Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

Ros. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.

Cel. Hem them away.

Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem, and have him. Cel. Come, come; wrestle with thy affections. Ros. O! they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.

Cel. O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite of a fall.-But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old sir Rowland's youngest son?

Ros. The duke my father lov'd his father dearly.

Cel. Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

Ros. No 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.

Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well? Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do.

Enter Duke FREDERICK, with Lords.

Look, here comes the duke.

Cel. With his eyes full of anger.

Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest

haste,

And get you from our court.

Ros.

Me, uncle?

Duke F.
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.

Ros.

I do beseech your grace,

You, cousin :

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.

If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,
(As I do trust I am not) then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your highness.

Duke F.

Thus do all traitors:

If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.
Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.

Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor. Tell me, whereon the likelihood depends.

Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.

Ros. So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I when your highness banish'd him.
Treason is not inherited, my lord;

Or if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor.
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much,
To think my poverty is treacherous.

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke F. Ay, Celia: we stay'd her for your sake; Else had she with her father rang'd along.

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay:
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse.
I was too young that time to value her,
But now I know her if she be a traitor,
Why so am I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled, and inseparable.

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her smooth

ness,

Her very silence, and her patience,

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more
virtuous,

When she is gone. Then, open not thy lips:
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her. She is banish'd.

Cel. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege: I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F. You are a fool.-You, niece, provide
yourself:

If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt Duke FREDERICK and Lords. Cel. O, my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am. Ros. I have more cause.

Cel.
Thou hast not, cousin.
Pr'ythee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke
Hath banished nie, his daughter?

Ros.

That he hath not.

Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love, Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl? No: let my father seek another heir. Therefore, devise with me how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us: And do not seek to take your change upon you2, To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out; For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee. Ros. Why, whither shall we go?

Cel.

To seek my uncle

In the forest of Arden.

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,

2

- take your CHANGE upon you,] The folio, 1632, reads, charge.

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face3.
The like do you: so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.

Ros.

Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-ax* upon my thigh,

A boar-spear in my hand; and, in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have,

That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man? Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own

page,

And therefore look you call me Ganymede.

But what will you be call'd?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state: No longer Celia, but Aliena3.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we essay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together,
Devise the fittest time, and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content
To liberty, and not to banishment.

[Exeunt.

3 SMIRCH my face.] See vol. ii. p. 235, note 7; and p. 246, note 11. curtle-ax] i. e. cutlass, or broad-sword.

4

5 No longer Celia, but Aliena.] Ganymede and Aliena are the names they assume in Lodge's "Rosalynde."

Now go WE IN content] The first folio transposes the words " the second folio corrects the error.

we in," but

ACT II. SCENE I.

The Forest of Arden.

Enter DUKE, Senior, AMIENS, and other Lords, like Foresters.

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet, Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference'; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites, and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Ami. I would not change it. Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,

7 The seasons' difference ;] "The penalty of Adam," here referred to, seems to have been, to be sensible of the "difference" between heat and cold after his expulsion from Paradise.

• Being native burghers of this desert city,] Our poet may have derived this thought from two lines in "Montanus' Sonnet," in Lodge's "Rosalynde." See "Shakespeare's Library," part ii. p. 93.

"About her wond'ring stood
The citizens of the wood."