Ros.

How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? and here much Orlando^{8 note}

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^{9 note} 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^{1 note}

; 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 Phœnix; 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.

Ros.
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^{2 note}



; 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.

Sil.
Sure, it is hers.

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^{3 note}
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
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 writes.

Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, [Reads.
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?—
Can a woman rail thus?

Sil.
Call you this railing?

Ros.

Why, thy godhead laid apart,
Warr'st 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^{4 note} 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 aspéct?
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^{5 note}

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^{7 note}

Enter Oliver.

Oli.
Good-morrow, fair ones: Pray you, if you know
Where, in the purlieus^{8 note}

Cel.
West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom,
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand^{9 note}, 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 I should know you by description;
Such garments, and such years: The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister^{1 note}
: but the woman low^{2 note},
And browner than her brother. Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire 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 sends this bloody napkin^{3 note}

Ros.
I am: What must we understand 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 last the young Orlando parted from you,
He left a promise to return again
Within an hour^{4 note}

Under an old oak^{6 note}

Into a bush: under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry^{7 note}

,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast,
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 he did render him^{8 note}

Oli.
And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.

Ros.
But, to Orlando;—Did he leave him there,
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

Oli.
Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'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^{9 note}

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^{1 note}

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

Cel.
Why, how now, Ganymede? sweet Ganymede? [Rosalind faints.

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

Cel.
There is more in it:—Cousin—Ganymede^{3 note}!

Oli.
Look, he recovers.

Ros.
I would, I were at home.

Cel.
We'll lead you thither:—
I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

Oli.
Be of good cheer, youth:—You a man?—
You lack a man's heart.

Ros.

I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir^{4 note}, a body would think this was well counterfeited: I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited.—Heigh ho!—

Oli.

This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your complexion, that it was a passion of earnest.

Ros.

Counterfeit, I assure you.

Oli.

Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.

Ros.

So I do: but, i'faith I should have been a woman by right.

Cel.

Come, you look paler and paler; pray you, draw homewards:—Good sir, go with us.

Oli.
That will I, for I must bear answer back
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

Ros.

I shall devise something: But, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him:—Will you go?

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