Imatges de pàgina

Left and abandon'd of his velvet fiiends;
'Tis right, quoth he, thus mifery doth part
The flux of company; anon a carelefs herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never ftays to greet him: ay, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greafy citizens,
'Tis juft the fashion: wherefore do
you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt here?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the Country, City, Court,
Yea, and of this our life: fwearing, that we
Are mere ufurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up
In their affign'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 fobbing 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 ftraight.


SCENE changes to the PALACE again.

Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.

Duke. C

AN it be poffible, that no man saw them?
It cannot be; fome villains of my Court

Are of confent and fufferance in this.

I Lord. I cannot hear of any that did fee her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed, and in the morning early
They found the bed untreafur'd of their miftrefs.

2 Lord. My lord, the roynish Clown, at whom fo oft
Your Grace was wont to laugh, is alfo miffing:
Hifperia, the Princefs' Gentlewoman,
Confeffes, that the fecretly o'er-heard

Your Daughter and her Coufin much commend
The parts and graces of the Wrestler,
That did but lately foil the finewy Charles;


And the believes, where ever they are gone,

That Youth is furely in their company.

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


SCENE changes to OLIVER's House..
Enter Orlando and Adam.

Orla. W

Oh, my

HO's there?

Adam. What! my young mafter? oh, my gentle mafter,

fweet 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 fo fond to overcome

The bonny Prifer of the humorous Duke ?
Your Praife is come too fwiftly home before you.
Know you not, mafter, to fome kind of men
Their Graces ferve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle mafter,
Are fanctified and holy traitors to you.

O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

Orla. Why, what's the matter?
Adam. O unhappy youth,

Come not within thefe doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives;

Your brother (no; no brother; yet the fon,-
Yet not the fon; I will not call him fon
Of him I was about to call his father,)

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you ufe to lie,
And you within it; if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off;
I overheard him, and his practices;
This is no place, this houfe is but a butchery;


Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orla. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orla. What wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?
Or with a bafe, and boisterous fword enforce

A thievifh living on the common road?
This I muft do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ;

I rather will fubject 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 ftore, to be my foster nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown;
Take that: and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the fparrow,
Be comfort to my age! here is the gold,
All this I give you, let me be your fervant;
Tho' I look old, yet I am ftrong and lufty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility:
Therefore my age is as a lufty winter,
Frofty, but kindly; let me go with you;
I'll do the fervice of a younger man
In all your business and neceffities.

Orla. Oh! good old man, how well in thee appears The conftant fervice of the antique world; When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will fweat, but for promotion; And, having that, do choak their fervice up Even with the Having; it is not so with thee; But poor old man, thou prun'ft a rotten tree, That cannot fo 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 spent,
We'll light upon fome fettled low Content.
Adam. Mafter, go on; and I will follow thee
To the last gafp with truth and loyalty.
From feventeen years 'till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes feek;
But at four core, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.


SCENE changes to the FOREST of Arden.

Enter Rofalind in Boys cloaths for Ganimed. Celia dreft like a Shepherdess for Aliena, and Clown.

Rof. Jupiter! how weary are my fpirits ? (5)

Clo. I care not for my fpirits, if my legs

were not weary.

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Rof. I could find in my heart to difgrace my man's apparel, and cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker veffel, as doublet and hofe ought to fhow itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena.

Cel. I pray you bear with me, I can go no further.

Clo. For my part, I had rather bear with you, than bear you; yet I fhould bear no cross, if I did bear you; for, I think you have no money in your purse.

Rof. Well, this is the foreft of Arden.

Clo. Ay; now I am in Arden, the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

Rof. Ay, be fo, good Touchflone: look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in folemn talk.

(5) Jupiter! bow merry are my Spirits ] And yet, within the Space of one intervening Line, She fays, fhe could find in her Heart to difgrace her Man's Apparel, and cry like a Woman. Sure, this is but a very bad Symptom of the Brisknefs of Spirits: rather a direct Proof of the contrary Difpofition. Mr. Warburton and I, concurred in conjecturing it fhould be, as I have reformed in the Text.. how weary are my Spirits ? And the Clown's Reply makes this Reading certain.


Enter Corin and Silvius.

Cor. That is the way to make her fcorn you ftill.
Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'ft how I do love her!
Cor. I partly guefs; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
Tho' in thy youth thou waft as true a lover,
As ever figh'd upon a midnight pillow;
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
(As, fure, I think, did never man love fo)
How many actions most ridiculous

Haft thou been drawn to by thy fantafy?
Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O, thou didst then ne'er love fo heartily;
If thou remember'ft not the flighteft folly,
That ever love did make thee run into;
Thou haft not lov'd.-

Or if thou haft not fate as I do now,
Wearying the hearer in thy miftress praise,
Thou haft not lov'd.-

Or if thou haft not broke from company,
Abruptly, as my paffion now makes me;
Thou haft not lov'd..

O Phebe! Phebe! Phebe !

[Exit Sil. Rof. Alas, poor Shepherd! fearching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found my own.

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Cle. And I mine; I remember, when I was in love, I broke my fword upon a ftone, and bid him take that for coming a nights to Jane Smile; and I remember the kiffing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing of a peafcod inftead of her, from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, faid with weeping tears, wear thele for my fake. We, that are true lovers, run into frange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, fo is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Rof. Thou fpeak'ft wifer, than thou art 'ware of. Clo. Nay, I fhall ne'er be ware of mine own wit, till I break my fhins against it.

Rof. Jove! Jove! this Shepherd's paffion is much upon my fashion.


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