Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Cel. You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
Roj. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him.

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

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

Jaq. God b'w you, let's meet as little as we can.
Orla. I do defire we may be better strangers.
faq. I

pray you, marr no more trees with writing love-fongs in their barks.

Orla. I pray you, marr no more of my Verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

Jaq. Rosalind, is your love's name?
Orla. Yes, juft.
Faq. I do not like her name.

Orla. There was no thought of pleasing you, when she was chriften'd.

Jaq. What ftature is the of?
Orla. Just as high as my heart.

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

Orla. Not fo: (7) but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.

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 mistress, the world, and all our misery.

(7) But I answer you right painted Cloth.] This alludes to the Fashion, in old Tapestry Hangings, of Morro's and moral Sentences from the mouths of the Figures work'd or painted in them. The Poet again hints at this Custom in bis Poemi, callid, Tarquin and Lucrece :

Who fears a Sentence, or an Old Man's Saw,
Shall by a painted Cloth be kept in Awe.


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

Faq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love.

Orla. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue ; I am weary,


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

found you.

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

Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure.
Orla. Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher.

Jeq. 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 speak to him like a fawcy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him : do you hear, forester?

Orla. Very well ; what would you ?
ROS: I pray you, what is’t a clock?

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

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

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

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

Orlo. I pr’ythee, whom doth he trot withal ?

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

Orla. Who ambles time withal ?

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latine, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, be


cause 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 galop withal ?

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

Orla. Whom stays it still withal ?

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

Orla. Where dwell you, pretty youth?

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

Orla. Are you native of this place?

Ros. As the cony, that you lee dwell where the is kindled.

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

Ros. I have been told so of many; but, indeed, an old religious Uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an in-land man, one that knew courtship 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 so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.

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

Ros. There were none principal, they were all like one another, as half pence are ; every one fault seem. ing monstrous, 'till his fellow fault came to match it. Orla. I pr’ythee, recount some of them.

Ros. No; I will not cast away my physick, but on those that are fick. There is a man haunts the Foreit, that abuses our young Plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs Odes upon hawthorns, and Elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rolalind.

If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the Quotidian of love upon



Orla. I am he, that is so love-shak’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 sure, you are not prisoner.

Orla. What were his marks?

Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and lunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, 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 sleeve unbutton'd, your shoo untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation ; but you are no such man, you are rather pointdevice in your accoutrements, as loving your self, than seeming the lover of any other.

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

Ros. Me believe it? you may as soon make her, that you love, believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to confess she does ; that is one of the points, in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good footh, are you he that hangs the Verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

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

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

Orla. Neither rhime nor reason can express how much.

Rof. Love is meerly a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip, as mad men do : and the reason why they are not lo punish'd and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love too: yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Orla. Did you ever cure any so?

Rof. Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress: and I set him every day to wooe me. At which time would I, being but a

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moonilh youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, fhallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every paffion something, and for no paffion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loath him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full fream of the world, and to live in a nook meerly monaftick; and thus I cur'd him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clear as a found sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

Orla. I would not be cur’d, youth.

Rof. I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cotte, and wooe me.

Orie. Now, by the faith of my love, I will ; tell me where it is.

Ros. Go with me to it, and I will shew it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the Forest you live: will you go?

Orla. With all my heart, good youth. Rof. Nay, nay, you must call me Rosalind : come, fifter, will you go?

[Exeunt. 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.

jag. O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatch'd house!

Clo. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good Wit seconded with the forward child, Understanding; it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room; truly, I would the Gods had made thce poetical.


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