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Aud. I do not know what poetical is; is it honest in deed and word ? is it a true thing ?

Clo. 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. Do you wish then, that the Gods had made me poetical

Clo. I do, truly; for thou swear'st to me, thou art honeft: now if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didit feign.

Aud. Would you not have me honeft?

Clo. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty coupled to beauty, is, to have honey a fawce to sugar.

Jaq. A material fool!
Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I

pray the Gods make me honest !

Clo. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul Nut, were to put good meat into an unclean dis.

Aud. I am not a flut, though I thank the Gods I am foul.

Clo. Well, praised be the Gods for thy foulness ! sluttilhness 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 promis’d to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.

Jaq. I would fain see this meeting.
Aud. Well, the Gods give us joy!

Cló. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, ftagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn beasts. But what tho'? courage. As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is faid, 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 fo poor men alone ?

no, no, the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal : is the single man

there

ye

for

therefore blessed ? no. As a wall'd town is more wore thier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a batchelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, so much is a horn more precious than to want.

Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text. Here comes Sir Oliver : Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your Chappel?

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?
Clo. I will not take her on gift of any man.

Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

Jaq. Proceed, proceed! I'll give her.

Clo. Good even, good mafter what call : how do you, Sir ? you are very well met: God'ild you your last company! I am very glad to see you ; even a toy in hand here, Sir : nay; pray, be covered. Jag. Will you be married, Motley ?

Clo. As the ox hath his bow, Sir, the horse his curb, and the faulcon his bells, so man hath his defire ; and as pidgeons bill, so wedlock would be nibling.

Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar? get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is ; this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot ; then one of you will prove a shrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.

Cle. I am not in the mind, but I were better to be married of him than of another ; for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. Faq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Clo. Come, sweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry: farewell, good Sir Oliver ; not O sweet Oliver, o brave Oliver, leave me not behind thee : but wind away, begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee,

Sir

Ros.

Sir Oliv, 'Tis no matter : ne'er a fantastical knave of them all fall fout me out of my Calling, [Exeunt. SCENE changes to a Cottage in the Forest.

Enter Rosalind and Celia,
Ever talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do, I prythee; but yet have the grace to consider, that tears do not become a man.

Rof. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good cause as one would desire, therefore weep.

Rof His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

Cel. Something browner than Judas's : marry his kisses are Judas's own children.

Ref. I'faith, his hair is of a good colour,

Cel. An excellent colour: your chesnut was ever the only colour.

RoS (8) And his kissing is as full of sanctity, as the touch of holy Beard.

Cel. (9) He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana ;

a nun

(8) And bis kissing is as full of San&ity, as tbe Touch of boly Bread.] Tho' this be the Reading of the oldest Copies, I have

made no Scruple to substitute an Emendation of Mr. Warbur. i ton, which mightily adds to the Propriety of the Simile. What

can the Poet be fuppos'd to mean by, boly Bread ? Not the sacramental, sure ; that would have been Prophanation, upon a Subject of so much Levity. But boly Beard very beautifully alludes to the Kiss of a holy Saint, which the Ancients callid the Kiss of Cbarity. And for Rosalind to fay, that Orlando kiss'd as holily as a Saint, renders the Comparison very just.

(9) He bath bougbe a pair of chast Lips of Diana ; a Nux of Winter's Siferbood killes not more religiously ; tbe very ice of cba. fiey is in tbem. ] This Pair of cbaft Lips is a Corruption as old as che second Edition in Folio : I have restor'd with the first Folio; a Pair of caf Lips, i. e. a Pair left off by Diana Again, what Idea does a Nun of Winter's Sisterhood give us ? Tho" I have not ventur'd to disturb the Text, it seems more probable to me that the Poet wrote;

A Nun of Winifred's sisterboed, &c. Į Voli II.

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Notes

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a nun of Winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very içe of chastity is in them.

Ref. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not? Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. RS. Do you think so ?

Cél. Yes ; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horsestealer ; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.

Ref. Not true in love?
Cél. 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 on the Duke your Father.

Rof. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him : he askt me, of what parentage I was ; I told him, of as good as he; so he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando,

Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose ; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here?

Enter Corin.
Cor. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired

Not, indeed, that there was any real religious Order of that Denomination : but the Legend of St. Winifred is this. She was a Christian Virgin at Holywell a small Town in Flinijire so tenacious of her Chastity, that when a tyrannous Governor laid Siege to her, he could not reduce her to Compliance, but was oblig'd to ravith, and afterwards beheaded her in Revenge of her Obstinacy, Vid, Cambden's Britannia by Dr. Gibfon, p. 688. This Tradition forts very well with our Poet's Allufion.

After

After the shepherd that complaind 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?

Cor. If you will see a pageant truly plaid,
Between the pale complexion of true love,
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain ;
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Rof. O come, let us remove ;
The fight of lovers feedeth those in love :
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy Actor in their Play. [Exeunt.
SCENE changes to another part of the Forest.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Weet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe;

Say, that you love me not; but say not so
In bitternefs ; the common executioner,
Whose heart th' accustom'd fight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,
But firft begs pardon : (10) will you fterner be
Than he that deals, and lives by bloody drops ?

Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin. Phe. I would not be thy executioner; I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'it me, there is murther in mine eyes ; 'Tis pretty sure, and very probable, That eyes,

that are the frail'it and softest things,

sil. SS

(10) will you ferner be,

Than He that dies and lives by bloody drops? This is spoken of the Executioner. He lives indeed, by bloody Drops, if you will : but how does he dye by bloody Drops The Poet must certainly have wroteibar deals and lium, &c. i. e. that gets his Bread, and makes a Trade of cutting off Heads.

Mr. W'arbusten,

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