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over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my defires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are difpos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when you are inclin'd to weep. Orla. But will my Rofalind do fo ?


Rof. By my life, the will do as I do.
Orla. O, but he is wife.

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Rof. Or elfe the could not have the wit to do this; the wifer, the waywarder: make the doors faft upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the cafement; fhut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; ftop that, it will fly with the fmoak out at the chimney.

Orla. A man that had a wife with fuch a wit, he might fay, Wit, whither wilt?

Rof. 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 excufe that?

Rof. Marry, to fay fhe came to feek you there: you fhall never take her without her anfwer, unlefs 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 fhe will breed it like a fool !

Orla. For thefe two hours, Rofalind, 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 lefs; that flattering tongue of your's won me; 'tis but one caft away, and fo come death. Two o' th' clock is your hour!

Orla. Ay, fweet Rofalind.

Rof. By my troth, and in good earnest, and fo God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not danger. ous, if you break one jot of your promife, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most atheftical break-promife, and the moft hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Refalind, that may be chofen out of the grofs band of the unfaithful; therefore beware my cenfure, and keep your promife.


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Orla. With no lefs religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rofalind; fo adieu.

Ref. Well, Time is the old juftice that examines all fuch offenders, and let time try. Adieu! [Exit Orla.



Cel. You have fimply mifus'd our fex in your loveprate we must have your doublet and hofe pluck'd over your head, and thew the world what the bird hath done to her own neft.

Ref. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou did 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.

Gel. O rather, bottomlefs; that as fast as you pour affection in it, it runs out.


No that fame wicked baftard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rafcally boy, that abuses eve

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ry one's eyes, becaufe 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 find: fhadow, and figh till he come.


Cel. And I'll fleep.


SCENE IV. Enter Jaques, Lords, and Forefters.

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

Jaq. Let's prefent him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; and it would do well to fet the deer's horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have you no fong, Forefter for this purpofe?

For. Yes, Sir.

Jaq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, fo it make noife enough.

Mufic, Song.

What shall be have that kill'd the deer?
His leather fkin and horns to wear ;


take thou no fcorn

Then fing him home :-
To wear the horn, the born, the horn;
It was a creft ere thou waft born.
Thy father's father wore it,
And thy father bore it;

The horn, the horn, the lufty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to fcorn.

The reft fhall

bear this burg



SCENE V. Enter Rofalind and Celia.'

Ref. How fay you now, is it not paft 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 fleep. Look, who comes here.

Ref. Come, come, you're a fool,

And turn'd into th' extremity of love.

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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 ftern brow and waspish action
Which the did ufe as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor; pardon me,
I am but as a guiltlefs meffenger.

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


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

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I faw her hand, fhe has a leathern hand,
A free-ftone-colour'd hand; I verily did think,
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands
She has a hufwife's hand, but that's no matter;
I fay, fhe 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 boiftrous and a cruel style, A ftyle for challengers; why, fhe defies me, Like Turk to Chriftian; woman's gentle brain Could not drop forth fuch 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 fhepherd 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, Warr'ft thou with a woman's heart? Did you ever hear fuch railing?

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


If the fcorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raife fuch love in mine,
Alack, in me, what strange effect
Would they work in mild afpect?
Whiles you chid 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 feal up thy mind,
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make ;
Or elfe by him my love deny,
And then I'll ftudy how to die.

Syl. Call you this chiding?
Cel. Alas, poor fhepherd!

Rof. Do you pity him? no, he deferves no pity. Wilt thou love fuch a woman? what, to make thee an inftrument, 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 fnake), and say this to her, That if fhe love me, I charge her to love thee; if he will VOL. II.

M m


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 foreft, ftands A fheep-cote fence'd about with olive-trees?

Gel. Weft of this place, down in the neighbour bot
The rank of ofiers, by the murmuring ftream, [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 profit by a tongue,
Then fhould I know you by defcription,
Such garments, and fuch years: the boy is fair,
Of female favour, and beftows himself
Like a ripe fifter: 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 boaft, being afk'd, to fay we are.
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rofalind,
He fends his bloody napkin. Are you he?

Rof. I am; what must we understand by this? Oli. Some of my fhame, if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was ftain'd.

Cel. I pray you, tell it.

Oli. When laft the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promife to return again

Within an hour; and pacing through the foreft,
Chewing the food of fweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye afide,
And mark what object did prefent itself.

• Under an oak, whofe boughs were mofs'd with age, And high top bald with dry antiquity;

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,


Lay fleeping on his back; about his neck

A green and gilded fnake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd

The opening of his mouth; but fuddenly

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