Celia.
Ros.
How say you now, is it not past 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
sleep: look, who comes here.
Enter Silvius.
Sil.
My errand is to you fair youth,
My gentle Phebe 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. [reading.]
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.
-- 85 --
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 saw her hand, she has a leathern hand,
A free-stone-colour'd hand; I verily did think,
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hand;
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 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,
Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing?
While the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance* note to me.
Meaning me a beast.
-- 86 --
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 Kind5 note
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 endured!—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 Silvius.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
