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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.

       ORLANDO

       For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

       ROSALIND

       Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!

       ORLANDO

       I must attend the duke at dinner; by two o’clock I will be with thee again.

       ROSALIND

       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?

       ORLANDO

       Ay, sweet Rosalind.

       ROSALIND

       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.

       ORLANDO

       With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so, adieu!

       ROSALIND

       Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try: adieu!

       [Exit ORLANDO.]

       CELIA

       You have simply misus’d 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.

       ROSALIND

       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.

       CELIA

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

       ROSALIND

       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.

       CELIA

       And I’ll sleep.

       [Exeunt.]

      SCENE II. Another part of the Forest

       [Enter JAQUES and Lords, in the habit of Foresters.]

       JAQUES

       Which is he that killed the deer?

       LORD

       Sir, it was I.

       JAQUES

       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?

       LORD

       Yes, sir.

       JAQUES

       Sing it; ‘tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.

       SONG

       1. What shall he have that kill’d the deer?

       2. His leather skin and horns to wear.

       1. 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.

       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.

       [Exeunt.]

      SCENE III. Another part of the Forest

       [Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

       ROSALIND

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

       CELIA

       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 SILVIUS.]

       SILVIUS

       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.

       ROSALIND

       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.

       SILVIUS

       No, I protest, I know not the contents:

       Phebe did write it.

       ROSALIND

       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:

       I say she never did invent this letter:

       This is a man’s invention, and his hand.

       SILVIUS

       Sure, it is hers.

       ROSALIND

       Why, ‘tis a boisterous and a cruel style;

       A style for challengers: why, she defies me,

       Like Turk to Christian: women’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?

       SILVIUS

       So please you, for I never heard it yet;

       Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty.

       ROSALIND

       She Phebes 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?

       SILVIUS

       Call you this railing?

      

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