« ZurückWeiter »
Gor. No more, but that I know, the more onė fickens, the worse at ease he is: and that he, that wants mony, means, and content, is without three good friends. That the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn: that good pafture makes fat fheep; and that a great cause of the night, is lack of the Sun: that he, that hath learned no wit by nature nor art, may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.
Clo. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Waft ever in Court; fhepherd?
Cor. No, truly.
Clo. Then thou art damn'd.
Cor. Nay, I hope
Clo. Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-roafted egg, all on one fide.
Cor. For not being at Court? your reason.
Clo. Why, if thou never waft at Court, thou never faw'it good manners; if thou never faw it good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickednefs is fin, and fin is damnation: thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.
Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone: thofe, that are good manners at the Court, are as ridiculous in the Country, as the behaviour of the Country is most mockable at the Court. You told me, you falute not at the Court, but you kiss your hands; that courtefie would be uncleanly, if Courtiers were fhepherds.
Clo. Inftance, briefly; come, inftance.
Cor. Why, we are till handling our ewes; and their fels, you know, are greafie.
Clo. Why, do not your Courtiers hands fweat? and is not the greafe of a mutton as wholfome as the sweat of a man? fhallow, fhallow; a better inftance, I
Cor. Befides, our hands are hard.
Clo. Your lips will feel them the fooner. Shallow again: a more founder inftance, come.
Cor. And they are often tarr'd over with the furgery of our fheep; and would you have us kifs tar? the Courtier's hands are perfumed with civet. Clo.
Clo. Moft fhallow man! thou worms-meat, in refpect of a good piece of flesh, indeed! learn of the wife and perpend; civet is of a bafer birth than tar; the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the inftance, Thepherd.
Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll reft. Clo. Wilt thou reft damn'd? God help thee, fhallow man; God make incifion in thee, thou art raw.
Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer, I earn that I eat; get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is, to fee my. ewes graze, and my lambs fuck.
Clo. That is another fimple fin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together; and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be a bawd to a bell-weather; and to betray a fhe-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou be'ft not damn'd for this, the devil himself will have no fhepherds; I cannot fee else how thou fhould'ft 'scape.
Cor. Here comes young Mr. Ganymed, my new miftrefs's brother.
Enter Rofalind, with a paper.
Rof. From the east to western Inde,
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Clo. I'll rhime you fo, eight years together; dinners, and fuppers, and fleeping hours excepted: it is the right butter-women's rank to market.
Rof. Out, fool!
(14) If a bart doth lack a bind,
This is the very falfe gallop of verfes; why do you intect your felf with them?
Rof. Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.
Rof. I'll graff it with you, and then I fhall graff it with a medler; then it will be the earliest fruit i' th' country for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medler.
Clo. You have faid; but whether wifely or no, let the Foreft judge.
Enter Celia, with a writing.
Rof. Peace, here comes my Sifter reading; ftand afide.
Cel. Why Should this a Defart be,
That fhall civil fayings fhow.
(14) If a Hart doth lack a hind, &c.] The Poet, in arraigning this Species of Verfification, feems not only to fatirize the Mode, that so much prevail'd in his Time, of writing Sonnets and Madrigals; but tacitly to fneer the Levity of Dr. Thomas Ladge, a grave Phyfician in Queen Elizabeth's Reign, who was very fertil of Paftoral Songs; and who wrote a whole Book of Poems in the Praise of his Mistress, whom he calls Rofalind,
That the fretching of a Span
'Twixt the fouls of friend and friend;
Teaching all, that read, to know,
Heaven would in little show.
That one body should be fill'd
Nature prefently diftill'd
To have the Touches dearest priz'd.
Rof. O moft gentle Jupiter! - what tedious homily of love have you wearied your Parishioners withal, and never cry'd, have patience, good people?
Cel. How now? back-friends! fhepherd, go off a little: go with him, firrah.
Clo. Come, fhepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; tho' not with bag and baggage, yet with fcrip and fcrippage. [Exeunt Cor. and Clown.
Cel. Didit thou hear these verses?
Rof. O yes, I heard them all, and more too; for fome of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
Cel. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses. Rof. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themfelves without the verse, and therefore ftood lamely in the verse.
Cel. But didft thou hear without wondring, how thy name should be hang'd and carv'd upon these trees?
Rof. I was feven of the nine days out of wonder, before you came: for, look here, what I found on a palm-tree; I was never fo be-rhimed fince Pythagoras's time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly re
Cel. Tro you, who hath done this?
Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck: Change you colour? Rof. I pr'ythee, who?
Cel. O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and fo encounter.
Rof. Nay, but who is it?
Rof. Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and moft wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping
Rof. (15) Odd's, my complexion! doft thou think, though I am caparifon'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my difpofition? (16) One inch of delay more is a South-fea off discovery. I pr'ythee, tell me, who is it; quickly, and speak apace; I would thou could'ft ftammer, that thou might'ft pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle; either too much at once, or
(15) Good my Complexion, doft thou think &c. ] This is a Mode of Expreffion, that I could not reconcile to Common Senfe; I have therefore ventur'd by a flight Change to read, Odd's, my Complexion! So, in another Scene of this Comedy, Rofalind again fays;
Odd's, my little Life!
-'Odd's, my Will!
Her Love is not the Hare that I do hunt.
(16) One Inch of Delay more is a South-fea of Discovery;] A South-fea of Discovery: This is ftark Nonsense; We must read off Difcovery. i. e. from Discovery. "If you delay me one Inch of Time longer, I "fhall think this Secret as far from Discovery as the South-fea is."