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ROSALIND.

Celia. Didst thou hear these verses ?
Rosalind. O

yes,

I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

Celia. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.

Rosalind. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

Celia. But didst thou hear, without wondering how thy name should be hang'd and carv'd upon these trees ?

Rosalind. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder, before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree: I never was so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

Celia. Trow you who hath done this?
Rosalind. Is it a man ?

Celia. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck: Change you colour?

Rosalind. I pr’ythee, who?

Celia. O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet, but mountains

may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.
Rosalind. Nay, but who is it?
Celia. Is it possible?
Rosalind. Nay,

I
pray

with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

Celia. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!

Rosalind. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition ? One inch of delay more is a South-sea-off discovery. I prythee tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou might 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 prythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I

may

drink thy tidings.

thee now,

As You LIKE IT.-Act III. Scene II. ROSALINDE.

Célie. As-tu entendu ces vers ?

Rosalinde. Oh! oui ! je les ai entendus tous, et au delà; car quelquesuns avaient un plus grand nombre de pieds que les vers n'en comportent.

Célie. C'est égal, les vers pouvaient se tenir sur leurs pieds.

Rosalinde. Oui, mais les pieds étaient boiteux, et ne pouvaient se soutenir, sans les vers; c'étaient des vers boiteux.

Célie. As-tu pu voir sans étonnement comme ton nom est affiché et gravé sur ces arbres ?

Rosalinde. Sur neuf jours, il y en avait sept que j'étais revenue de ma surprise quand tu es arrivée. Vois ce que j'ai trouvé sur un palmier. (Elle lui montre le papier qu'elle tient à la main.) On ne m'a jamais tant rimaillée depuis le temps de Pythagore, époque où j'étais un rat irlandais, ce dont je me souviens à peine.

Célie. Devines-tu qui a fait cela ?
Rosalinde. Est-ce un homme ?

Célie. Un homme ayant à son cou une chaîne que tu portais autrefois. Tu changes de couleur ?

Rosalinde. Je t'en prie, dis-moi qui.

Célie. O mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Il est difficile que des amis se rencontrent; mais des montagnes peuvent être déplacées par des tremblements de terre, et se rencontrer.

Rosalinde. Mais encore, qui est-ce ?
Célie. Est-il possible?

Rosalinde. Je t'en supplie avec la plus véhémente insistance, dis-moi qui c'est ?

Célie. O merveilleux, merveilleux, superlativement merveilleux et encore merveilleux ! merveilleux au-dessus de toute expression!

Rosalinde. Par les roses de mon teint! crois tu donc, parce que je suis habillé en homme, que mes sentiments soient en pourpoint et en hautde-chausses ? Une minute encore de retard serait un voyage de découverte à la mer du Sud! Je t'en supplie, dis-moi qui c'est; dépêche-toi et parle vite. Je voudrais que tu fusses bègue, afin que le nom de cet homme sortît de ta bouche, comme le vin sort d'une bouteille dont le gouleau est étroit; trop à la fois, ou rien du tout. Je t'en prie, tire le bouchon de ta parole, et que je boive les sons de ta voix.

COMME IL VOUS PLAIRA.— Acte III. Scène II.

[graphic]

AUDREY.

Touchstone. Come apace, good Audrey: I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey ? am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you ?

Audrey. Your features! Lord warrant us! what features ?

Touchstone. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.

Audrey. I do not know what poetical is: Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing ?

Touchstone. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers, they do feign.

Audrey. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical ?

Touchstone. I do, truly: for thou swear'st to me thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope that thou didst feign.

Audrey. Would you not have me honest ?

Touchstone. No, truly, unless thou wert hard favour’d: for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar. Jaques. A material fool!

[Aside. Audrey. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest!

Touchstone. Truly; and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut, weré to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Audrey. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.

Touchstone. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness ! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee: and to that end, I have with me Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village; who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.

Audrey. Well, the gods give us joy !

As You LIKE IT.-Act III. Scene III.

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