Clown.
Cor.
And how like you this Shepherd's Life, Mr. Touchstone?
Clown.
Truly, Shepherd, in respect of it self, it is a good
Life; but in respect that it is a Shepherd's Life, it is naught.
In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect
that it is private, it is a very vile Life. Now in respect
it is in the Fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is
not in the Court, it is tedious. As it is a spare Life, look
you, it fits my Humour well; but as there is no more plenty
in it, it goes much against my Stomach. Has't any Philosophy
in thee, Shepherd?
Cor.
No more, but that I know the more one sickens, the
worse at ease he is: And that he that wants Mony, Means,
and Content, is without three good Friends. That the
Property of Rain is to wet, and Fire to burn: That good
Pasture makes fat Sheep; and that a great cause of the Night,
is the lack of the Sun: That he that hath learned no Wit
-- 628 --
by Nature, nor Art, may complain of good Breeding, or
comes of a very dull Kindred.
Clown.
Such a one is a natural Philosopher.
Was't ever in Court, Shepherd?
Cor.
No truly.
Clown.
Then thou art Damn'd.
Cor.
Nay, I hope—
Clown.
Truly thou art Damn'd, like an ill-roasted Egg, all
on one side.
Cor.
For not being at Court? Your reason.
Clown.
Why, if thou never wast at Court, thou never
saw'st good Manners; if thou never saw'st good Manners,
then thy Manners must be wicked; and Wickedness is Sin,
and Sin is Damnation: Thou art in a parlous State, Shepherd.
Cor.
Not a whit, Touchstone: Those that have good
Manners at the Court, are as ridiculous in the Country, as
the Behaviour of the Country is most mockable at the Court.
You told me, you Salute not at the Court, but you Kiss
your Hands; that Courtesie would be uncleanly, if Courtiers
were Shepherds.
Clown.
Instance, briefly; come, instance.
Cor.
Why, we are still handling our Ewes, and their Fels,
you know, are greasie.
Clown.
Why, do not your Courtiers Hands sweat? And
is not the Grease of Mutton as wholsome as the Sweat of a
Man? Shallow, shallow, a better Instance, I say: Come.
Cor.
Besides, our Hands are hard.
Clown.
Your Lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again:
A more sounder Instance, come.
Cor.
And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of
our Sheep; and would you have us kiss Tar? The Courtiers
Hands are perfumed with Civet.
Clown.
Most shallow, Man: Thou Worms-meat, in respect
of a good piece of Flesh indeed; learn of the Wise
and Perpend; Civet is of a baser birth than Tar; the
very uncleanly Flux of a Cat. Mend the Instance, Shepherd.
Cor.
You have too Courtly a Wit for me; I'll rest.
Clown.
Wilt thou rest Damn'd? God help thee, shallow
Man; God make incision in thee, thou art raw.
-- 629 --
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 Mens good, content with my harm; and the
greatest of my Pride, is to see my Ewes graze, and my
Lambs suck.
Clown.
That is another simple Sin 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 Twelve-month to
a crooked Pated old Cuckoldly Ram, out of all reasonable
Match. If thou be'st not Damn'd for this, the Devil himself
will have no Shepherds; I cannot see how thou should'st
'scape.
Cor.
Here comes Mr. Ganimed, my new Mistress's Brother.
Enter Rosalind with a Paper.
Ros.
From the East to Western Inde,
No Jewel is like Rosalind,
Her Worth being mounted on the Wind,
Through all the World bears Rosalind.
All the Pictures fairest Lind,
Are but black to Rosalind;
Let no Face be kept in mind,
But the most fair Rosalind.
Clown.
I'll Rhime you so, eight years together; dinners,
and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: It is the right
Butter-womens rank to Market.
Ros.
Out Fool.
Clown.
For a taste.
If a Hart doth lack a Hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the Cat will after Kind,
So be sure will Rosalind.
Winter Garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that Reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to Cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest Meat hath sowrest Rind,
Such a Nut is Rosalind.
-- 630 --
He that sweetest Rose will find,
Must find Loves prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of Verses; why do you infect
your self with them?
Ros.
Peace, you dull Fool, I found them on a Tree.
Clown.
Truly, the Tree yields bad Fruit.
Ros.
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with
a Medler; than it will be the earliest Fruit i'th' Country;
for you'll be rotten e'er you be half ripe, and that's the right
Vertue of the Medler.
Clown.
You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the
Forest judge.
Enter Celia with a Writing.
Ros.
Peace, here comes my Sister reading, stand aside.
Cel.
Why should this a Desart be?
For it is unpeopled. No;
Tongues I'll hang on every Tree,
That shall civil Sayings show.
Some, how brief the Life of Man
Runs his erring Pilgrimage,
That the stretching of a Span,
Buckles in his sum of Age.
Some of violated Vows,
'Twixt the Souls of Friend and Friend,
But upon the fairest Boughs,
Or at every Sentence end,
Will I Rosalinda write;
Teaching all that read, to know
This Quintessence of every sprite,
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore Heaven Nature charg'd,
That one Body should be fill'd
With all the Graces wide enlarg'd;
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's Cheeks, but not her Heart,
Cleopatra's Majesty;
Atalanta's better part;
Sad Lucretia's Modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts,
By heav'nly Synod was devis'd,
-- 631 --
Of many Faces, Eyes and Hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Heav'n would that she these Gifts should have,
And I to live and die her Slave.
Ros.
O most gentle Jupiter! what tedious Homily of
Love have you wearied your Parishioners withal, and never
cry'd, Have Patience, good People?
Cel.
How now, back Friends, Shepherd go off a little:
Go with him, Sirrah.
Clown.
Come, Shepherd, let us make an Honourable Retreat,
tho' not with Bag and Baggage, yet with Scrip and
Scrippage.
[Exit Cor. and Clown.
Cel.
Didst thou hear these Verses?
Ros.
O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some
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 lamely in
the Verse.
Cel.
But didst 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 so berhim'd since Pythagoras's time, that I was an
Irish Rat, which I can hardly remember.
Cel.
Tro you, who hath done this?
Ros.
Is it a Man?
Cel.
And a Chain that you once wore, about his Neck:
Change you colour?
Ros.
I prethee who?
Cel.
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for Friends to
meet; but Mountains may be remov'd with Earthquakes,
and so encounter.
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I prethee 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
hoping.
-- 632 --
Ros.
Good my Complexion, dost thou think, though I
am caparison'd like a Man, I have a Doublet and a Hose in
my disposition? One inch of delay more, is a South Sea of
discovery. I prethee tell me, who is it, quickly, and speak
apace? I would thou could'st stammer, that thou might'st
pour this concealed Man out of thy Mouth, as Wine comes
out of a narrow mouth'd Bottle; either too much at once,
or none at all. I prethee take the Cork out of thy Mouth,
that I may drink thy tidings.
Cel.
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.
Ros.
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 Chin.
Cel.
It is young Orlando, that trip'd up the Wrestler's
Heels, and your Heart, both in an instant.
Ros.
Nay, but the Devil take mocking; speak, sad Brow,
and true Maid.
Cel.
I'faith, Coz, 'tis he.
Ros.
Orlando?
Cel.
Orlando.
Ros.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my Doublet and
Hose? What did he when thou saw'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 Gargantua's Mouth first; 'tis
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.
Ros.
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 easie 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.
-- 633 --
Ros.
It may well be call'd Jove's Tree, when it drops
forth such Fruit.
Cel.
Give me Audience, good Madam.
Ros.
Proceed.
Cel.
There lay he stretch'd along like a wounded
Knight.
Ros.
Tho' it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes
the Ground.
Cry.
Cry halla, to thy Tongue, I prethee; it curvets unseasonably.
He was furnish'd like a Hunter.
Ros.
O 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, say on.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Cel.
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
Ros.
'Tis he, slink by, and note him.
Jaq.
I thank you for your Company; but good faith, I
had as lief have been my self alone.
Orla.
And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake,
I thank you too, for your Society.
Jaq.
God b'w' you, let's meet as little as we can.
Orla.
I do desire we may be better Strangers.
Jaq.
I pray you marr no more Trees with writing Love-Songs
in their Barks.
Orla.
I pray you marr no more of my Verses with reading
them ill-favouredly.
Jaq.
Rosalind is your Love's name?
Orla.
Yes, Just.
Jaq.
I do not like her Name.
Orla.
There was no thought of pleasing you when she
was Christen'd.
Jaq.
What Stature is she of?
Orla.
Just as high as my Heart.
Jaq.
You are full of pretty Answers; have you not been
acquainted with Goldsmiths Wives, and conn'd them out of
Rings.
Orla.
Not so: But I answer you right, painted Cloth,
from whence you have studied your Questions?
Jaq.
You have a nimble Wit; I think it was made of
-- 634 --
Atalanta's Heels. Will you sit down with me, and we
two will rail against our Mistress the World, and all our
Misery.
Orla.
I will chide no Brother in the World but my self,
against whom I know no faults.
Jaq.
The worst fault you have, is to be in Love.
Orla.
'Tis a fault I will not change for your best Virtue:
I am weary of you.
Jaq.
By my troth, I was seeking for a Fool, when I
found you.
Orla.
He is drown'd in the Brook, look but in, and you
shall see him.
Jaq.
There I shall see mine own Figure.
Orla.
Which I take to be either a Fool, or a Cypher.
Jaq.
I'll stay no longer with you; farewel, good Signior
Love.
[Exit.
Orla.
I am glad of your Departure: Adieu, good Monsieur
Melancholy.
Ros.
I will speak to him like a sawcy Laquey, and under
that Habit play the Knave with him: Do you hear, Forester.
Orla.
Very well, what would you?
Ros.
I pray you, what is't a Clock?
Orla.
You should ask me what time o' day; there's no
Clock in the Forest.
Ros.
Then there is no true Lover in the Forest, else sighing
every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the
lazy Foot of Time, as well as a Clock.
Orla.
And why not the swift Foot of Time? Had not
that been as proper?
Ros.
By no means, Sir; Time travels in divers Places,
with divers Persons; I'll tell you who Time ambles withal,
who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who
he stands still withal.
Orla.
I prethee, whom doth he trot withal?
Ros.
Marry, he trots hard with a young Maid, between
the Contract of her Marriage, and the Day it is Solemniz'd:
If the interim be but a sennight, Time's pace is so hard that
it seems the length of seven years.
Orla.
Who ambles Time withal?
Ros.
With a Priest that lacks Latin, and a rich Man that
hath not the Gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot
-- 635 --
study, and the other lives merrily, because he feels no
pain: The one lacking the burthen of lean and wasteful
Learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious
Penury. These Time ambles withal.
Orla.
Whom doth he gallop withal?
Ros.
With a Thief to the Gallows: For though he go
as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
Orla.
Whom stays it still withal?
Ros.
With Lawyers in the Vacation; for they sleep between
Term and Term, and then they perceive not how
Time moves.
Orla.
Where dwell you, pretty Youth?
Ros.
With this Shepherdess, my Sister; here in the Skirts
of the Forest, like Fringe upon a Petticoat.
Orla.
Are you Native of this Place?
Ros.
As the Cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Orla.
Your Accent is something finer, than you could
purchase in so removed a dwelling.
Ros.
I have been told so of many; but indeed, an old religious
Unkle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his
Youth an Inland Man, one that knew Courtship too well;
for there he fell in Love. I have heard him read many Lectures
against it. I thank God, I am not a Woman, to be
touch'd with so many giddy Offences as he hath generally
tax'd their whole Sex withal.
Orla.
Can you remember any of the principal Evils that
he laid to the Charge of Women?
Ros.
There were none Principal, they were all like one
another, as half-pence are, every one's fault seeming monstrous,
'till his fellow fault came to match it.
Orla.
I prethee recount some of them.
Ros.
No; I will not cast away my Physick, but on those
that are Sick. There is a Man haunts the Forest, that
abuses our young Plants with carving Rosalind on their
Barks; hangs Odes upon Hawthorns, and Elegies on Brambles;
all, forsooth, deifying the Name of Rosalind. If
I could meet that Fancy-monger, I would give him some
good Counsel, for he seems to have the Quotidian of Love
upon him.
-- 636 --
Orla.
I am he that is so Love-shak'd; I pray you, tell me
your Remedy.
Ros.
There is none of my Unkle's Marks upon you; he
taught me how to know a Man in Love; in which Cage of
Rushes, I am sure you are not Prisoner.
Orla.
What were his Marks?
Ros.
A lean Cheek, which you have not; a blue Eye and
sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable Spirit,
which you have not; a Beard neglected, which you have
not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having no
Beard, is a younger Brother's Revenue; Then your Hose
should be ungarter'd, your Bonnet unbanded, your Sleeve
unbutton'd, your Shoo untied, and every thing about you
demonstrating a careless Desolation; but you are no such
Man, you are rather Point device in your Accoutrements,
as loving your self, than seeming the Lover of any other.
Orla.
Fair Youth, I would I could make thee believe I
Love.
Ros.
Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you
love believe it, which I warrant she is apter to do, than to
confess she does; that is one of the Points, in the which
Women still give the Lie to their Consciences. But in good
sooth, are you he that hangs the Verses on the Trees, wherein
Rosalind is so admired?
Orla.
I swear to thee, Youth, by the white Hand of Rosalind,
I am he, that unfortunate he.
Ros.
But are you so much in Love, as your Rhimes speak?
Orla.
Neither Rhime nor Reason can express how much.
Ros.
Love is meerly a Madness, and, I tell you, deserves
as well a dark House, and a Whip, as mad Men do: And
the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured, is, that
the Lunacy is so ordinary, that the Whippers are in love
too: Yet I profess curing it by Counsel.
Orla.
Did you ever cure any so?
Ros.
Yes one, and in this manner. He was to imagine
me his Love, his Mistress: and I set him every day to woo
me. At which time would I, being but a moonish Youth,
grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking,
proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of Tears,
full of Smiles; for every Passion something, and for no Passion
truly any thing, as Boys and Women are for the most
-- 637 --
part Cattle of this Colour; would now like him, now loath
him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for
him, then spit at him; that I drave this Suitor from his mad
Humour of Love, to a living Humour of Madness, which
was to forswear the full Stream of the World, and to live
in a Nook meerly Monastick; and thus I cur'd him, and
this way will I take upon me to wash your Liver as clear as
a sound Sheep's Heart, that there shall not be one Spot of
Love in't.
Orla.
I would not be cur'd, Youth.
Ros.
I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind,
and come every Day to my Cote, and woo me.
Orla.
Now by the Faith of my Love, I will; tell me
where it is.
Ros.
Go with me to it, and I will shew it you; and by
the way you shall tell me where in the Forest you live:
Will you go?
Orla.
With all my Heart, good Youth.
Ros.
Nay, nay, you must call me Rosalind: Come Sister,
will you go?
[Exeunt.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
