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master;
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.

Oh, what, a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

Orla. Why, what's the matter?
Adam. O unhappy youth,

Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:
Your brother-no; no brother-yet the fon,
Yet not the fon-I will not call him fon

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Of him I was about to call his father,
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means

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To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

And you within it. If he fail of that,

He will have other means to cut you off;

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I overheard him, and his practices :
This is no place, this houfe is but a butchery;

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

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Orla. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me

go?

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. Orla. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my

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food?
Or with a base, and boisterous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?

This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;

I rather will fubject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood 4, and bloody brother.

Adam. But do not fo. I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my foster nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take That: and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,.......

- diverted blood.] Blood turned out of the course of nature.

A

Be

Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold,
All this I give you, let me be your servant;
Tho' I look old, yet I am ftrong and lufty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lufty winter,
Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

Orla. Oh! good old man, how well in thee appears

The constant service of the antique world;
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat, but for promotion;
And, having That, do cloak their service up
Even with the Having 5. It is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blofsom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we'll go along together;
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some fettled low Content.

Adam. Master, go on; and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years 'till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more...
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.

T

[Exeunt.

5 Even with the having.] Even with the promotion gained by fervice is service extinguished,

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SCENE

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SCENE VI.

Changes to the FOREST of Arden.

Enter Rofalind in Boys cloaths for Ganimed, Celia drest like a Shepherdess for Aliena, and Touchstone the Clown.

Rof. Jupiter how weary are my fpirit

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Clo. I care not for my spirits, if my legs

were not weary.

Rof. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker veffel, as doublet and hose ought to show itfelf courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena.

Cel. I pray you bear with me; I can go no further. Clo. For my part, I had rather bear with you, than bear you; yet I should bear no cross, if I did bear you; for, I think you have no money in your purse. Rof. Well, this is the foreft of Arden.

Clo. Ay; now I am in Arden, the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

Rof. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in folemn talk.

...... Enter Corin and Silvius.

Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still.

• O Jupiter! how merry are my Spirits?] And yet, within the Space of one intervening Line, She says, She could find in her Heart to disgrace her Man's Apparel, and cry like a Woman. Sure, this is but a very bad Symptom of the Briskness of Spirits:

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:

rather a direct Proof of the con-
trary Disposition. Mr. Worbtur-
ton and I concurred in conjectur-
ing it should be, as I have re-
formed in the Text: how
weary are my Spirits? And the

(

Clown's Reply makes this Read-
ing certain.

THEOBALD.

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:

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Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!
Cor. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil. No, Corin; being old, thou canst not guess,
Thơ' in thy youth thou wast as true as a lover,
A's ever figh'd upon a midnight pillow;
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
As, fure, I think, did never man love so,
How many Actions most ridiculous
Haft thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily.
If thou remember'st not the flightest. folly',
That ever love did make thee run into;
Thou hast not lov'd.--

Or if thou hast not fate as I do now,
Wearying the hearer in thy mistress, praise,
Thou hast not lov'd.-

Or if thou haft not broke from company,
Abruptly, as my paffion now makes me;
Thou hast not lov'd.

O Phebe!. Phebe! Phebe!

[Exit Sil.

Rof. Alas, poor Shepherd! searching of thy wound,' I have by hard adventure found my own.

Clo. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my fword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-nights to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing of a peafcod instead of her, from whom I took

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two * cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, Wear these for my fake. We, that are true lovers, run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, fo is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Rof. Thou speak'st wiser, than thou art 'ware of. Clo. Nay, I shall ne'er be aware of mine own wit, 'till I break my shins against it.

Rof. Jove! Jove! this Shepherd's paffion is much upon my fashion.

Clo. And mine; but it grows fomething stale with

me.

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man,

If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.

Clo. Holla; you, Clown!

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Rof. Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

Cor. Who calls?

Clo. Your Betters, Sir.

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Cor. Elfe they are very wretched.

Rof. Peace, I fay-Good Even to you, friend.
Cor. And to you, gentle Sir, and to you all.
Rof. I pry'thee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this defert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and feed;
Here's a young maid with travel much opprefs'd,
And faints for fuccour.

Cor. Fair Sir, I pity her,

And wish for her fake, more than for mine own,.
My fortunes were more able to relieve her:
But I am Shepherd to another man,

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