Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell me where it is. Ros. Go with me to it, and I will 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, nay, you must call me Rosalind: Come, sister, will you go? Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY. [Exeunt. 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. 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, may be said, as lovers, they do feign. Aud. And 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, 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. Aud. Well, the gods give us joy! Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here, we have no temple, but the wood, no assembly, but hornbeasts. But what though? Courage! as horns are odious, 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; 'tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so :-Poor men alone?—No, no; the noblest deer has them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor. Come, sweet Audrey; We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE I. Outside of a Cottage, in the Forest. 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. 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. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in. Ros. You have heard him swear downright he was. 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, upon the duke, your father. Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him: He asked me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he: so he laughed, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando? Cel. Oh, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides:-Who comes here? Enter CORIN. Corin. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquired After the shepherd that complain'd of love; Whom you saw sitting by me, on the turf, Praising the proud, disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress. Cel. Well, and what of him? Corin. If you will see a pageant truly play'd, Ros. Q, come, let us remove; The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:- [Exeunt. SCENE II. Another Part of the Forest. Enter PHEBE and SYLVIUS. Sylv. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me:-do not, Say, that Phebe: love me not; but say not so In bitterness: The common executioner, Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, But first begs pardon: Will you sterner be Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN. Phebe. I would not be thy executioner; Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye: And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee. If ever, as that ever may be near, You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, That love's keen arrows make. Phebe. But, till that time, Come not thou near me: and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. Ros. And why, I pray you?-Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What, though you have beauty (As, by my faith, I see no more in you, Than, without candle, may go dark to bed), |