Orlando.
Orla.
Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind.* note
Ros.
Why, how now, Orlando. Where
have you been, all this while? You a lover! An
you serve me such an other trick, never come in my
sight, more.
Orla.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of
my promise.
Ros.
Break an hour's promise in love! He that
will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break
but a part of a thousandth part of a minute, in the
affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath
clapt him o'th' shoulder, but, I'll warrant him heartwhole.
Orla.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Ros.
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a
holy-day humour, and like enough to consent. What
would you say to me, now, an I were your very, very
Rosalind?
Orla.
I would kiss, before I spoke.
Ros.
Nay, you were better speak first, and when
you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take
-- 128 --
occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are
out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking, God warn
us, matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
Orla.
How if the kiss be denied?
Ros.
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins
new matter. Am not I your Rosalind?
Orla.
I take some joy to say you are, because I
would be talking of her.
Ros.
Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.
Orla.
Then in mine own person, I die.
Ros.
No, faith, die by attorney; the poor world is
almost six thousand years old, and in all this time
there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet,
in a love cause: Troilus had his brains dash'd out
with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die,
before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander,
he would have liv'd many a fair year, tho' Hero
had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer
night; for, good youth, he went but forth to
wash in the Hellespont, and being taken by the cramp,
was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers 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.* note
Orla.
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.
Orla.
Then love me, Rosalind.
Ros.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and
all.
Orla.
And wilt thou have me?
Ros.
Ay, and twenty such.
Orla.
What say'st thou?
Ros.
Are you not good?
Orla.
I hope so.
-- 129 --
Ros.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good
thing?
Enter Celia.
Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us.
Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?
Orla.
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?
Orla.
I will.
Ros.
Ay, but when?
Orla.
Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
Ros.
Then you must say, I take thee, Rosalind, for
wife.
Orla.
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Ros.
Now tell me, how long you would have her,
after you have possess'd her?
Orla.
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,† note and that when
you are inclin'd to sleep.‡ note
Orla.
But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros.
By my life, she will do as I do.
Orla.
O, but she is wise.
-- 130 --
Ros.
Or else she could not have the wit to do this.
The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors fast upon
a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut
that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; 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, whether 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?
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 accusation,
let her never nurse her child herself, for she will
breed it like a fool.
SONG, by Rosalind.* note
I.
When daises pied and violets blue,
And ladies' smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight:
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings be:
Cuckoo, cuckoo, O word of fear!
Unpleasing to a married ear.
II.
When shepherds pipe on oaken straws,
And merry larks are plowmen's clocks,
And turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks;
The cuckoo then, on ev'ry tree,
Mocks marry'd men, for thus sings he:
Cuckoo, cuckoo, O word of fear!
Unpleasing to a marry'd ear.
-- 131 --
Orla.
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
Ros.
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.
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'th' clock is your hour!
Orla.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ros.
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so
heav'n 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.
Orla.
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.
[Exit Orla.
Cel.
You have simply misus'd our sex, in your loveprate.
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, conceiv'd 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 sight of Orlando; I'll go find a shadow, and
sigh till he come.
Cel.
And I'll sleep.
[Exit Celia.
-- 132 --
Enter Silvius.
Sil.
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 tenure. 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 Phœnix. Odds, 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're a fool,
And turn'd into th' extremity of love.
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 stile,
A stile 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?
Sil.
So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.
Ros.
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?
Sil.
Call you this railing?
Ros.
[Reads.]
Why, thy godhead laid apart,
War'st thou with a woman's heart?
-- 133 --
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?
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
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.
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 endur'd! Well, go your way to her, for I see
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 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 Sil.
Enter Oliver.
Oli.
Good-morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,
Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive-trees?
Cel.
West of this place, down in the neighbouring bottom,
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place;
-- 134 --
But at this hour the house doth keep itself,
There's none within.
Oli.
If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description,
Such garments, and such years: the boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister: 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 sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
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; and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself.
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,* note
And high-top bald, of dry antiquity:
And 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,
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away,
Into a bush, under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like 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:
-- 135 --
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
And found it was his brother, his eldest brother.
Cel.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
And he did render him the most unnatural,
That liv'd 'mongst men.
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,
From miserable slumber I awak'd.
Cel.
Are you his brother?
Ros.
Was't 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;
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love,
Who led me instantly into his cave,
There strip'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And cry'd in fainting upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound,
And after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd youth,
That he, in sport, doth call his Rosalind.
-- 136 --
Cel.
Why, how now, Ganimede, sweet Ganimede?
[Ros. faints.
Oli.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
Cel.
There is no more in't—cousin Ganimede.* note
Oli.
Look, he recovers.
Ros.
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. 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.† note
[Exeunt.
End of the Fourth Act.
-- 137 --
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
