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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 no

thing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that • when you are dispos'd to be merry; I will laugh like • a hyen, and that wlien you are inclin'd to weep.

Orla. But will my Rosalind do to?
Ros. By my life, she will do as I do.
Orla. O, but the is wise.

Rof. Or else the could not have the wit to do this; the wifer, the waywarder: make the doors fait upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-holc; stop that, it will fly with the smoak out at the chimney.

Orla. A man that had 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.

Orla. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

Rof. Marry, to say she came to seek you there: you Thall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O that woman that cannot make her fault her husband's occafion, let her never nurse her child herself, for the will breed it like a fool !

Orla. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. Rof. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.

Orla. I must attend the Duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again.

Rof. Ay, go your ways, go your ways ; I knew what

you would prove, my friends told me as much, and I thought no lels; that flattering tongue of your's won me; 'tis but one cast away, and so come death, Two o'th' clock is


hour ! Orla. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Rof. By my troth, and in good earncit, and fo God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous,

break one jot of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most atheftical 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 centure, and keep your promise.

if your


Orla. With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rotalind; fo adieu.

R. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such oifenders, and let time try. Adieu! [Exit Orla.

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Cel. You have simply misus'd our fex in your loveprate : we must have your doublet and hose pluck'd over your head, and Thew the world what the bird hach done to her own nest.

Ros. O coz, coz, cor, my pretty little coz, lhat thou didt know how many fathom deep I am in love; but it cannot be founded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.

Cel. O rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affe tion in it, it runs out.

RO. No that fime wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, and born • of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses eve

ry 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 fight of Orlando; I'll

go fhadow, and sigh till he come. Cel. And I'll llcep.


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SCENE IV. Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters.

Jaq. Which is he that kill'd the deer ?
Lorit. Sir, it was I.

jaa. Let's prefent him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have you no long, Forcfter for this purpose ?

For. Yes, Sir.

fag. Sing it; ’tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noile enough.

Music, Song
Ilhat fall be have that killd the deer?
His leather skin and horns to weur ;


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Then fing him honte :- take thou no fcorn
To wear the horn, the horn, the horn ; The rest hall
It was a crejt ere thóll waft born

bearshisburg 77; father's father wore it,

"then. And thy father hore it; The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, is not a thing to laugh to fcorni [Exeunt.

SCENE V. Enter Rosalind and Celia. Rof. How fay you now, is it not past two o'clock ? I wonder much Orlando is not here.

Cel. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled, brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth to sleep. Look, who comes here.

Enter Sylvius.
Syl. My errand is to you, fair youth,
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this :
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.

Rof. Patience herself would startle at this letter,
And play the swaggerer ; bear this, bear all.
She says I am not fair; that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me
Were man as rare as phænix: ’odds my will !
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.
Why writes the fo to me? Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.

Syl. No, I proteft I know not the contents; Phebe did write it.

Rof. Come, come, you're a fool, And turn'd into th' extremity of love. I saw her hand, she has a leathern hand, A free-Itone-colour'd hand; I verily did think, That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands a '7: She has a hulwife's hand, but that's no matter; I say, she never did invent this letter; This is a man's invention, and his hand,

Syl. Sure it is her's.

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

Syl. So please you, for I never heard it yet; Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

Rof. She Phebe’s me; mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads.] Art thou God to shepherd turn’d,

That a maiden's heart hath burn'd ?
Can a woman rail thus ?

Syl. Call you this railing?
Rof. [Reads.] Why, thy Godhead laid apart,

Warrijt thou with a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing ?

Whiles the eye of man did woo me,

That could do no vengeance to me.
Meaning me a beast !

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 ?


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.

Syl. Call you this chiding? Cel. Alas, poor shepherd ! Rof. 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 fee love hath made thee a tame snake), and say this to her, That if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will VOL. II.



not, I will never have her, unless thou intreat for her. If

you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.

[Exit. Syl. SCENE VI. Enter Oliver. Oli. Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know, Where, in the purlieus of this foreit, stands A Theep-cote fence'd about with olive-trees?

Gel. Welt of this place, down in the neighbour bot.
The rank of ofiers, by the murmuring stream, [tom,
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 prosit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by defcription,
Such garments, and such years: the boy is fair,
of female favour, and bestorus hirife!f
Like a ripe lifter: 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 are.

Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind,
He fends his bloody napkin. Are you he?

Rof. I am; what must we underitand by this?

Oli. Some of my shame, if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was stain'd.

Cel. I pray you, tell it.

Oli. When lait the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again Within an hour ; and pacing through the forest, Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, Lo, what befel! he threw his eye alide, And mark what object did present itself. • Under an oak, whose boughs were mofs'd with age, ' And high top bald with dry antiquity; • A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, · Lay sleeping on his back; about his neck ' A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, • Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd • The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly


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