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Clo. I'll rhyme you fo eight years together; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is the right butterwomen's rate to market.
Rof, Out, fool!
If a hart doth lack a bind,
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect yourself with them?
Rof. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.
Rof. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medler; then it will be the earliest fruit i' th country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medler.
Clo. You have said; but whether wisely, or no, let the forest judge.
S CE N E V.
Enter Celia with a writing.
For it is unpeopled. No;
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs bis erring pilgrimage,
Buckles in his sum of age;
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;
Or at every sentence end,
Teaching all that read to know
would in little show.
That one body should be fill'd
Nature presently distill
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
By beav'nly synod was devis'd,
To have the touches deareft priz'd.
And I to live and die her Jave.
Cel. How now! back-friends ! shepherd, go off a little : go
Cla. Come, fhepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
[Ex. Cor. and Clown.
you colour ?
S CE N E VI. Cel. Didft thou hear these verses ?
Rof. 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.
Rof. 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 wond'ring, 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 berhymed since Pythagoras's time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
Cel. Trow you who hath done this ?
Cel. O lord, lord ! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains
may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter. Rof. Nay, but who is it? Cel. Is it possible? Ros. Nay, I pr’ythee 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 hooping
Ros. Odd's, 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 off discovery. I pr’ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace; I would thou could'it 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 pry’thee, 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.
Rof. Why, god will send more, if the man will be thankful :
. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels,
Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak, sad brow, and
Cel. I'faith, coz, 'tis he.
. You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth first; 'tis a
Rof. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's
. It is as easy to count atoms as to resolve the propositions
Rof: It may well be call’d Jove's tree, when it drops forth
Cel. Give me audience, good madam.
. Cry, holla, to thy tongue, I pr’ythee; it curvets unseasonably.
Rof: O ominous ! he comes to kill my heart.
Cel. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring't me out of tune.
Ref. Do you not know I am a woman? what I think I must speak : sweet, say on.
Enter Orlando, and Jaques.
your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.
Orla. And so had I; but yet for fashion fake, 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 ftrangers.
Jaq. ! pray you, mar no more trees with writing lovefongs in their barks.
Orla. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them illfavouredly.
Jaq. Rosalind is your love's nam
Orla. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was chriften’d.
Jaq. What stature is she of?
Orla. Not so: but I answer you right in the style of the painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
Jaq. You have a nimble wit; I think, it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you fit down with me, and we two will rail against our mistress, the world, and all our misery.
Orla. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know no faults.