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Clo. I'll rhyme you fo eight years together; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is the right butterwomen's rate to market.

Rof, Out, fool!
Clo. For a taste :

If a hart doth lack a bind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
Šo, be sure, will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lin’d,
So muft slender Rosalind.
They that reap muft meaf and bind;
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut bath fourest rind;
Such a nut is Rofalind.
He that sweetest rose will find,

Must find love's prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect yourself with them?

Rof. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.
Clo. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

Rof. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall 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 said; but whether wisely, or no, let the forest judge.

S CE N E V.

Enter Celia with a writing.
Rof. Peace! here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
Cel. Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled. No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show.

Some,

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Some, how brief the life of man

Runs bis 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 the faireft boughs,

Or at every sentence end,
Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know
This quintessence of every Sprite,
Heaven

would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg’d,

That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg’d:

Nature presently distill
Helen's cheeks, but not ber heart;

Cleopatra's majesty;
Atalanta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts

By beav'nly synod was devis'd,
Of many faces, eyes and hearts,

To have the touches deareft priz'd.
Heav'n would that he these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her Jave.
Res. O most 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 ! shepherd, go off a little : go
with him, firrah.

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

[Ex. Cor. and Clown.

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S CE N E VI. Cel. Didft thou hear these verses ?

Rof. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some 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 themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

Cel. But didst thou hear without wond'ring, how thy name should be hang'd and carv'd upon these trees?

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

Cel. Trow you who hath done this ?
Rof. Is it a man?
Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck: change
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 so encounter. Rof. Nay, but who is it? Cel. Is it possible? Ros. Nay, I pr’ythee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is. Cel

. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all hooping

Ros. Odd's, my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and a hose in my disposition? one inch of delay more is a south-sea off discovery. I pr’ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace; I would thou could'it stammer, that thou might'st 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 pry’thee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings. Cel. So you may put a man in your belly.

Rof:

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Ros. 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 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 tripp'd up the wrestler's heels,
and your heart, both in an instant.

Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak, sad brow, and
true maid.

Cel. I'faith, coz, 'tis he.
Rof. Orlando?
Cel. Orlando.
Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?
what did he, when thou saw'st him ? what said he? how look'd
he? wherein went he? what makes him 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 Garagantua's mouth first; 'tis a
word too great for any mouth of this age's fize: to say ay, and
no, to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

Rof. 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 atoms as to resolve the propositions
of a lover : but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with
good observance. I found him under an oak-tree like a dropp’d

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acorn.

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

Cel. Give me audience, good madam.
Rof. Proceed.
Cel. There lay he, stretch'd along, like a wounded knight.
Rof. Though'it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes
Cel

. Cry, holla, to thy tongue, I pr’ythee; it curvets unseasonably.
He was furnish'd like a hunter.

Dd

Rof.

the ground.

Vol. II.

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Rof: O ominous ! he comes to kill my heart.

Cel. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring't me out of tune.

Ref. Do you not know I am a woman? what I think I must speak : sweet, say on.

SCENE VII.

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

you
for

your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself 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 desire we may be better ftrangers.

Jaq. ! pray you, mar no more trees with writing lovefongs in their barks.

Orla. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them illfavouredly.

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

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

Jaq. What stature is she 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 so: but I answer you right in the style of the 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.

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

Jaq.

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