Cæ.

You put me out;—Soft; Comes he not here?

Ros.

'Tis he, let us steal by and note him.

Jaques.

I thank you for your Company, though, good Faith, I had as lieve been alone.

Orl.

And so had I, but yet for Fashion Sake, I thank you too for your Society.

Jaques.

Good b'w'you, let's meet as little as we can.

Orl.

I do desire we may be better Strangers.

Jaques.

I pray ye mar no more Trees with writing Love-Songs in their Barks.

Orl.

I pray you mar no more of my Verses with reading 'em ill-favour'dly.

Jaques.

Rosalind is your Love's Name.

Orl.

Yes, just.

Jaques.

I do not like her Name.

Orl.

There was no Thought of pleasing you, when she was christen'd.

Jaques.

What Stature is she of?

Orl.

Just as high as my Heart: But why are you thus curious? You who are an obstinate Heretick in the Despight of Beauty, and the whole Female World.

Jaques.

That a Woman conciev'd me I thank her: That she brought me up I likewise give her my most hearty Thanks; but that I will have a Recheate winded in my Forehead all Women shall pardon me: Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will trust none.

Orl.

I shall see thee e're I die look pale with Love.

Jaques.

With Anger, with Sickness, or with Hunger, not with Love; prove that ever I loose more Blood with Love than I shall get again with a Bottle, pick out my Eyes with a Ballad-maker's Pen, and hang me up at the Door of a Brothel-house for the Sign of blind Cupid.

Orl.

If thou should'st fall from this Faith.

Jaques.

If I do, hang me in a Bottle like a Cat, and shoot at me, and he that hits me let him be clap'd on the Shoulder and call'd Adam.

Orl.

In Time the Savage Bull did bear the Yoak.

Jaques.

The Savage Bull may, but if ever the sensible Jaques does, pluck off the Bull's Horns and set them in my Forehead, and let me be vilely painted, and in such great Letters as they write, Here are Horses to be let; let them signify under my Sign, Here liveth Jaques the marry'd Man.

Orl.

If Cupid hath not spent all his Quiver, thou wou't quake for this shortly.

Jaques.

Hah! what have we here, a Wood Nymph and a Shepherd, these Animals are not of our Growth sure?

Orl.

By their Habits and Mien you need not blush to own them; Are you sure they are human?

Jaques.

Let us try and accost them, however, in human Terms.

Ros. to Cæ.

I will speak to him like a saucy Lacquey, and under that Habit play the Knave with him: Do you hear, Forester?

[Jaques talks with Cælia, they walk in another Glade of the Forest, while the Scene continues between Rosalind and Orlando.

Orl.

Very well—What wou'd you?

Ros.

I pray you, what is it a Clock?

Orl.

You shou'd ask me what Time o'the Day, there is no Clock in the Forest.

Ros.

Then there is no true Lover in the Forest, Sighing else every Minute, and Groaning every Hour, wou'd detect the lazy Foot of Time as well as a Clock.

Orl.

Where dwell you, pretty Youth?

Ros.

With the Shepherdess you saw with me, my Sister, here in the Skirts of the Forest, like Fringe upon a Petticoat.

Orl.

Are you Native of this Place?

Ros.

As the Rabit, which you see dwells where she is kindled.

Orl.

Your Accent seems to be something finer than you cou'd purchase in so remoted a Dwelling.

Ros.

I have been told so of many, but indeed an old religious Uncle 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 Heaven I am not a Woman to be touch'd with so many giddy Offences as he hath generally tax'd the whole Sex withal.

Orl.

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 Fault seeming monstrous, till the Fellow Fault appear'd to match it.

Orl.

I prithee, recount some of them.

Ros.

No, I will not cast away my Physick but on those that are sick. There is a Man haunts this 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 cou'd meet that Fancy-Monger, I wou'd give him good Counsel, for he seems to have the Quotidian of Love upon him.

Orl.

I am he so Love shaken; I pray you tell me your Remedy.

Ros.

There are none of my Uncle's Marks upon you, he taught me how to know a Man in Love; in which Cage of Rushes I am sure you are no Prisoner.

Orl.

What where his Marks?

Ros.

A lean Cheeck, which you have not; a blue Eye, and sunk, 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 shou'd be ungarter'd, your Bonnet unbanded, your Sleeve unbutton'd, your Shoe unbuckled, 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 yourself, than seeming the Lover of any other.

Orl.

Fair Youth, I wou'd I cou'd 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 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 much admired?

Orl.

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 Rhymes speak;

Orl.

Neither Rhyme, 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 punished and cured is, that the Lunacy is so general, that the Whippers are in love too: Yet I profess curing it by Counsel.

Orl.

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 wou'd 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 Part Birds of this Colour: Wou'd now like him, now loath him, then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; till I drove 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 Monastical: And thus I cured 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 it.

Orl.

I wou'd not be cured, Youth.

Ros.

I wou'd cure you if you wou'd but call me Rosalind, and come every Day to my Cave and woo me.

Orl.

Now by the Faith of my Love I will, tell me where it is.

Ros.

Go with me, and I will show it you; and by the Way you shall tell me where in the Forest you live.—Will you go?

Orl.

With all my Heart, good Youth.

Ros.

Nay, nay, you must call me Rosalind.