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Ros. There were none principal : they were all like one another, as half-pence are ; every one fault seeming monstrous, till his fellow fault came to match it.
Orl. I pr’ythee, recount some of them.
Ros. No; I will not cast away my physic, but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, 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 Rosalind : if I could meet that fancy-monger I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.
Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your remedy.
Ros. 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.
Orl. What were his marks ?
Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not ; a blue eye, and sunken, 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, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue. -Then, your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements; as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.
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.
1 Exact; derived from a kind of needlework. Vol. III.-5
Orl. Did you ever cure any so ?
Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine 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 loathe 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 loving 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 clean 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'll show it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
Orl. With all my heart, good youth.
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind.-Come, sister, will you go?
[Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter TouchsTONE and AUDREY ; JAQUES behind,
observing them. Touch. 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. 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.
Jaq. [Aside.] O knowledge ill-inhabited ! worse than Jove in a thatch'd house !2
Touch. 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 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, it may be said, as lovers they do feign.
Aud. 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 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.
Jaq. [Aside.] A material fool.
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. Jaq. [Aside.] I would fain see this meeting. Aud. Well, the gods give us joy.
Touch. Amen. A man might, 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,
1 Alluding to Baucis and Philemon, in Ovid. · 2 Homely.
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: 't is none of his own getting. Are horns given to poor men alone ?'—No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed ? No: as a wall’d town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want.
Enter Sir OLIVER MAR-TEXT. Here comes sir Oliver.-Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met: will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel ?
Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?
Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.
Jaq. [coming forward.] Proceed, proceed: I'll give her.
Touch. Good even, good Mr. What-ye-call 't: how do you, sir ? You are very well met: God'ild you' for your last company. I am very glad to see you :-even a toy in hand here, sir.—Nay; pray, be cover'd.
Jaq. Will you be married, motley ?
Touch. As the ox hath his bow,* sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.
Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is : this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then, one of you will prove a shrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.
Touch. I am not in the mind, but I were better to be married of him than of another ; for he is not like to marry me well, and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.
Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Touch. Come, sweet Audrey :
1 in f. e.: Horns ? Even so :-Poor men alone ? ? Lean, poor deor. • Yield you. Yoke, shaped like a bow.
, good master Oliver! Not
O sweet Oliver ! O brave Oliver !
But wend* away, begone, I say;.
[Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY. Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter : ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit. SCENE IV.—The Same. Before a Cottage.
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA. Ros. Never talk to me: I will weep.
Cel. 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. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Cel. Something browner than Judas s. Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.
Ros. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.
Cel. An excellent colour : your chestnut was ever the only colour.
Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana : a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.
Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not ?
Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Cel. Yes: I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.
Ros. Not true in love ?
Cel. Was 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 on the duke your father. Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much quesi wind : in f. e. 2 with : in f. e. 9 Empty.