Ros. Well, in her person, I say-I will not have you.

Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die. Ros. No, 'faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and being taken with the cramp, was drowned: and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was-Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I protest, her frown might

kill me.

Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

Orl. Then love me, Rosalind.

they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros. By my life, she will do as I do.
Orl. O, but she is wise.

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

Orl. A man that hath a wife with such a wit, he might say,- -" Wit, whither wilt ?" Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed. [that?

Örl. And what wit could wit have to excuse Ros. Marry, to say,-she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make

Orl. And wilt thou have me?

Ros. Ay, and twenty such.

Ori. What sayest thou?
Ros. Are you not good?
Orl. I hope so.

Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much of a good thing?-Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us.-Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?

Ori. Pray thee, marry us.
Cel. I cannot say the words.

Ros. You must begin,-" Will you, Orlando,"

Cel. Go to.-Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

Orl. I will.

Res. Ay, but when?

Orl. Why now; as fast as she can marry us. Ros. Then you must say,—“I take thee, Rosalind, for wife."

Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

Ros. I might ask you for your commission; but. I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: there's a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her actions.

Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winged. Ros. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have possessed her?

Orl. For ever and a day.

Res. Say a day, without the ever. No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when

nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool. [leave thee. Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!

Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o'clock I will be with thee again.

Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways;-I knew what you would prove! my friends told me as much, and I thought no less-that flattering tongue of yours won me :-'tis but one cast away, and so,-come, death !-Two o'clock is your hour?

Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore, beware my censure, and keep your promise.

Orl. With no less religion that if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so, adieu.

Ros. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try: adieu. [Exit Orlando.

Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.

Cel. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

Ros. No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love: I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come. Cel. And I'll sleep.

[Exeunt. SCENE II.-Another part of the Forest. Enter Jaques and Lords.

Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer? 1 Lord. Sir, it was I.

a

Jaq. Let's present him to the duke, like Roman conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?

2 Lord. Yes, sir.

Jaq. Sing it: 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough

SONG.

What shall he have that kill'd the deer? His leather skin, and horns to wear.

Then sing him home.

[The rest shall bear this burden.

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;
It was a crest ere thou wast born:

Thy father's father wore it,
And thy father bore it:

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

SCENE III.-The Forest.

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

Ros. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style, A style for challengers; why she defies me, Like Turk to Christian: woman's gentle brain Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Than in their countenance.-Will you hear the letter?

Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet; Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. Ros. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant [Reads.] [writes. "Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,

That a maiden's heart hath burn'd ?"

Can a woman rail thus?

Sil. Call you this railing?

Ros. [Reads.]

"Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr'st thou with a woman's heart ?"— Did you ever hear such railing ?—

[Reads.]

"

"Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me.' Meaning me a beast.

[Reads.]

[Exeunt.

"

Cel. I warrant you, with pure love and a troubled brain,

He hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone To sleep. Look, who comes here. [forthEnter Silvius.

Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth ;My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this: [Giving a letter. I know not the contents; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenor: pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger. [letter, Ros. Patience herself would startle at this And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all: She says I am not fair; that I lack manners;

If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect!
Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How then might your prayers move!
He that brings this love to thee,
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I'll study how to die."
Sil. Call you this chiding?
Cel. Alas, poor shepherd!

Ros. Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity.-Wilt thou love such a woman?—What, to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee! not to be endured!-Well, go your way to her, (for I see, love hath made thee a tame snake,) and say this to her :-that

Oli. Good morrow, fair ones: pray you if
you know,

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheepcote, fenc'd about with olive-trees?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neigh-
bour bottom:

The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place.
But at this hour the house doth keep itself;
There's none within.

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then should I know you by description; Such garments, and such years:-" The boy is fair,

are.

Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister: but the woman low,
And browner than her brother." Are not you
The owner of the house I did enquire for?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we
[both
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind,
He sends this bloody napkin :-are you he?
Ros. I am what must we understand by
this?
[of me
Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkerchief was stain'd.

proach'd

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, [watch,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike
When that the sleeping man should stir; for
The royal disposition of that beast, ['tis

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that
same brother;

And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural. [there, Ros. But, to Orlando :-did he leave him Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and pur-
pos'd so;

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling,
From miserable slumber I awak'd.
Cel. Are you his brother?

Ros.
Was it you he rescu'd?
Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to
kill him?

Oli. 'Twas I; but 'tis not I: I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ?---
Oli.
By and by.
When from the first to last, betwixt us two,
Tears our recountments had most kindly
bath'd,

As, how I came into that desert place ;-
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love;
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he
fainted,

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound ;
And, after some small space, being strong at
heart,

He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

Cel. [Rosalind swoons.] Why, how now,
Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

Cel. There is more in it.-Cousin !-Gany-
Oli. Look, he recovers.

Ros. I would I were at home.
Cel.

[mede!