 | Love in a Forest |  |
The Third ACT.
SCENE the Forest.Orlando, a Paper of Verses in his Hand.
Orl.
fixing the Paper on a Tree.
Hang there my Verse, in Witness of my Love;
And thou thrice crowned Queen of Night survey
With thy chast Eye, from thy pale Sphere above,
Thy Huntress Name that my full Life doth sway.
Oh, Rosalind, these Trees shall be my Books,
And in their Barks my Thoughts I'll Character,
That every Eye which in this Forest looks
Shall see thy Virtue witness'd every where;
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every Tree
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
[Exit Orlando.
Scene continues. Rosalind and Cælia.
Cæ.
What have you there?
[Ros. takes the Paper Orlando had hung on the Tree.
Ros.
More Rhymes, Cosin.
Cæ.
Aye! read them, read them.
Ros.
reads.
From the East to Western Inde
No Jewel is like Rosalind,
Her Worth being mounted on the Wind,
Thro' all the World bears Rosalind;
All the Pictures fairest lin'd,
Are but black to Rosalind;
But the Face of Rosalind.
Cæ.
Heyday; I'll Rhyme you so eight Years together,
Dinners and Suppers, and Sleeping Times
excepted: For a Taste,
Let him seek out Rosalind;
If the Cat will after Kind,
So be sure will Rosalind;
Winter Garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind;
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to Cart with Rosalind;
Sweetest Meat hath sowrest Rind,
Such a Nut is Rosalind.
Ros.
This is the very false Gallop of Verse; why
do you infect yourself with them?
Cæ.
But doest thou not wonder, Cosin, how thy
Name shou'd be hang'd and carved upon these
Trees?
Ros.
Look ye here, what I found on a Palm-Tree,
I was never so Berhym'd since Pythagoras's Time,
which I can hardly remember!
Cæ.
Tro you who hath done this?
Ros.
It is a Man.
Cæ.
With a Ribond, you once wore, about his Arm;
Change you Colour?
Ros.
I prithee who?
Cæ.
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard Matter for Friends
to meet; but Mountains may be remov'd with Earthquakes,
and so encounter.
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cæ.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary
Vehemence, tell me who it is?
Cæ.
Oh wonderful! and most wonderfully wonderful!
and yet again wonderful! and after that out of
all hooping.
One Inch of Delay more, and I die before
this Discovery. I prithee tell me, who is it? Quickly!
and speak apace, is he of Heavens making?
What Manner of Man? Is his Head worth a Hat?
Or his Chin worth a Beard?
Cæ.
Nay, he hath but a little Beard.
Ros.
Why then I'll stay the Growth of his Beard,
if thou delay me not the Knowledge of his Name.
Cæ.
It is then young Orlando, he who wounded
yours and the Fencer's Heart, both in an Instant.
Ros.
Nay, but the Devil take mocking? Speak,
speak.
Cæ.
I'faith, Cousin, 'tis he.
Ros.
Orlando!
Cæ.
Orlando.
Ros.
Alas the Day, what shall I do with these
Breeches? What did he when thou sawest him?
What said he? How looked he? Where went he?
What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where
remains he? How parted he with thee? And when
shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one Word.
Cæ.
You must borrow me Garagantua's Mouth first;
'tis a Work too great for any Mouth of this Age's
Size; to say at once aye and no together, to be general
and particular at once, is beyond my Catechism.
Ros.
But does he know that I am in this Forest,
and in Mans Apparel? Looks he freshly as he did
the Day he fought with Charles the Fencer?
Cæ.
It is as easy to count Atoms, as to resolve the
Propositions of a Lover; but take a Taste of my
finding him, and relish it with good Observance:—
I found him under an Oak, like a drop'd Acorn.
Ros.
It may well be called Jove's Tree, when
it drops such Fruit.
Cæ.
Give me Audience, good Madam.
Ros.
Proceed.
There lay he, stretch'd along, like a wounded
Knight.
Ros.
Tho' it be pity to see such a Sight, it well
becomes the Ground.
Cæ.
Cry Holla to thy Tongue, I prithee, it curvets
unreasonably. He was furnish'd like a Hunter.
Ros.
Oh ominous! he comes to kill my Heart.
Cæ.
I would sing my Song without a Burthen, you
put me out of Tune.
Ros.
Do you not know I am a Woman? What I
think I must speak: Sweet, say on.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
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.
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?
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
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;
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.
[Exeunt Orlando and Rosalind.
Cæ.
A Philosopher! what Sort of a Play-thing is
that?
Jaques.
A Thing that very oft sets up for Probity
and Wisdom without one Ounce of either; it is
generally Self-sufficient, seldom just, and always
sower, more abounding in Ill-nature than Knowledge.
Cæ.
Oh, Knowledge ill inhabited, worse than
Jove in a thatch'd House.
Jaques.
Are you honest?
Cæ.
If I had any Neighbours you might ask
them.
Jaques.
I hope you are not.
Cæ.
Why so, wou'd you not have me honest?
Jaques.
No truly, unless thou wer't hard favour'd,
for Honesty coupled with Beauty is to make Honey
Sauce for Sugar.
Cæ.
Then you allow me handsome?
Jaques.
Destructively handsome! I fancy too
you have Understanding; but peradventure my
Head takes Instructions from my Heart, for that, I
feel by its Palpitation, gallops away in your Praise
most dangerously.
Cæ.
You'll be in Love if you do not take good
Heed, Signior Philosopher,—You have some Symptoms,
have you not?
Jaques.
I doubt so—Yet I hope not—When
I lean'd my Shoulder against yours to read Orlando's
Verses, I caught a Tingling; aye,—here it is
still; and creeps every Moment more and more into
my Blood.—
Cæ.
Well,—be a faithful Servant, and I will
use you kindly.
What a Bound has that given my Spirits!
Hark ye, will you,—tell Nobody of it tho'—
will you marry me?
Cæ.
Oh, you begin where you shou'd end, my
true Knight; two Years hence, after many Services
and various Adventures, it will be Time enough,
sure, to ask that solemn Question.
Jaques.
Two Years! What? How? Must I then,
must I work in the Galleys two whole Years?
Cæ.
In the Galleys, heyday—You wicked
Thing; you're a Suitor indeed, Ha, ha,—
Jaques.
Well, then I will flatter thee like thy
Glass.
Cæ.
Truth, good sound Truth, is Food substantial
enough for my Pride.
Jaques.
Thou shalt be as humourous as thy sick
Dog, thy Passions shall have no other Masters than
thy Desires; thy—
Cæ.
Hold, hold, you are Railing on me, while
you intend to praise me; indeed you do not make
Love, but suffer it, it seems, to be in Spight of
your Will.
Jaques.
Wou'd it were in Spight of my Heart too;
but that is a Renegade, and has left its Master.
Cæ.
Well said, sigh a little; you'll soon trot easy
in your Harness.
Jaques.
But as I said before—will you—'tis
a hard Word, but will you marry me?
Cæ.
Two Years hence, if my Brother Ganymede
consents, for without his Consent I am sworn not
to convey myself away; if your Inclinations are
the same, and mine alter,—why then we will talk
this Matter over once again.
Jaques.
I will ask your Brother's Consent.
Cæ.
That you may, and have an Answer, depend
upon it; but now you have put me in Mind that I
have miss'd him too long, that Way I think he
went—Adieu.
Fare you well, Lady—I am a Turk,
an errant Miscreant, if I am not in Love, horribly,
strangely in Love! what! to have my Spirits caught
at last by a Pair of bugle Eyeballs, and a Cheek of
Cream—I shall be the Jest of the World, I
shall have Quirk and Witticisms broke on me innumerable,
—Because I have railed on Marriage:—
Why—Appetites alter, and one may love in his
Age, I hope, what he cou'd not endure in his Youth.
And yet if a Man were of a fearful Heart, he might
stagger a little in this Attempt; and wou'd my Mistress
marry me, which bears a Question likewise,
we have here no Temple but the Wood, no Assembly
but horned Beasts,—Horns,—Aye, they
may be a Wife's Dowry, 'tis plain they can not be a
Man's own getting;—And yet the noblest married
Man hath them as huge as the Rascal;—Is a
Batchelor, therefore, more honourable than a Husband?
—No, as a walled Town is worthier than a
Village, by so much is the armed Forehead of a married
Man more honourable than the bare Brow of a
Batchelor.—Surely this Wound is not very
dangerous that I can tickle myself thus with scratching
it:—I do not know how it is,—I am
in a silly Way,—Well—Well—We
are all Babies, and cry ourselves sick for Play-things
that we throw away the Moment after we have
them.
Re-enter Cælia and Rosalind.
Ros.
I met the Duke Yesterday, and had much
Question with him, he asked me of what Parentage
I was, I told him of as good as he, so he laugh'd and
let me go: But what talk we of Fathers when there
is such a Man as Orlando.
But as I was saying, Coz, this Bluntness of
Jaques becomes him, it is so unaffected; I think
my Heart does incline a little to the Philosopher.
Ros.
Then Orlando's Hair; aye, his Hair is of
the dissembling Colour.
Cæ.
Then Jaques's Love looks a little awkward;
it does not sit so easy on him; but his Words are full
of Sincerity.
Ros.
No faith, his Hair is of a good Colour.
Cæ.
I think he has got an Inch or two into my
Heart,
Ros.
Ah me! I am fifty Fathom deep in Love,
I shall never recover it.
Cæ.
Lord, you can think of nothing but Orlando;
but now I beg, I petition for a Word or two in Behalf
of my Servant Senior Jaques.
Ros.
Orlando swore he wou'd come again presently,
is he not a true Lover, think you?
Cæ.
As hollow as a cover'd Goblet, or a Worm-eaten
Nut.
Ros.
Yet he swore he was true.
Cæ.
Aye, so they do all, but they tell us, Cousin,
and I tremble to think of it, that the Oath of a Lover
is not to be depended on; but our Lovers are
Courtiers too, and attend here on the Duke your Father,
in this Forest: Now as Courtiers they have a
certain Right to Promise-breaking.
Ros.
No Matter, Orlando is not, can not, will
not, shall not be false.
Cæ.
Oh he is a brave Man, writes brave Verses,
speaks brave Words, swears brave Oaths, and notwithstanding
your Resolution, Madamoiselle, he
may break them as bravely. But what say you to
Senior Jaques, once again? Will he make a good
Husband?
Ros.
Aye, a good Workyday Husband; you must
have another for Sundays, but indeed your wife
Fools make the best Lovers, 'tis your—impenetrable
Head of a wise Man there is a beaten Path to his
Heart, that every Woman knows.
Cæ.
But your Advice, your Advice.
Ros.
Alas, thou knowest I am sick of thy Distemper,
and I must find a Cure for my own Malady before
I presume to prescribe to thine.
[Exeunt.
| Love in a Forest | |