Rof. Nay, an you be fo tardy, come no more in my fight I had as lief be woo'd of a snail.

Orla. Of a fnail?

Rof. Ay, of a fnail; for tho' he comes flowly, he carries his houfe on his head: a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman; befides, he brings his deftiny with him.

Orla. What's that?

Rof. Why, horns; which fuch as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for; but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the flander of his wife.

Orla. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rofalind is virtuous.

Rof. And I am your Rofalind.

Cel. It pleafes him to call you fo; but he hath a Rỏfalind of a better leer than you.

Rof. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holyday humour, and like enough to confent: what would you fay to me now, an I were your very, very Rofalind?

Orla. I would kifs, before I spoke.

Rof. Nay, you were better fpeak firft, and when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occafion to kifs. Very good orators, when they are out, they will fpit; and for lovers lacking, God warn us, matter, the cleanlieft fhift is to kifs.

Orla. How if the kifs be denied?

Rof. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins

new matter.

Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

Rof. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress ; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit. Orla. What, of my fuit?

Rof. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your fuit. Am not I your Rofalind?

Orla. I take fome joy to fay, you are; because I would be talking of her.

Rof. Well, in her perfon, I fay, I will not have you. Orla. Then in mine own perfon I die.

0 5

Rof. No, faith, die by attorney; the poor world is almost fix thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own perfon, videlicet, in a love-caufe: Troilus had his brains dafh'd out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, tho' Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midfummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash in the Hellefpont, and, being taken with the cramp, drown'd; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found Hero of Seftos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, bnt not for love.

it was,

was

Orla. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I proteft, her frown might kill me.

Rof. By this hand, it will not kill a flie; but come ; now I will be your Rofalind in a more coming-on difpofition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it. Orla. Then love me, Rofalind.

Rof. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all.
Orla. And wilt thou have me?

Rof. Ay, and twenty fuch.
Orla. What fay't thou?
Rof. Are you not good?
Orla. I hope fo.

Rof. Why then, can one defire too much of a good thing? come, fifter, you fhall be the priest, and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando: what do you say, Sifter?

Orla. Pray thee, marry us.

Cel. I cannot fay the words.

Rof. You must begin,

Will you, Orlando

Cel. Go to; will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rofalind?

Orla. I will.

Rof Ay, but when ?

Orla. Why now, as faft as fhe can marry us.

Rof. Then you must fay, I take thee Rofalind for wife.

Orla.

Orla. I take thee Rofalind for wife.

Rof. I might ask you for your commiffion, but I do take thee Orlando for my husband: there's a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a woman's thought runs before her actions.

Orla. So do all thoughts; they are wing'd.

Rof. Now tell me, how long would you have her, after you have poffeft her.

Orla. For ever and a day.

Rof. Say a day, without the ever: no, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives; I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pidgeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more newfangled than an ape; more giddy in my defires than a monkey; I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain; and I will do that, when you are difpos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when you are inclin❜d to fleep.

Orla. But will my Rofalind do fo?
Rof. By my life, she will do as I do.
Orla. O, but she is wife.

Rof. Or elfe fhe could not have the wit to do this; the wifer, the waywarder: make the doors faft upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement} fhut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole ; ftop that, it will fly with the fmoak out at the chimney.

Orla. A man that had a wife with fuch a wit, he might fay, Wit, whither wilt?

Rof. Nay, you might keep that check for it, 'till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.. Orla. And what wit could wit have to excufe that?

Rof. Marry, to fay fhe came to feek you there: you. fhall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O that woman, that cannot make her fault her husband's occafion, let her never nurse her child her felf, for fhe will breed it like a fool!

Orla. For these two hours, Rofalind, I will leave thee.

Ref

Rof. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours. Orla. I must attend the Duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again,

Rof. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove, my friends told me as much, and I thought no lefs; that flattering tongue of yours won me; 'tis but one caft away, and fo come death: two o'th' clock is your hour!

Orla. Ay, fweet Rofalind.

Rof. By my troth, and in good earneft, and fo God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promife, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the moft pathetical break-promise, and the moft hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rofalind, that may be chofen out of the grofs band of the unfaithful; therefore beware my cenfure, and keep your promise.

Orla. With no less religion, than if thou wert in. deed my Rofalind; fo adieu.

Rof. Well, time is the old Juftice that examines all fuch offenders, and let time try. Adieu! [ Exit Orla. Cel. You have fimply mifus'd our fex in your loveprate: we must have your doublet and hofe pluck'd over your head, and fhew the world what the bird hath done to her own neft.

Rof. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didft know how many fathom deep I am in love; but it cannot be founded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.

Cel. Or rather, bottomlefs; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

Rof. No, that fame wicked baftard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of fpleen, and born of madness, that blind rafcally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge, how deep I am in love; I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the fight of Orlando; I'll go find a fhadow, and figh 'till he come.

Cel. And I'll fleep.

[Exeunt. Enter

Enter Jaques, Lords, and Forefters.

Jaq. Which is he that kill'd the deer ?

Lord. Sir, it was I.

Jaq. Let's prefent him to the Duke, like a Roman Conqueror; and it would do well to fet the deer's horns upon his head, for a branch of victory; have you no Song, Forefter, for this purpofe?

For. Yes, Sir.

faq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, fo it make noise enough.

Mufick, Song.

What fhall he have, that kill'd the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear;

take Thou no

Scorn (12)

The reft fhall

bear this Bur

then.

Then fing him home:
To wear the horn, the horn, the horn:
It was a creft, ere thou waft born.
Thy father's father wore it,

And thy father bore it,

The horn, the horn, the lufty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to fcorn.

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

[Exeunt

Rof. How fay you now, is it not paft two o'clock ? I wonder much, Orlando is not here.

(12) Then fing him home, the rest shall bear this Burthen.] This is no admirable Inftance of the Sagacity of our preceding Editors, to fay Nothing worfe. One fhould expect, when they were Poets, they would at least have taken care of the Rhymes, and not foifted in what has Nothing to answer it. Now, where is the Rhyme to, the rest shall bear this Burthen? Or, to ask another Queftion, where is the Senfe of it? Does the Poet mean, that He, that kill'd the Deer, fhall be fung home, and the Reft fhall bear the Deer on their Backs? This is laying a Burthen on the Poet, that We must help him to throw off. In fhort, the Mystery of the Whole is, that a Marginal Note is wifely thrust into the Text: the Song being defign'd to be fung by a fingle Voice, and the Stanza's to close with a Burthen to be fung by the whole Company,

Cel.