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Wears yet a precious jewel in his head :
And this our life, exempt from publick haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing,

Ami. I would not change it; happy is your grace
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke Sen. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor’d.

i Lord. Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you :
To-day my lord of Amiens,, and myself,
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor fequefter'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heay'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on th’extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

Ďuke Sen. But what said Jaques ?
Did he not moralize this spectacle ?

i Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similies. First, for his weeping in the needless stream Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament

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Upon that

As worldlings do, giving thy fum of more
To that which had too much. Then, being alone,
Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends;
'Tis right, quoth he; thus mifery doth part
The flux of company: anon, a carelefs herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, I.
And never stays to greet him: ay, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens,
'Tis just the fashion ; wherefore do you look

poor and broken bankrupt there?
Thus most invectively he pierced through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life; fwearing, that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up
In their assign'd and native dwelling place.

Duke Sen. And did you leave him in this contemplation ?

2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke Sen. Show me the place;
I love to cope him in these fullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.
2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight.

(Exeunt.

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SCE N E II.

The Palace again.

Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords.
Duke,
C

AN it be possible, that no man saw them ?

It cannot be; some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.

i Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
They found the bed untreasur’d of their mistress.

A a 2

2 Lord.

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2 Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing:
Hisperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses that she secretly o’er-heard..
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler
That did but lately foil the finewy. Charles ;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.

Duke. Send to his brother, fetch that gallant hither ;
If he be absent, bring his brother to me,
I'll make him find him: do this fuddenly;
And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.

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Orla. Ho's there?

master,
Adam. What! my young master? o my gentle
O my sweet master, o you memory
Of old sir Rowland! why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous ? why do people love you ?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bonny priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to fome kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies ?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,
Are fanctified and holy traitors to you.
o, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

Orla.

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Orla. Why, what's the matter?

Adam. O'unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives :
Your brother-(no; no brother, yet the son,
Yet not the fon, I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father)
Hath heard your praises; and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And
you

within it: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off:
I over-heard him and his practises.
This is no place, this house is but a butchery ;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orla. Why, whither, Adam, would'st thou have me go?
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orla. What, would'At thou have me go and beg my food,
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do :
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

Adam. But do not fo; I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I fav’d under your father,

,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs be lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown ;
Take that; and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold,
All this I give you; let me be your servant;
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo

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The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly, let me go with you,
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

Orla. O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world;
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion;
And, having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having; it is not so with thee :
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a bloffom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry:
But come thy ways, we'll go along together ;
And ere we have thy youthful wages fpent,
We'll light upon some fettled low content.

Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.

[Exeunt.

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The Forest.
Enter Rosalind in boy's cloths for Ganimed, Celia dress'd like a

Mepherdess for Aliena, and Clown.
Rof.

Jupiter ! how weary are my spirits !
Clo. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary:

Rof.

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