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none at all. I pr'ythee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.

Cel. So you may put a man in your belly.

Rof. Is he of God's making? what manner of man? is his head worth a hat? or his chin worth a beard?

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Rof. Why, God will fend more, if the man will be thankful; let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an instant.

Rof. Nay, but the devil take mocking; fpeak, fad brow, and true maid.

Cel. I'faith, coz, 'tis he.
Rof. Orlando!

Cel. Orlando.

Rof. Alas the day, what fhall I do with my doubler and hofe? what did he, when thou faw'ft him? what faid he? how look'd he? wherein went he? what makes he here? did he ask for me? where remains he? how parted he with thee? and when fhalt thou fee him again? answer me in one word,

Cel. You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth firft; 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's fize: to fay, ay, and no, to thefe particulars, is more than to answer in a catechism,

Rof. But doth he know that I am in this Foreft, and in man's apparel? looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

Cel. It is as eafie to count atoms, as to refolve the propofitions of a lover; but take a tafte of my finding him, and relish it with good obfervance, I found him under a tree like a dropp'd acorn.

Rof. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth fuch fruit.

Cel. Give me audience, good Madam.

Rof. Proceed.

Cel. There lay he ftretch'd along like a wounded Knight.

Rof. Tho' it be pity to fee fuch a fight, it well becomes the ground.




Cel. Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets unfeasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter. Rof. O ominous, he comes to kill my heart. Cel. I would fing my fong without a burthen; thou bring'ft me out of tune.

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Rof. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I muft fpeak: Sweet, fay on.

Enter Orlando and Jaques.

Cel. You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
Rof. 'Tis he, flink by, and note him.

[Cel. and Rof. retire. Faq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been my felf alone.

Orla. And fo had I; but yet for fashion fake, I thank you too for your fociety.

Jaq. God b'w' you, let's meet as little as we can.
Orla. I do defire we may be better ftrangers.
Faq. I pray you, marr no more trees with writing
love-fongs in their barks.

Orla. (17) I pray you, marr no more of my Verfes with reading them ill-favouredly.

Jaq. Rofalind, is your love's name?

Orla. Yes, juft.

Jaq. I do not like her name.

Orla. There was no thought of pleafing you, when the was chriften'd.

Jaq. What ftature is fhe of?

Orla. Juft as high as my heart.

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers; have you not been acquainted with goldfmiths wives, and conn'd them out of rings?

Orla. Not fo: (18) but I anfwer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.

Faq. (17) I pray You, marr no more of my Verfes with reading them ill-favouredly.] The Poet feems to have had in his Eye this Diftich of Martial; Lib. I. Epigr. 39.

Quem recitas, meus eft, o Fidentine, libellus;
Sed malè dum recitas, incipit effe tuus.

(18) But I anfwer you right painted Cloth.] This alludes to the Fashion, in old Tapestry Hangings, of Motto's and moral Sentences from


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Jaq. You have a nimble wit; I think, it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you fit down with me, and we two will rail against our mistrefs, the world, and all our misery.

Orla. I will chide no breather in the world but my felf, against whom I know most faults.

Jaq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love. Orta. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue; I am weary of you.

Jaq. By my troth, I was feeking for a fool, when I found you.

Orla. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you fhall fee him.

Jaq. There I fhall fee mine own figure.

Orla. Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher. Jaq. I'll stay no longer with you; farewel, good Signior love! [Exit. Orla. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monfieur melancholy! [Cel. and Rof, come forward. Rof. I will fpeak to him like a fawcy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him; do you hear, forefter?

Orla. Very well, what would you?
Rof. I pray you, what is't a clock?

Orla. You fhould ask me, what time o' day; there's no clock in the Forest.

Rof. Then there is no true lover in the Foreft; elle, fighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of time, as well as a clock.

Orla. And why not the fwift foot of time? had not that been as proper?

Rof. By no means, Sir: time travels in divers paces, with divers perfons; I'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he ftands ftill withal?

Orla. I pr'ythee, whom doth he trot withal?

the Mouths of the Figures work'd or painted in them. The Poet again
hints at this Custom in his Poem, call'd, Tarquin and Lucrece ;
Who fears a Sentence, or an Old Man's Saw,
Shall by a painted Cloth be kept in Awe.



Rof. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is folemniz'd: if the interim be but a fennight, time's pace is so hard that it feems the length of feven years.

Orla. Who ambles time withal?

Rof. With a priest that lacks Latine, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one fleeps eafily, because he cannot ftudy; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burthen of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These time ambles withal..


Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal?

Rof. With a thief to the gallows for though he go as foftly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too foon there.

Orla. Whom stays it still withal?

Rof. With lawyers in the vacation; for they fleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.

Orla. Where dwell you, pretty youth?

Rof. With this fhepherdefs, my fifter; here in the skirts of the foreft, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Orla. Are you native of this place?

Rof. As the cony, that you fee dwell where the is


Orla. Your accent is fomething finer, than you could purchase in fo removed a dwelling.

Rof. I have been told fo of many; but, indeed, an old religious Uncle of mine taught me to fpeak, who was in his youth an inland man, one that knew courtfhip too well; for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touch'd with fo many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole fex withal.

Orla. Can you remember any of the principal evils, that he laid to the charge of women?

Rof. There were none principal, they were all like one another, as half pence are; every one fault feeming monstrous, 'till his fellow fault came to match it.


Orla. I pr'ythee, recount fome of them.

Rof. No; I will not caft away my phyfick, but on thofe that are fick. There is a man haunts the Foreft, that abuses our young Plants with carving Rofalind on their barks; hangs Odes upon hawthorns, and Elegies on brambles; all, forfooth, deifying the name of Rofalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him fome good counfel, for he feems to have the Quotidian of love upon him.

Orla. I am he, that is fo love-fhak'd; I pray you, tell me your remedy.

Rof. There is none of my Uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am fure, you are not prisoner.

Orla. What were his marks?

Rof. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and funken, which you have not; an unquestionable fpirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for fimply your Having in beard is a younger Brother's revenue; then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your fleeve unbutton'd, your fhoo untied, and every thing about you demonftrating a careless defolation; but you are no fuch man, you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving your felf, than feeming the lover of any other.

Orla. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

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Rof. Me believe it? you may as foon make her, that you love, believe it; which, I warrant, fhe is apter to do, than to confefs fhe does'; that is one of the points, in the which women ftill give the lie to their confciences. But, in good footh, are you he that hangs the Verses on the trees, wherein Rofalind is fo admired?

Orla. I fwear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rofalind, I am That he, that unfortunate he.

Rof. But are you so much in love, as your rhimes Speak?

Orla. Neither rhime nor reafon can express how much.

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