a nun of Winter's fifterhood kiffes, not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. Rof. But why did he fwear he would come this morning, and comes not? Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purfe nor a horseftealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. Rof. Not true in love? Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in. Rof. You have heard him fwear downright, he was. Cel. Was, is not is; befides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of falfe reckonings; he attends here in the foreft on the Duke your father. Rof. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much queftion with him he afkt me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; fo he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is fuch a man as Orlando. Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, fpeaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers athwart the heart of his lover; as a puifny tilter, that fpurs his horfe but one fide, breaks his staff like a noble goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here? Enter Corin. Cor. Miftrefs and mater, you have oft enquired Not, indeed, that the e was any real religious Order of that Denomination: but the Legend of St. Winifred is this. She was a Chriftian Virgin at Holywell a fmall Town in Flitfire, fo tenacious of her Chastity, that when a tyrannous Governor laid Siege to her, he could not reduce her to Compliance, but was obliged to ravifh, and afterwards beheaded her in Revenge of her Obftinacy. Vid. Cambden's Britannia by Dr. Gibfon, page 688. This Tradition forts very well with our Poet's Allufion. After After the fhepherd that complain'd of love; Cel. Well, and what of him? Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly play'd, Rof. O come, let us remove; The fight of lovers feedeth those in love: [Exeunt. Sil. Weet Phebe, do not fcorn me, do not, Phebe; In bitterness; the common executioner, Whose heart th' accuftom'd fight of death makes hard, Enter Rofalind, Celia and Corin. Phe. I would not be thy executioner; That eyes, that are the frail'it and foftest things, (10) will you ferner be, Than He that dies and lives by bloody drops? This is fpoken of the Executioner. He lives indeed, by bloody Drops if you will: but how does he die by bloody Drops? The Poet must certainly have wrote -that deals and lives, &c. i.e. that gets his Bread, and makes a Trade of cutting off Heads. Mr. Warburton. Who fhut their coward gates on atomies, Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers! And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee; The cicatrice and capable impreffure Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes Sil. O dear Phebe, If ever (as that ever may be near) You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy, That love's keen arrows make. Phe. But 'till that time, Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, As 'till that time, I fhall not pity thee. Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your mother, That you infult, exult, and rail, at once, Over the wretched? (11) what though you have beauty, Than without candle may go dark to bed,) Why, what means this? why do you look on me? (11) What though you have no Beauty,] Though all the printed Copies agree in this Reading, it is very accurately obferved to me by an ingenious unknown Correfpondent, who figns himself L. H. (and to whom I can only here make my Acknowledgements) thas the Negative ought to be left out. No, No, faith, proad miftrefs, hope not after it; Sell when you can, you are not for all markets. Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulnefs, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as fast as fhe anfwers thee, with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look you fo upon me? Phe. For no ill-will I bear you. Rof. I pray you, do not fall in love with me ; For I am falfer than vows made in wine; Befides, I like you not. If you will know my house, Come, to our flock.. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin. Phe. Dead fhepherd, now I find thy Saw of might; Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight? Sil. Sweet Phebe! Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Silvius ? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. O 3 Phe Phe. Why, I am forry for thee, Gentle Silvius. By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly? Phe. Why, that were Covetoufness. Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee; And yet it is not, that I bear thee love; That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop. That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then A fcatter'd fmile, and that I'll live upon. Phe. Know'st thou the youth, that spoke to me ere-while? And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds, Phe. Think not, I love him, tho' I ask for him; But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him; A little riper, and more lufty red Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask. There |