Rof. Gentleman, (5) Wear this for me; one out of fuits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. Shall we go, coz? [Giving him a Chain from her Neck, Cel. Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman.

Orla. Can I not fay, I thank you ?-my better parts Are all thrown down; and that, which here ftands up, (6) Is but a quintaine, a meer lifeless block.

Rof. He calls us back: my pride fell with my for

tunes.

I'll ask him, what he would. Did you call, Sir?
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.

Cel. Will you go, coz?

Rof. Have with you: fare you well.

[Exeunt Rof, and Cel.

(5) Wear this for me;] There is Nothing in the Sequel of this Scene, expreffing What it is that Rofalind here gives to Orlando: nor has there been hitherto any Marginal Direction to explain it. It would have been no great Burden to the Editors' Sagacity, to have fupply'd the Note I have given in the Margin: for afterwards, in the third Act, when Rofalind has found a Copy of Verfes in the Woods writ on her felf, and Celia asks her whether She knows who hath done this, Rofalind replies, by way of Queftion, Is it a Man? To which Celia again replies, Ay, and a Chain, that You once wore, about his Neck.

(6) Is but a Quintaine,] This Word fignifies in general a Poft or Butt fet up for feveral kind of Martial Exerciles. It ferved fometimes to run againft, on Horfeback, with a Lance: and then One Part of it was always movable, and turn'd about an Axis. But, befides This, there was another Quintaine, that was only a Poft fix'd firmly in the Ground; on which they hung a Buckler, and threw their Darts, and fhot their Arrows against it: and to This Kind of Quintaine it is that Shakespeare here alludes: And taking it in this latter Senfe, there is an extreme Beauty and Juftnefs in the Thought. "I am now, fays Orlando, only a Quintaine, a meer lifeless Block, on which Love only exercifes his "Arms in Jeft; the great Difparity between me and Rofalind, in Condition, not fuffering Me to hope that ever Love will make a ferious Mat"ter of it." Regnier, the famous Satirift, who dy'd about the Time our Author did, applies this very Metaphor to the fame Subject, tho' the Thought be fomewhat different..

66

66

Et qui depuis dix ans, jufqu'en fes derniers jours,
A foûtenu le Prix en l'Efcrime d'Amours;
Laffe enfin de fervir au Peuple de Quintaine,
Elle &c.

0 4

Mr. Warburton.

Orla.

Orla. What paffion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her; yet fhe urg'd conference.

Enter Le Beu.

O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown ;

Or Charles, or fomething weaker, mafters thee.
Le Beu. Good Sir, I do in friendship counsel you
To leave this place. Albeit you have deferv'd
High commendation, true applaufe, and love;
Yet fuch is now the Duke's condition,
That he misconftrues all that you have done.
The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,
More fuits you to conceive, than me to speak of.
Orla. I thank you, Sir; and pray you, tell me this;
Which of the two was Daughter of the Duke,
That here was at the wrestling?

Le Beu. Neither his daughter, if we judge by man

ners;

But yet, indeed, the fhorter is his daughter;
The other's Daughter to the banish'd Duke,
And here detain'd by her ufurping Uncle
To keep his daughter company, whofe loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of fifters.
But I can tell you, that of late this Duke
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle Neice;
Grounded upon no other argument,

But that the people praise her for her virtues,
And pity her for her good father's fake;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
Will fuddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well;
Hereafter, in a better world than this,

well!

I fhall defire more love and knowledge of you. [Exit.
Orla. I reft much bounden to you: fare you
Thus muft I from the fmoke into the fmother;
From tyrant Duke, unto a tyrant brother:
But, heav'nly Rofalind !

[Exit.

SCENE

SCENE changes to an Apartment in the
Palace.

Re-enter Celia and Rofalind.

Cel. Why, Coufin; why, Rofalind; Cupid have mercy; not a word!

Rof. Not one to throw at a dog.

Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be caft away upon curs, throw fome of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Rof. Then there were two Coufins laid up; when the one should be lam'd with reasons, and the other mad without any.

Cel. But is all this for your father?

Rof. (7) No, Some of it is for my Child's father. Oh, how full of briers is this working-day-world!

Cel. They are but burs, coufin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

Rof. I could fhake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

Cel. Hem them away.

Rof. I would try, if I could cry, hem, and have him. Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. Rof. O, they take the part of a better Wrestler than my felf.

Cel. O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in defpight of a Fall;-but turning these jefts out of fervice, let us talk in good earneft: is it poffible on fuch a fudden you fhould fall into fo ftrong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest fon?

Rof. The Duke my father lov'd his father dearly.

(7) No, fome of it is for my Father's Child.] I have chosen to restore here the Reading of the older Copies, which evidently contains the Poet's Sentiment. Rofalind would fay, No, all my Diftrefs and Melancholy " is not for my Father; but fome of it for my Sweetheart, whom I hope "to marry and have Children by." In this Sense She ftiles him her Child's Father.

Cel.

Cel. Doth it therefore enfue, that you fhould love his fon dearly? by this kind of chafe, I should hate him; for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

Rof. No, faith, hate him not, for my fake.

Cel. Why fhould I? doth he not deserve well?

Enter Duke, with Lords.

Rof. 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.

Duke. Mistress, dispatch you with your

And get you from our Court.

Rof. Me, Uncle!

Duke. You, Coufin.

fafeft hafte,

Within these ten days if that thou be'ft found
So near our publick Court as twenty miles,
Thou dieft for it.

Rof. I do befeech your Grace,

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
If with my self I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with my own defires;
If that I do not dream, or be not frantick,
(As, I do truft, I am not,) then, dear Uncle,
Never fo much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your Highness.

Duke. Thus do all traitors;

If their purgation did confift in words,
They are as innocent as grace it self:
Let it fuffice thee, that I trust thee not.

Rof. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor;
Tell me, wherein the likelihood depends.

Duke. Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough. Rof. So was I, when your Highness took his DukeSo was I, when your Highness banish'd him; [dom; 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 Liege, mistake me not so much,
To think my poverty is treacherous,

Cel.

Cel. Dear Soveraign, hear me speak.

Duke. Ay, Celia, we but ftaid her for your fake; Elfe had the with her father rang'd along.

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her ftay;
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse;
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her; if the be a traitor,
Why fo am I, we ftill have flept together,
Rofe at an inftant, learn'd, play'd, eat together
And wherefoe'er we went, like Juno's Swans,
Still we went coupled, and infeparable.

Duke. She is too fubtle for thee; and her smoothness, Her very filence and her patience,

Speak to the people, and they pity her:

Thou art a fool; the robs thee of thy name,

And thou wilt fhow more bright, and feem more vir

tuous,

When fhe is gone; then open not thy lips:

Firm and irrevocable is my doom,

Which I have paft upon her; fhe is banifh'd.

Cel. Pronounce that Sentence then on me, my Liege

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke. You are a fool: you, Neice, provide your self; If you out-stay the time, upon mine Honour,

And in the Greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt Duke, &c. Gel. O my poor Rofalind; where wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers! I will give thee mine: I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am. Rof. I have more cause.

Cel. Thou haft not, coufin;

Pr'ythee, be cheerful; know'ft thou not, the Duke
Has banish'd me his daughter?

Rof. That he hath not.

Cel. No? hath not? (8) Rofalind lacks then the love, Which teacheth Me that thou and I am one:

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one]

Shall

Tho' this be the Reading of all the printed Copies, 'tis evident, the Poet

wrote;