Ros.

How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? and how much ^note Orlando comes?

Cel.

I warrant you, with pure love, and troubl'd 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 bid me ^note give you this: [gives a Letter.

I know ^note 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; ^note 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: Od's my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt: ^note
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 into14Q0327 the ^note extremity of love.
I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,
A freestone-colour'd hand; I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, ^note 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 boist'rous and a cruel stile,
A stile for challengers; why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian: woman's ^note 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.

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.

Why, thy godhead lay'd 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 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 ^note 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 entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.

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,14Q0328 down in the neighbour bottom, ^note
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings ^note 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 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 ^note woman low,
And browner than her brother: Are not you
The owner ^note 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;14Q0329 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 ^note, whose boughs were moss'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A 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 op'ning 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 ^note 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:
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 'mongst ^note 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 awaked. ^note

Cel.
Are you his brother?

Ros.
Was it ^note 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 tasts, being the thing I am.

Ros.
But, for the bloody napkin?

Oli.
By and by.
When from the first to last,14Q0330 betwixt us two,
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd:
As how I came into that desert place;
&dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3; &dagger3;
&dagger3; &dagger3;
In brief ^note, 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.
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 ^note 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 more in it;—14Q0331 Cousin Ganimed!

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, a ^note 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 ^note 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?