Impose fome fervice on me for my love. Rof. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron, Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be, it is impoffible; Mirth cannot move a foul in agony. Rof. Why, that's the way to choak a gibing spirit, Whofe influence is begot of that loose grace, Which fhallow laughing hearers give to fools: A jeft's profperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it: then, if fickly ears, And I will have you, and that fault withal: But if they will not, throw away that fpirit; Biron. A twelvemonth? well; befal, what will befal, I'll jeft a twelvemonth in an hofpital. Prin. Ay, fweet my Lord, and fo I take my leave. [To the King. King. No, Madam; we will bring you on your way. Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old play; Jack hath not Jill; thefe ladies' courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. King. Come, Sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then, 'twill end. Biron. That's too long for a play. Enter Enter Armado. Arm. Sweet Majefty, vouchfafe me- Dum. That worthy knight of Troy. Arm. I will kifs thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary: I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her fweet love three years. But, moft-esteem'd Greatnefs, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled, in praife of the owl and the cuckow? it fhould have follow'd in the end of our show. King. Call them forth quickly, we will do fo. Arm. Holla! approach. Enter all, for the fong. This fide is Hiems, winter. This Ver, the fpring: The one maintain❜d by the owl, The other by the cuckow. Ver, begin. THE SONG. SPRING. When daizies pied, and violets blue, Do paint the meadows much-bedight; Cuckow! cuckow! O word of fear, When Shepherds pipe on oaten ftraws, And merry larks are ploughmens' clocks: Cuckow! Cuckow! cuckow! O word of fear, WINTER. WINTER. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the fhepherd blows his nail; A merry note, While greafy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, A merry note, While greafy Joan doth keel the pot. Arm. The words of Mercury Are harsh after the fongs of Apollo: [Exeunt omnes. AS The SCENE lies, firft, near Oliver's houfe; and afterwards, partly in the Duke's court, and partly in the forest of Arden. ACT I. SCENE I. Oliver's orchard. Enter Orlando and Adam. As I remember, Adam, it was upon Orla. this my father bequeath'd me by will but a poor thousand crowns; and, as thou fay'ft, charged my brother on his bleffing to breed me well; and there begins my fadnefs. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report fpeaks goldenly of his profit; for my part he keeps me ruftically at home; or, to speak more properly, ftys me here at home, unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired: but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Befides this nothing that he fo plentifully gives me, the fomething that nature gave me, his discountenance feems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny againft this fervitude. I will no longer endure it, tho' yet I know no wife remedy how to avoid it. SCENE II. Enter Oliver. Adam. Yonder comes my mafter, your brother. Orla. Go apart, Adam, and thou fhalt hear how he will shake me up. Oli. Now, Sir, what make you here? Orla. Nothing: I am not taught to make any thing. Orla. Marry, Sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made; a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idlenefs. Oli. Marry, Sir, be better employ'd, and be nought a while. Orla. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat hufks with them? What prodigal's portion have I spent, that I fhould come to fuch penury? Oli. Know you where you are, Sir? Orla. O, Sir, very well; here in your orchard. Oli. Know you before whom, Sir? Orla. Ay, better than he I am before, knows me. I know, you are my eldeft brother; and, in the gentle condition of blood, you should fo know me: the courtefy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the firft-born; but the fame tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. VOL. 1. T I have |