Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me. the poor dappled fools,
Being native ourgliers of this desert city,
Should, ill their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.

1 Lord. Indeed, my lord. The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;

And, in that kind, sh ears you do more usurp
Than dotii your brother that hath banish'd you.
To-day my lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag.
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt.
Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool.
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook.
Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S. But what said Jaques T

Did lie not moralize this spectacle?

T Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream; "Poor dearquoth lie, "thou mak'st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum o/ more To that which had too much;" then, being there Left and abandoned of his velvet friends; [alone, *'' Tis right," quoth he; "thus misery doth part TheJlux of company ,*" anon, a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, And never stays to greet him; "Ay," quoth Jaques, "Sweep on, you /at and greasy citizens; '7'is just the fashion: -wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt tliere T" Thus most invectivcly he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court. Yea, and of this our life: swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, To fright the animals, and to kill them up. In their assign'd and native dwelling-place. ftion¥

Duke S. And did you leave him in this contenipla

2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S. Show me the place:

I love to cope him in these sullen fits.
For then he's full of matter.

a Lord. I'll bringyoutohim straight. [Exeunt.

SCENE 11.—A Room in the Palace. F.nter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw them f
It cannot be : some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.

i Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber.
Sa w her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.

c Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the princess'gentlewoman.
Confesses that she secreth' o'erheard
Your daughter ami her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler.
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.

Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant
If he be absent, bring his brother to me; | hither:
I'll make him find him: do this suddenly;
And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.—Oliver's House.
Fnfer (>rlando and Adam, meeting.
Or/. Who's there?

Adam. What, my young master?—O mv gentle O my sweet master I O you memory [master I

Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? Why do people Inve you? And wherefore ;ire yon irentie, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome

The bony priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master.
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O. what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it I
Orl. Why, what's the matter?

Adam. O unhappy youth.

Come not within these doors; within this root
The enemy of all your graces lives.
Your brother—(no; no brother; yet the son—
Yet not the son—I will not call him son—
Of him I was about to call his father,)—
Hath heard your praises; and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off:
I overheard him, and his practices.
This is no place; this house is but a butchery:
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me
go?

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. Orl. What J wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

Adam. But do not so. 1 have five hundred crowns.
The thrifty hire'I sav'd under your father.
Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame.
And unregarded age in corners thrown:
Take that; and He that doth the ravens feed.
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow.
Be comfort to my age I Here is the gold;
All this I give you. Let me be your servant:
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter.
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

Orl. O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world.
When service sweat for duty, not for need 1
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.
Where none will sweat but for promotion;
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannnot so much as a blossom yield.
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry:
But come thy ways; we "II go along together;
And ere wc nave thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.

Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee.
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.—
From seventeen years, till now almost fourscore,
Here lived I.- but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better.
Than to die well, and not ray master's debtor.

{Exeunt.

SCENE IV.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Rosalind dressed like a boy, Celia like a shepherdess, and Touchstone.

Ros. O Jupiter I how weary are my spirits! Touch. ! care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman: but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: therefore, courage, good AHena.

Cel. I pray you, bear with me; I can go no farther. | Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with >ou,

I come, thon art a mocker of my labour. Well said I thou lookest cheerly; and 111 be with thee quickly.—Yet thou best in the bleak air: come, i ■will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shall not dk (or lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in th f desert. Cheerly, good Adam. \Exeunt.

SCENE VII.—The Forest.

A Table set out. Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Lordd and others.

Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can nowhere find him like a man.

x Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence: Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical. We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go, seek him : tell him I would speak with him.

1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach. Enter Jaques.

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur I what a life is this.

That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily I

yaq. A fool, a fool!—I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool;—a miserable world !—
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And ratl'd on lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms,—and yet a motley fool.
"Good-morrow, fool," quoth I. "No, sir" quoth he,
"Call ttte not fool, till heaven hath sent mefortune."
And then he drew a dial from his poke.
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye.
Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock ,-
Thus may we see," quoth he, "how the world mags:
*Tis but an hour ago since it mas nine;
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour, -we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley foo] thus moral on the time.
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission.
An hour by his dial.—O noble fool I
A worthy fool!—Motley's the only wear.

Duke S. What fool is this?

yaq. O worthy fool!—One that hath beenacourtier And says, if ladies be but young and fair, They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,— Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm'd With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms.—O that I were a fooll I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke V. Thou Shalt have one.

yaq. It is my only suit;

Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion tnat grows rank in them.
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh. And why. sir, must they so'
The why is plain as way to parish church;
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit.
Doth very foolishly, although he smart.
Not to seem senseless of the bob : if not.
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squans "ring glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley ; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,
If ther will patiently receive my medicine. [do

Duke S. Fie on thee I I can tell what thou woulds'

yaq. What, for a counter, would I do, but good!

Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sir
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all th" embossed sores, and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

yaq. Why, who cries out on pride.
That can therein tax any private party T
Doth it not flow as hugefy as the sea.
Till that the weary very means do ebb?
What woman, in the. city do 1 name.

When that I say the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say thai I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function.
That says his bravery is not on my cost.
(Thinking that I meal him), but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech J [wherein
There then; how then? what then? Let me see
My tongue hath wrong'd him : if it do him right.
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free.
Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man.—But who conies here?
Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.

Or/. Forbear, and eat no more.

yaq. Why, I have eat none yet

Orl. Not shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.

y<*q Of what kind should this cock come of?

Duke S. Art thou thusbolden'd. man, by thydistress, Or else a rude despiser of good manners. That in civility thou seeni'st so empty?

Orl. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show Of smooth civility: yet I am inland bred. And know some nurture. But forbear, I say: He dies, that touches any of this fruit. Till I and my affairs are answered.

yaq. An you will not be answered with reason, I must die. [shall force

Duke S. What would you have? Your gentleness More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl. 1 almost die for food ; and let me have it.

Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you: t thought that all things had been savage here; And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are. That in this desert inaccessible. Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If ever you have look'd on better days; If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church | If ever sat at any good man's feast; If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear, . And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied; Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.

Duke S. True is it that we have seen better dayst
And have with holy bell l>een knoll'd to church;
And sat at good men's feasts, and wip*d our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness.
And take upon command what help we have.
That to your wanting may be minister'd.

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while.
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn.
And give it food. There is an old poor man.
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love r till he be first suffic'd,—
Oppress'd with two weak evfls, age and hunger,—
I will not touch a bit.

Duke S. Go find him out.

And we win nothing waste til! you return.

Orl. I thank ye; and be triess'd for your good comfort I I Exit.

Duke S. Thou seest. we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woful pageants, than the scene Wherein we play in.

yaq. AH the world's a stage.

A n d all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
Vnd one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At 6rst the infant.
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms
Vnd then the whining school-boy, with his satchel.
And shining morning face, creeping like snai!
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a wofu! ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a soldier.
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard.
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel.
Seeking the bubble reputation

Fven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice.
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd
With eyes severe, and heard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modem instances;

And so he plays his part The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper* d pantaloon.

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, wellsavd, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice.

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all.

That ends this strange eventful history.

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,—

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.

Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable burAnd let him feed, [den,

Orl. I thank you most for him.

Adam. So had you need:—
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Duke S. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you
As yet, to question you About your fortunes.—
Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

SONG.

Ami. Blow, blo7t\ thou winter wind,
Ihon nrt not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so teen.
Because thou art not seen.
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship isfeigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh, ho .' the hotly!

This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky.
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:
Though thou t!ic waters warp.
Thy sting is not so sharp.
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh, ho I sing, &c.

Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's
As you have whisper'd faithfully you were, [son,—
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd and living in your face-
Be truly welcome hither: Fam the duke.
That lov'd your father: the residue of your fortune,
Go to iny cave and tell me.—Good old man.
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.—
Support him by the arm.—Give me your hand,

diet me all your fortunes understand. [Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—A Room in the Palace. Enter Duke Frederic!:, Oliver, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F. Not seen him since? Sir, sir, that cannot But were I not the better part made mercy, [be: I should not seek an absent argument Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: Find out thyurother, wheresoe'er he is; Seek him with candle; bring him, dead or living. Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more To seek a living in our territory. Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine. Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands, Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth Of what we think against thee.

Oli. 0 that your highness knew my heart in this 1 I never lov'd my brother in my life.

Duke F. More villain thou.—Well, push him out of And let my officers of such a nature fdoors;

Make an extent upon his house and lands:
Do this expediently, and turn him going. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.— The Forest.
Enter Orlando, with a paper.

Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;

And thou, thrice crowned queen of night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above.

Thy huntress" name, that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind! these wees shall be my books.

And in their barks my thoughts I'll character; That every eye, which in this forest looks.

Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. \Exit.

Enter Corin and Touchstone. Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life, master

Touchstone?

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well ; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits iny humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

Cor. No more but that I know, the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep , and ttiat 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.

Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd? Cor. No, truly.

Touch. Then thou art damned.
Cor. Nay. I hope,—

Touch. Truly, thou art damned; like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

Lor. For not being at court? Your reason. Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou 11 ver sawest good manners ; if thou never sawest ^ood manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Cor. Not a whit. Touchstone: those that arc good manners at the court, are as ridiculous in the country, is the behaviour of the country, is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, hut you kiss your hands: that courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.

Touch. Instance, briefly; come, instance. Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you know, are greasy.

Touch. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come. Cor. Besides, our hands are hard. Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder instance; come.

Cor. And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.

Touch. Most shallow man I Thou worms-meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed 1— Learn of the wise, and perpend; civet is of a baser birth than tar,—the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. Cor. You have too courtly a wit for ine: IH rest. Touch. Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man I God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, 'et that 1 wear; owe 110 man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm; ami the greatest of my pride is, to see iny ewes graze, and mydaiiihs suck.

Touch That is another simple sin in you; to bring the ewes and the rains together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to :t bell-wether; and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth, to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldy ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape.

Cor. Here comes young master Ganymede, mynew mistress's brother.

Enter Rosalind, reading a paper.
Ros. \ Reads.]

"brom the east to western Ind,
No jeivel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind.
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures, fairest lin'd.
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind.
But the fair of Rosalind."

Touch. Ill rhyme you so, eight years together, din net s, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted : it is the right butter-woman's rate to market. Ros. Out, tool I Touch. For a taste:—

If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalind. If the cat will after kind, £0, be sure, will Rosalind. Winter-garments must be lin'd. So must slender Rosalind. They that reap must sluaf and bind; Then to cart with Rosalind. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind. Such a nut £f Rosalind. He that sweetest rose willfind, Af ust Jlnd love's prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you infect yourself with them* Ros. Peace, you dull fool 1 I found them on a tree. Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. Ros. I'll exalt* it with you, and then I shall graffit with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit i* the country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's t lie right virtue of the medlar.

Touch. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.

/inter Celia, reading a paper.
Ros. Peace 1
Here conies my sister, reading : stand aside.
Cel. [Reads.]

"IVhy should this desert silent be )

For it is unpeopled t No;
Tongues Tit hang on every tree.

That shall civil sayings show;
Some, ho7v brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage.
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
Some, of violated vows

'Twixt the souls of friend and friend:
But upon t lie fairest boughs.

Or at every sentence' end.
Will 1 Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in /title show. Therefore heaven Nature cltartfd , That one body should befilt'd

With all graces wide enlarg'd;

Nature presently distiird
Helen 's cheek, but not her heartj

Cleopatra's majesty;
Ataianta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis'd;
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearestpriz'd. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die iter stave." Ros. 0 most gentle Jupiter I—what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal and never cried, "Have patience, good people!"

Cel. How now I back, friends :—shepherd, go off little :—go with him, sirrah.

Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

[ Exeunt CorM and Touchstone.

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses

Ros. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for Some of them had in them more feet than the versewould bear. (verses

Cel. That's no matter: the feet might bear the

Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

Cel. Hut didst thou hear without wondering, how thy name should l>e hanged and carved upon these trees?

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder, before you came: for look here what I found on a palm-tree :—I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

Cel. Trow you who hath done this!

Ros. Is it a i 11.111I

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about hii neck. Change you colour? Ros. I pr'ythee, who?

Cel. O lord, lord 1 it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.

Ros. Nay, but who is it?

Cel. Is it possible r f vehemence, tell ine who it is,

Ros. Nay, 1 pr'ythee now, with most petitionary

Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful 1 and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping.

Ros. Good ray complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay mere is a South-sea of discovery; I pr'ythee, tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. 1 would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle,—either too much at once, or 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.

Ros. Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worths

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. [beard!

Ros. Why, God will send 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 tripped up the wrestler's heels and your heart, both, in an instant.

Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak sad

Cel. V faith, coz, 'tis he. [brow, and true maid.

Ros. Orlando?

Cel. Orlando.

Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose ?—What did he, when thou sawest him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.

Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To say ny and no to these particulars, is more than to answer in a catechism.

Ros. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

Cel. It is as easy to count atomies, as to resolve the propositions of a lover :—but take a taste of my muling him, and relish it with good observance. I found mm under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit.

Cel. Give me audience, good madam.

Ros. Proceed. [knight

Cel. There lay he, stretch"d along like a wounded

Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.

Cel. Cry holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnishVI like a hunter.

Ros. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

Cel. I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest me out of tune.

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.

Cel. You bring me out. [iffufer Orlando rzwrfjaques.] Soft ! conies he not here?

Ros. 'Tis he: slink by, and note hiin.

[Rosalind and Celia retire.

yaq. I thank you for your company; but. good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion' sake, I thank you too for your society. [can,

Jaq. God be wi' you, let s meet as little as we

Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers.

Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.

Orl. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them ilf-favouredly.

Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name?

Orl. Yes, just.

Jaq. I do not like her name.

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you whett

she was christened.

/. What stature is she of? . Just as high as my heart