Orl. 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 sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

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

Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love too; yet I profess curing it by counsel.

He was to ima

Orl. Did you ever cure any so? Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. gine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me: At which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate-changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears-full of smiles; for every passion, something, and for no passion, 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 stream of the world, and to live in a nook, merely monastic: And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clear as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

Orl. I would not be cured, youth.

Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me. Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

Ros. Go with me to it, and I will show it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live: will you go? [CELIA advances. Orl. With all my heart, good youth.

Ros. Nay, nay, you must call me Rosalind: Come, sister, will you go?

[Exeunt, R.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY, R.

Touch. (L.) Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats, Audrey: And how, Audrey? Am I the man yet? doth my simple feature content you?

Aud. (R. C.) Your features? Lord warrant us! what features?

Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child, understand ing, it strikes 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?

Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning and lovers are given to poetry, and, what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers, they do feign.

Aud. And do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?

Touch. I do, truly; for thou swear'st to me thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope that thou didst feign.

Aud. Would you not have me honest ?

Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured: for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

Aud. Well, I am not fair; and, therefore, I pray the gods, make me honest!

Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Aud. I am not a slut, though, I thank the gods, I am foul.

Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! sluttishness 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 promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.

Aud. Well, the gods give us joy!

[Capers clumsily up the Stage.

Touch. Amén. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt: for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! as horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said 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 so :-Poor men alone?—No, no; the noblest deer has them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No; as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor.

Come, sweet Audrey;

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

Exeunt, L.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.-The Forest.

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA, R.

Ros. (L. C.) Never talk to me: I will weep. Cel. (R. C.) Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.

Ros. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.

Ros. You have heard him swear downright he was.

Cel. What is not is: besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings: He attends here, in the forest, upon the duke, your father.

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him; he asked me of what parentage I was; I told him of as good as he so he laughed, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando?

Cel. Oh, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely: but all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides:-Who comes here?

Enter CORIN, L.

Corin. (L.) Mistress and master, you have oft inquired

After the shepherd that complain'd of love;
Whom you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?'

Corin. If you will see a pageant truly play'd
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Ros. (c.) O, come, let us remove;
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love :-
Bring us but to this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt, L.

SCENE II.-Another Part of the Forest.

Enter PHEBE and SYLVIUS, R.

Sylv. (R.) Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me :-do not,
Phoebe :

Say that you love me not; but say not so
In bitterness: the common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon: Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, L. U. E. Phoebe. I would not be thy executioner ;

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eyes:
Now do I frown on thee with all my heart;

And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
Sylv. O, dear Phoebe,

If ever, as that ever may be near,

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds, invisible,

That love's keen arrows make.

Phole. But, till that time,

Come not thou near me: and when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee.

Ros. [Advancing to c.] And why, I pray you?-Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched? What though you have beauty
(As, by my faith, I see no more in you,

Than, without candle, may go dark to bed)
Must you, therefore, be proud and pitiless?

Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature's sale work:-Od's my little life!
I think she means to tangle mine eyes too :--
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
"Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd! wherefore do you follow her?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman: "Tis such fools as you
That make the world full of ill-favoured children:
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

Sell when you can; you are not for all markets;
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;
So, take her to thee, shepherd :-fare you well!
Phoebe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year to-
gether;

I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.