SCENE IX. Enter Clown, Audrey, and Jaques. Clo. Come 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, woife than Jove in a thatch'd house! Clo. When a man's verfes cannot be underflood, nor a man's good wit feconded with the forward child, underAtanding; 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 honest in deed and word? is it a true thing? Clo. No, truly; for the trueft poetry is the moft feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they fwear in poetry, may be faid, as lovers, they do feign. Aud. Do you with then, that the gods had made me poetical? Clo. I do, truly; for thou fwear'ft to me, thou art Ironeit: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have fome hope thou didst feign. Aud. Would you not have me honeft? 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 honest! Clo. Truly, and to caft away honesty upon a foul slut, were to put good meat into an unclean difh. Aud. I am not a flut, though I thank the gods I am foul. Clo. Well, praifed 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. Jaq. I would fain fee this meeting. But 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 assembly but horn-beasts. 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. 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 raícal. 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 bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no fkill, fo 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? Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman? Sir Oli. Truly, fhe maft be given, or the marriage is not lawful. Jaq. Proceed, proceed! I'll give her. Clo. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't: how do you, Sir? you are very well met. God'ild you for your last company! I am very glad to see you; even a toy in hand here, Sir: nay; pray, be covered. Faq. Will you be married, Motley? Clo. As the ox hath his bow, Sir, the horfe his curb, and the faulcon his bells, fo man hath his defire; and as pigeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibbling. 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 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 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 counfel thee. Clo. Come, fweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Sir Oliver; not O fweet 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 fhall flout me out of my calling. [Exeunt. SCENE X. Changes to a cottage in the foreft. Enter Rofalind and Celia. Ref. Never talk to me, 1 will weep. Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to confider, that tears do not become a man. Rof. But have 1 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 kif. fes 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. And his kiffing is as full of fanctity, as the touch of holy beard *. Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana; a nun of Winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; the very ice of chaftity is in them. Ref. But why did he fwear he would come this morning, and comes not? Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purfe nor a horseftealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as còncave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. Ref. 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. • Meaning the kifs of charity from hermits and holy men. Gel 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 queftion with him: he afk'd me, of what parentage 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? Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, fpeaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puifny tilter, that fpurs his horse but on one fide, breaks his ftaff like a noble goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides. Who comes here? Enter Corin. Cor. Miftrefs and Mafter, you have oft inquired 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 difdain; 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- thofe in love: Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say [Exeunt. SCENE XI. Changes to another part of the foreft. Enter Sylvius and Phebe. Syl. Sweet Phebe, do not fcorn me; do not, Phebe; Say, that you love me not; but fay not fo In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th' accuftom'd fight of death makes hard,. But firft begs pardon: will you fterner be Enter Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. I would not be thy executioner; That eyes, that are the frail'ft and fofteft things, Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!— Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;: The cicatrice and capable impreffure Thy palm fome moment keeps; but now mine eyes, Nor, I am fure, 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 fome fresh cheek the power of fancy Then fhall you know the wounds invifible That love's keen arrows make. Phe. But till that time, Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, As, till that time, I fhall not pity thee. Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your mother, That you infult, exalt, and rail, at once Over the wretched? what though you have beauty, |