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and being taken with the cramp, was drowned, and the foolish coroners 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.

Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays, and Saturdays, and all. Orl. And wilt thou have me?

Ros. Ay, and twenty such.
Orl. What say'st 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?

Orl. 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.

Ros. 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.

P -coroners-] I have here followed the reading of Sir Thomas Hanmer.The old copy reads chronoclers, a word which might be a misprint either for coroners or chroniclers, but as the former word is supported by the sense of the context, I have followed the advice of Mr. Edwards, and Mr. M. Mason in adopting it.

q your commission;] i. e. Your order for me to speak, the words are addressed to Celia.

Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, after you have possessed her.

Orl. For ever and a day.

Ros. Say a day, without the ever: No, no, Orlando ; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes. when 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 'twillout at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

Orl. 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.

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

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 her fault her husband's occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.

I will weep for nothing like Diana in the fountain,] Statues, and particularly that of Diana, with water conveyed through them to give the appearance of weeping figures, were anciently a frequent ornament of fountains. WHALLEY.

I will laugh like a hyen,] The bark of the hyena was anciently supposed to resemble a loud laugh.-STEEVENS.


Make the doors,] i. e. Fasten the doors. This expression is in Derbyshire still constantly used.-STEEVENS.


Wit, whither wilt?] This was an exclamation much in use, when any one was either talking nonsense, or usurping a greater share in conversation than justly belonged to him.--STEEVENS.


her husband's occasion,] i. e. Occasioned by her husband. Sir Thomas Hanmer proposes to read accusation for occasion.-JOHNSON.

Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. 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, than 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!


Cel. You have simply misus'd our sex in your loveprate: 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 mad



pathetical-]i. e. Affected, or affecting falsely.-NARES's Glossary. to her own nest.] So in Lodge's Rosalynde; "I pray you (quoth Aliena) if your own robes were off, what mettal are you made of, that you are so satyrical against women' Is it not a foul bird defiles her own nest?". STEEVENS.

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ness; 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.



Another part of the Forest.

Enter JAQUES and Lords, in the habit of Foresters.

Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer?

1 Lord. Sir, it was I.

Jaq. Let's present 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 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.


1. What shall he have, that kill'd the deer?
2. His leather skin, and horns to wear.
Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn;
It was a crest ere thou wast born.

1. Thy father's father wore it:
2. And thy father bore it:
All. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

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Then sing him home. The rest shall bear this burden.

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Then sing him home.] These words have been given as a separate line of the song in all the modern editions, though there is nothing that corresponds with them in the succeeding verses; though in the first folio they are printed in connexion with the words which are constantly placed in the margin as a stage direction; and though they are not found in Playford's Musical Companion, 1673, where this song is set to music.-Then sing him home is merely a direction for the chorus to begin.


The Forest.


Ros. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock ? And here much Orlando!

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.


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 tenour: pardon me,

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Ros. 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 Phoenix; Od's my will!

Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:

Why writes she so to me?-Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.

Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents;

Phebe did write it.


Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn'd into the extremity of love.

I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,

A freestone-colour'd hand; I verily did think

That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;

She has a huswife's hand: but that's no matter:


say, she never did invent this letter:

This is a man's invention, and his hand.
Sil. Sure, it is hers.

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