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wise and perpend; civet is of a baser birth than tarr ; the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, fhepherd.
Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me ;. I'll rest.
Clo. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man; God make incision in thee, thou art raw.
Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer, I earn that I eat; get that I wear ; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my harm ;, and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes graze, and my lambs suck.
Clo. That is another simple fin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together; and to offer to get your. living by the copulation of cattle ; to be a bawd 'to a bell-weather; and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou be'ft not damn'd for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou should'ft 'scape.
Cor. Here comes young Mr. Ganimed, my new miltress's brother.
Enter Rosalind, with a paper.
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Let no faca be kept in mind,
But the face of Rosalind. Clo. I'll rhime you fo, eight years together; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted : it is the right butter-women's rank to market.
Ros. Out, fool!
If a hart doth lack a bind,
If the cat will after kind,
This is the very falfe gallop of verses; why do you infeet your
self with them? Ros. Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree. Clo. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Ros. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medler; then it will be the earliest fruit is th' country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medler.
Clo. You have said ; but whether wisely or no, let the Forest judge.
Enter Celia, with a writing.
For it is unpeopled? No ;
That shall civil sayings show.
Runs his erring pilgrimage ;
Buckles in his fum of age;
'Twixt the fouls of friend and friend;
Or at every sentence end,
Will I Rosalinda write;
Teaching all, that read, to know,
Heaven would in little show.
That one body should be fillă
Nature presently diftild
Sad Lucretia's modefly.
By heav'nly synod was devis'd;
To have the Touches deareft priz'd.
little : go
Ros. O moft gentle Jupiter! - what tedious homily of love have you wearied your Parishioners withal, and dever cry'd, have patience, good people ? Cel. How now? back-friends! Mepherd, go off a
with him, firrah. Clo. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; tho' not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt Cor. and Clown. Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ?
I heard them all, and more too; for fome of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
Cel. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.
Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lameTy in the verse.
Cel. But didft thou hear without wondring, how thy name should be hang'd and carv'd upon these trees ?
Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of wonder, before you came : for, look here, what I found on a
palm-tree; I was never fo be-rhimed fince Pythagoras's
Cel. Trow you, who hath done this ?
Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck : Change you colour?
Ros. I pr'ythee, who?
Cel. O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.
Rof. Nay, but who is it?
Ros. Nay, I prythee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping
Rof: Odd's, my complexion ! doft thou think, though am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hofe in my difpofition? (6). One inch of delay more is a South-sea off discovery. I prythee, tell me, who is it; quickly, and speak apace; I would thou could'ft stammer, that thou might'it pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrowmouth'd bottle; either too much at once, or none at all. I pr’ythee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
Celi So you may put a man in your belly.
Ros. Is he of God's making ? what manner of man? is his head worth a hat ? or his chin worth a beard ?
Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Rol. Why, God will send more, if the man will be. thankful ; let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his china
(6) One Inch of Delay more is a South-sea of Discovery ; ) A South-sea of Discovery : This is fark Nonsense; we muft Icad - -off Discovery. i. e. from Discovery. If
me one Inch of Time longer, I Mall think this Secret as far s from Discovery as the South-sea is.”.
Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestter's heels and your heart both in an instant.
Rof. Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak, fad brow, and true maid.
Cel. I'faith, coz, 'tis he. Rof. Orlando ! Cel. Orlando. Rof. Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hofe? what did he, when thou faw'st him ? what. said he? how look'd he? wherein went he ? what makes he here? did he ask for me? where remains he? how parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again ? answer me in one word.
Cel. You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth first; 'cis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size : to. say, ay, and no, to these particulars, is more than to answer in a catechism.
Rof. But doth he know that I am in this Forest, and in man's apparel ? looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled
Cel. It is as eafie to count atoms, as to resolve the propositions of a lover : but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree like a dropp'd acorn..
Rof. It may well be call'd yove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit.
Cel. Give me audience, good Madam.
Cel. There lay he ftretch'd along like a wounded Knight.
Rof: Tho' it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
Cel, Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr’ythee; it curvets unfeasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter. Rof. Oh, ominous! he comes to kill my
heart. Cel. I would sing my song without a burthen; thou. bring'st me out of tune.
Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak : Sweet, fay on.