Aud. I do not know what poetical is; is it honeft in deed and word? is it a true thing?

Clo. No, truly; for the trueft poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they fwear in poetry, may be faid, as lovers, they do feign.

Aud. Do you wish then, that the Gods had made me poetical?

Clo. I do, truly; for thou fwear'ft to me, thou art honeft: now if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didft feign.

Aud. Would you not have me honeft?

Clo. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honefty coupled to beauty, is, to have honey a fawce to fugar.

Jaq. A material fool!

Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the

Gods make me honest!

Clo. Truly, and to caft away honefty upon a foul flut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Aud. I am not a flut, though I thank the Gods I am foul.

Clo. Well, praised be the Gods for thy foulness! fluttifhnefs 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 promis'd to meet me in this place of the foreft, and to couple us.

Jaq. I would fain fee this meeting.

Aud. Well, the Gods give us joy!

Clo. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, ftagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no affembly but horn-beafts. But what tho'? courage. As horns are odious, they are neceffary. It is faid, 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 fo poor men alone? no, no, the nobleft deer hath them as huge as the rafcal: is the fingle man

there

therefore bleffed no. As a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, fo is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a batchelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, 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 difpatch us here under this tree, or fhall we go with you to your Chappel ?

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?
Clo. I will not take her on gift of any man.

Sir Oli. Truly, fhe must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

Jaq. Proceed, proceed! I'll give her.

Clo. Good even, good mafter what ye call: how do you, Sir? you are very well met God'ild you for your last company! I am very glad to fee you; even a toy in hand here, Sir: nay; pray, be covered.

Jaq. Will you be married, Motley?

Clo. As the ox hath his bow, Sir, the horse his curb, and the faulcon his bells, fo man hath his defire; and as pidgeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibling.

Faq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bufh 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.

Clo. 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 excufe for me hereafter to leave my wife.

Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Clo. Come, fweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry: farewell, good Sir Oliver; not O fweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, leave me not behind thee, but wind away, begone, I fay, I will not to wedding with thee.

Sir Oliv. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all fhall flout me out of my Calling.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to a Cottage in the Foreft.

Rof.

N

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

Ever talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to confider, that tears do not become a man. Rof. But have I not cause to weep ?

Cel. As good caufe as one would defire, therefore

weep.

Rof. His very hair is of the diffembling colour.

Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry his kiffes are Judas's own children.

Rof. I'faith, his hair is of a good colour.

Cel. An excellent colour: your chefnut was ever the only colour.

Rof. (8) And his kiffing is as full of fanctity, as the touch of holy Beard.

Cel. (9) He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana

;

a nun

(8) And his kissing is as full of Sanctity, as the Touch of holy Bread.] Tho' this be the Reading of the oldest Copies, I have made no Scruple to fubftitute an Emendation of Mr. Warburton, which mightily adds to the Propriety of the Similie. What can the Poet be fuppos'd to mean by holy Bread? Not the Saeramental, fure; that would have been Prophanation, upon a Subject of fo much Levity. But holy Beard very beautifully alludes to the Kifs of a holy Saint, which the Antients call'd the Kifs of Charity. And for Rofalind to say, that Orlando kiss'd as holily as a Saint, renders the Comparison very just.

(9) He hath bought a pair of chaft Lips of Diana; a Nun of Winter's Sisterhood kiffes not more religionfly ; the very ice of Chaftity is in them.] This Pair of chaft Lips is a Corruption as Old as the fecond Edition in Folio; I have reftor'd with the firft Folio, a Pair of caft Lips, i. e. a Pair left off by Diana Again, what Idea does a Nun of Winter's Sifterhood give us? Tho' I have not ventur'd to disturb the Text, it seems more pro bable to me that the Poet wrote?

VOL. II.

A Nun of Winifred's Sifterhood, &c.

Not

ין

a nun of Winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

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

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Rof. Do you think fo?

Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horseftealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.

Rof. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in. Rof. You have heard him fwear downright, he was. Cel. Was, is not is; befides, the oath of a lover is no ftronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings; he attends here in the Foreft on the Duke your Father.

Rof. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much queftion with him he askt me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; fo he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is fuch a man as Orlando.

Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, fpeaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puifny tilter, that fpurs his horse but one fide, breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor. Miftrefs and mafter, you have oft enquired

Not, indeed, that there was any real religious Order of that Denomination: but the Legend of St. Winifred is this. She was a Chriftian Virgin at Holywell a fmall Town in Flintshire, fo tenacious of her Chastity, that when a tyrannous Governour laid Siege to her, he could not reduce her to Compliance, but was oblig'd to ravish, and afterwards beheaded her in Revenge of her Obftinacy. Vid. Cambden's Britannia by Dr. Gibfon, p. 688. This Tradition forts very well with our Poet's Allufion.

After

After the shepherd that complain'd of love;
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praifing the proud difdainful fhepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly plaid,
Between the pale complexion of true love,
And the red glow of fcorn and proud difdain;
Go hence a little, and I fhall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Rof. O come, let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth thofe in love:
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy Actor in their Play.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to another part of the Forest.

Sil.

Sweet

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

Weet Phebe, do not fcorn me; do not, Phebe;
Say, that you love me not; but fay not fo

In bitterness; the common executioner,

Whofe heart th' accustom'd fight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,

But first begs pardon (10) will you fterner be

Than he that deals, and lives by bloody drops ?

Enter Rofalind, Celia and Corin.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner;

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell'ft me, there is murther in mine eyes; 'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,

That

(10)

eyes, that are the frail'ft and fofteft things,

will you fterner be,

Than He that dies and lives by bloody drops? This is fpoken of the Executioner. He lives indeed, by bloody Drops, if you will: but how does he dye by bloody Drops? The Poet muft certainly have wrote that deals and lives, &c. i. e. that gets his Bread, and makes a Trade of cutting off Mr, Warburton.

Heads.