Jaques.
Jaq.
I prithee, pretty Youth, let me be better acquainted
with thee.
Ros.
They say you are a melancholly Fellow.
Jaq.
I am so; I do love it better than Laughing.
Ros.
Those that are in Extremity of either, are abominable
Fellows, and betray themselves to every modern Censure,
worse than Drunkards.
Jaq.
Why, 'tis good to be sad, and say nothing.
Ros.
Why then 'tis good to be a Post.
Jaq.
I have neither the Scholars Melancholly, which is
Emulation; nor the Musicians, which is fantastical; nor the
Courtiers, which is proud; nor the Souldiers, which is ambitious;
nor the Lawyers, which is political; nor the Ladies,
which is nice; nor the Lovers, which is all these; but it is
a Melancholly of mine own, compounded of many Simples,
extracted from many Objects, and indeed the sundry Contemplations
of Travels in which my often Rumination wraps
me in a most humorous Sadness.
Ros.
A Traveller! by my Faith you have great Reason
to be sad: I fear you have sold your own Lands, to see other
Mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is
to have rich Eyes and poor Hands.
Jaq.
Yes, I have gain'd Experience.
Enter Orlando.
Ros.
And your Experience makes you sad: I had rather
have a Fool to make me merry, than Experience to make me
sad, and to travel for it too.
Orla.
Good Day, and Happiness, dear Rosalind.
-- 646 --
Jaq.
Nay, then God b'w'y you, and you talk in blank
Verse.
[Exit.
Ros.
Farewel, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp, and wear
strange Suits; disable all the Benefits of your own Country;
be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God
for making you that Countenance you are, or I will scarce
think you have swam in a Gondallo. Why how now Orlando,
where have you been all this while? You a Lover?
And you serve me such another 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 the 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 Heart-whole.
Orla.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Ros.
Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my
Sight, I had as lief be woo'd of a Snail.
Orla.
Of a Snail?
Ros.
Ay, of a Snail; for tho' he comes slowly, he carries
his House on his Head: A better Jointure, I think, than you
make a Woman; besides he brings his Destiny with him.
Orla.
What's that?
Ros.
Why Horns; which such as you are fain to beholding
to your Wives for; but he comes armed in his Fortune,
and prevents the Slander of his Wife.
Orla.
Virtue is no Horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.
Ros.
And I am your Rosalind.
Cel.
It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind
of a better Leer than you.
Ros.
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a Holyday
Humour, and like enough to consent: What would
you say to me now, and 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 Occasion
-- 647 --
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.
Orla.
Who could be out, being before his beloved Mistress?
Ros.
Marry that should you if I were your Mistress, or I
should think my Honesty ranker than my Wit.
Orla.
What, of my Suit?
Ros.
Not out of your Apparel, and yet out of your
Suit.
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 with the
Cramp, was drown'd; 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.
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 Flie; but come now
I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on Disposition;
and ask 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.
-- 648 --
Orla.
What saist thou?
Ros.
Are you not good?
Orla.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Orla.
So do all Thoughts; they are wing'd.
Ros.
Now tell me how long you would have her, after
you have possest 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
dispos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a Hyen, and that
when thou art inclin'd to sleep.
Orla.
But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros.
By my Life she will do as I do.
Orla.
O but she is wise.
Ros.
Or else she could not have the Wit to do this; the
-- 649 --
wiser, the waywarder: Make the Doors 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 whither 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 find 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
her self, for she will breed it like a Fool.
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 a 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 God
mend me, and by all the 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 Love-prate:
we must have your Doublet and Hose pluck'd over your
Head, and shew the World what the Bird hath done to her
own Nest.
-- 650 --
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 ones 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.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters.
Jaq.
Which is he that kill'd the Deer?
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?
For.
Yes, Sir.
Jaq.
Sing it: 'Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it
make noise enough.
Musick, Song.
What shall he have that kill'd the Deer?
His Leather Skin and Horns to wear;
Then sing him home, the rest shall bear this burthen;
Take thou no scorn to wear the Horn,
It was a Crest e'er thou wast born,
Thy Father's Father wore it,
And thy Father bore it,
The Horn, the Horn, the lusty Horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to Scorn.
[Exeunt.
-- 651 --
SCENE III.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Ros.
How say you now, is it not past two a Clock?
And here much Orlando.
Cel.
I warrant you, with pure Love and troubled Brain.
Enter Sylvius.
He hath ta'en his Bow and Arrows, and is gone forth
To sleep: Look who comes here.
Syl.
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 her self 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 Phenix: 'Od's my will,
Her Love is not the Hare that I did hunt,
Why writes she so to me? Well, Shepherd, well,
This is a Letter of your own device.
Syl.
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 Free-stone coloured 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.
Syl.
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,
-- 652 --
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their Effect
Than in their Countenance; will you hear the Letter?
Syl.
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.
[Reads.]
Art thou God, to Shepherd turn'd,
That a Maiden's Heart hath burn'd?
Can a Woman rail thus.
Syl.
Call you this Railing?
Ros. [Reads.]
Why, thy Godhead laid apart,
War'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 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 chide 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.
Syl.
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 Strings 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 entreat for her. If you be a true Lover,
hence, and not a word; for here comes more Company.
[Exit. Syl.
-- 653 --
Enter Oliver.
Oli.
Good morrow, fair ones: Pray you, if you know,
Where in the Purlews of this Forest stands
A Sheep-coat, fenc'd about with Olive-trees.
Cel.
West of this place down in the Neighbour bottom,
The rank of Osiers, by the murmuring Stream
Left on your Right-hand, bring you to the place;
But at this hour the House doth keep it self,
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 it self
Under an old Oak, whose Boughs were moss'd with Age,
And high Top bald with dry Antiquity;
A wretched ragged Man, o'er-grown with Hair,
Lay sleeping on his Back; about his Neck
A green and gilded Snake had wreath'd it self,
Who with her Head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his Mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd it self,
And with indented glides did slip away
-- 654 --
Into a Bush, under whose Bushes shade
A Lioness, with Udders all drawn dry,
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 the most unnatural,
That liv'd amongst 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 Battel 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 desart 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 unto 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.
-- 655 --
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.
Cel.
Why, how now Ganimed, sweet Ganimed?
Oli.
Many will swoon when they do look on Blood.
Cel.
There is no more in it: Cousin Ganimed!
Oli.
Look, he recovers.
Ros.
I would I were at home.
Cel.
We'll lead you thither.
I pray 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, Sirra, 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 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?
[Exeunt.
-- 656 --
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
