Cæ.

Why, Cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have Mercy! Not a Word?

Ros.

Not one to throw at a Dog.

Cæ.

No; thy Words are too precious to be thrown away upon Curs, throw some of them at me; come, lame me with Reasons! But is all this Melancholly for your Father?

Ros.

No, some of it is for my Child's Father: Oh! how full of Briers is this Working-day World.

Cæ.

They are but Burrs, Cousin, thrown upon thee in Holy-day Foolery; if we walk in the trodden Paths our very Petticoats will catch 'em.

Ros.

I cou'd shake them off my Coat; these Burrs are in my Heart.

Cæ.

Hem them away.

Ros.

I wou'd try, if I cou'd cry Hem, and have him.

Cæ.

Come, come, you must, like a good Christian, War with your Affections.

Ros.

Alas! they take the Part of a better Warrior than myself.

Cæ.

Is it then possible, that so suddenly you should fall into so strange a liking of old Sir Rowland's younger Son?

Ros.

The Duke my Father loved his Father dearly.

Cæ.

Does it therefore ensue that you should love his Son dearly? By this Kind of Chase, I should hate him, for my Father hated his Father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

Ros.

No faith! hate him not for my Sake.

Cæ.

Why should I not? Does he not deserve it?

Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords.

Ros.

Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do; look ye, here comes the Duke, your Father,

Cæ.

With his Eyes full of Anger.

Duke to Ros.
Mistress, dispatch you with your safest Haste,
And get you from our Court.

Ros.

Me! Uncle?

Duke.

You, Cousin; if thou art found within ten Days, so near our publick Court as twenty Miles, thou diest for it.

Ros.
—I do beseech your Grace,
Let me the Knowledge of my Fault bear with me,
If with myself I hold Intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with my own Desires,
If that I do not dream, or be not frantick,
Never so much as in a Thought unborn
Did I offend your Highness.

Duke.
—Thus do all Traitors,
If their Purgation did consist in Words,
They are as innocent as Grace itself;
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

Ros.
Yet your Mistrust can not make me a Traitor,
Tell me, whereon the likelyhood depends?

Duke.
Thou art thy Father's Daughter, that's enough.

Ros.
So was I when your Highness took his Dukedom,
So was I when your Highness banish'd him,
Treason is not inherited, my Lord.

Cæ.
Dear Sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke.
Aye, Cælia, we stay'd her for your Sake,
Else had she with her Father rang'd along,
I will not be intreated, not a Word,

Firm and irrevocable is the Doom
Which I have pass'd upon her, she is banish'd.

Cæ.
Pronounce that Sentence then on me, my Liege,
I can not live out of her Company.

Duke.
You are a Fool—You, Niece, provide yourself,
If you out stay the Time, upon my Honour,
And in the Greatness of my Word, you die. Exit Duke and Lord. Cælia and Rosalind.

Cæ.
Oh my poor Rosalind! whither wou't thou go,
I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am.

Ros.
I have more Cause.

Cæ.
—Thou hast not, Cousin,
Prithee be chearful, knowest thou not the Duke
Hath banish'd me his Daughter?

Ros.
That he hath not.

Cæ.
No! Hath not? Rosalind lacks then the Love
Which should teach her that she and I are one,
Shall we be sundred? Shall we part sweet Girl?
No, let my Father seek another Heir:
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us,
And do not seek to take the Charge upon you,
To bear your Griefs yourself, and leave me out;
For by this Heaven, now as our Sorrows pale,
Say what thou can'st I'll go along with thee.

Ros.
—Why whither shall we go?

Cæ.
To seek my uncle, in the Forrest of Arden.

Ros.
Alass! what Danger will it be to us,
(Maids as we are) to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh Thieves sooner than Gold.

Cæ.
I'll put myself in poor and mean Attire,
And with a Kind of Umber smut my Face,

The like do you, so shall we pass along
And never stir Assailants.

Ros.
—Were it not better,
That I did suit me in all Points like a Man,
A gallant Cutlass by my Side,
A Boar-Spear in my Hand, and in my Heart,
Lie there what hidden Woman's Fear there will,
We'll have a Swaggering and Martial Outside,
As many other Mannish Cowards have
That do out-face it with their Semblances.

Cæ.
What shall I call thee, when thou art a Man?

Ros.
I'll have no worse a Name than Jove's own Page,
And therefore, look you, call me, Ganymede:
But what will you be call'd?

Cæ.
Something that has a Reference to my State,
No longer Cælia, but Aliena.

Ros.
—Let's away,
And get our Jewels and our Wealth together,
Devise the fittest, and the safest Way
To hide us from Pursuit that will be made
After my Flight: Now go we in Content
To Liberty, and not to Banishment. [Exeunt. The End of the First ACT.

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