away upon curs, throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay, It was your pleasure, and your own remorse; Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up; when I was too young that time to value her, the one should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad without any.

Cel. But is all this for your father?

Ros. No, some of it for my child's father: O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. Ros. I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

Cel. Hem them away.

Ros. I would try; it I could cry hem, and have him.

Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. Ros. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.

But now I know her: if she be a traitor,
Why so am I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Sull we went coupled, and inseparable.

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her
smoothness,

Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more
virtuous,

When she is gone: then open not thy lips;
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.
Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my
liege;

I

Cel. O, a good wish upon you! you will try in
time, in despite of a fall.-But, turning these jests
out of service, let us talk in good earnest: Is it pos-
sible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so
strong a liking with old sir Rowland's youngest son? If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour,
Ros. The duke my father lov'd his father dearly. And in the greatness of my word, you die.
Cel. Doth it therefore ensue, that you should
love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should
hate him, for my father hated his father dearly;
yet I hate not Orlando.

cannot live out of her company.
Duke F. You are a fool:-You, niece, provide
yourself;

Ros. No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.

1

Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well? Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do :-Look, here comes the duke. Cel. With his eyes full of anger.

Enter Duke Frederick, with lords. Duke F. Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste,

And get you from our court.

Ros.

Me, uncle?
You, cousin;

Duke F.
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.

Ros.

I do beseech your grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,
(As I do trust I am not,) then, dear uncle,
Never, so much as in a thought unborn,
Did I offend your highness.

Duke F.

Thus do all traitors;
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself:-
Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.
Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor;
Tell me, whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter, there's
enough.

Ros. So was I, when your highness took his
dukedom;

So was I, when your highness banish'd him;
Treason is not inherited, my lord;

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor:
Then, good my licge, mistake me not so much,
To think my poverty is treacherous.

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

[Exeunt Duke Frederick and lords.
Cel. O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am.
Ros. I have more cause.
Cel.
Thou hast not, cousin;
Pr'ythee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke
Hath banish'd me his daughter?
Ros.
That he hath not.
Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me, how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us;
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?

Cel.
To seek my uncle.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber3 smirch my face;
The like do you; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.

Ros.
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,)
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;"
As many other mannish cowards have,
That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art s
man?

Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own
page,

And therefore look you call me, Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state;

Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake, No longer Celia, but Aliena. Else had she with her father rang'd along.

(1) Inveterately. (2) Compassion (3) A dusky, yellow-coloured earth.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court?

SCENE I.-The forest of Arden. Enter Duke] senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of Foresters.

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in
exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,-
This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Ami. I would not change it: Happy is your
grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,—
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads'
Have their round haunches gor'd.
1 Lord.

Indeed, my lord,|
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens, and myself,
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke S.
But what said Jaques
Did he not moralize this spectacle?
1 Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping in the needless stream;
Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much: Then, being alone,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;

(1) Barbed arrows, (2) Encounter. (3) Scurvy.
Sink into dejection,
(5) Memorial,

'Tis right, quoth he; this misery doth part
The flux of company: Anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him; Ay, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion: Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life; swearing, that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up,
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
Duke S. And did you leave him in this contem
plation?

2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com-
menting
Upon the sobbing deer.
Duke S.

Show me the place;

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.

2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. [Exeunt. SCENE II.A room in the palace. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and attendants.

Duke F. Can it be possible, that no man saw
them?

It cannot be: some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.

1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
2 Lord. My lord, the roynish' clown, at whom
so oft

Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses, that she secretly o'erheard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler,
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.
Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant
hither;

If he be absent, bring his brother to me,
I'll make him find him: do this suddenly:
And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.-Before Oliver's house. Enter Or-
lando and Adam, meeting.

Orl. Who's there?
Adam. What! my young master?-0, my gen-
tle master,

O, my sweet master, O you memory'

of old sir Rowland! why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant
Why would you be so fonds to overcome
The bony priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before y
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
?Their graces serve them but as enemics?
No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it?

Orl. Why, what's the matter?
Adam.
O unhappy youth
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:

(6) Inconsiderate,

Iman's apparel, and to cry like a woman: but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: there. fore, courage, good Aliena.

Cel. I pray you, bear with me; I cannot go no further.

Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with you, than bear you: yet I should bear no cross,' if I did bear you; for, I think, you have no money in your purse.

Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.

Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone:-Look you who comes here; a young man, and an old, in solemn talk.

I have by hard adventure found mine own.

Touch. And I mine: I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming anight to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batlet,' and the cow's dugs that her pretty chop'd hands had milk'd: and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, Wear these for my sake. We, that are true lovers, run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Ros. Thou speak'st wiser, than thou art 'ware of. Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit, till I break my shins against it.

Ros. Jove! Jove! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.

Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale

(5) The instrument with which washers best Iclothes,

Fair sir, I pity her,

And wish for her sake, more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her:

But I am shepherd to another inan,
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze;
My master is of churlish disposition,

And little recks' to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality:

Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on: but what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and
pasture?

Cor. That young swain that you saw here but
erewhile,

That little cares for buying any thing.

Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I like this place,

And willingly could waste my time in it.

Cor. Assuredly, the thing is to be sold:
Go with me; if you like, upon report,
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.
SCENE V.—The same. Enter Amiens, Jaques,

and others.

SONG.

Ami. Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

[Exe.

Jaq. More, more, I pr'ythee, more.
Ami. It will make you melancholy, monsieur
Jaques.

But winter and rough weather.

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made yesterday in despite of my invention. Ami. And I'll sing it.

Jaq. Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass,
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdàme;
Here shall he see,
Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to Ami.

Ami. What's that ducdame ?

Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

Ami. And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is SCENE VI.-The same. prepar❜d. [Exeunt severally. Enter Orlando and

Adam.

Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.

Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little: If this uncouth forest yield any thing savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake, be comfortable; hold death a while at the arm's end: I will here be with to eat, I'll give thee leave to die: but if thou diest thee presently; and if I bring thee not something Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. I can Well said! thou look'st cheerly; and I'll be with before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. suck melancholy out of a song, as a weazel sucks thee quickly.-Yet thou liest in the bleak air: eggs: More, I pr'ythee, more. Ami. My voice is ragged; I know, I cannot shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live any Come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou please you. Jaq. I do not desire you to please me, I do desire thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam! [Exe. you to sing: Come, more; another stanza; Call SCENE VII.-The same. A table set out. Enter you them stanzas?

Ami. What you will, monsieur Jaques. Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing: Will you sing?

Duke senior, Amiens, Lords, and others. Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can no where find him like a man.

Ami. More at your request, than to please myself. 1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll Here was he merry, hearing of a song. thank you: but that they call compliment, is like We shall have shortly discord in the spheres:Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a Go, seek him; tell him, I would speak with him. penny, and he records me the beggarly thanks.

Enter Jaques.

1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach,

(3) Disputatious. ... (4) Made up of discords,

Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred,'
And know some nurture: But forbear, I say;
He dies, that touches any of this fruit,

a Till I and my affairs are answered.

And says, if ladies be but young, and fair,
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,—|
Which is as dry as the remainder bisket
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents

And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wip'd our eyes

Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd: