William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Complete Works

ROSALIND. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God 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.

ORLANDO. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my

Rosalind; so, adieu.

ROSALIND. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such

offenders, and let Time try. Adieu. Exit ORLANDO

CELIA. You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate. We must

have your doublet and hose pluck'd over your head, and show the

world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

ROSALIND. 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.

CELIA. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection

in, it runs out.

ROSALIND. 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 the sight of Orlando. I'll go find a

shadow, and sigh till he come.

CELIA. And I'll sleep. Exeunt

Enter JAQUES and LORDS, in the habit of foresters

JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer?

LORD. Sir, it was I.

JAQUES. 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?

LORD. Yes, sir.

JAQUES. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise

enough.

What shall he have that kill'd the deer?

His leather skin and horns to wear.

[The rest shall hear this burden:]

Then sing him home.

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;

It was a crest ere 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

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

ROSALIND. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock?

And here much Orlando!

CELIA. 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

SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth;

My gentle Phebe did 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 tenour. Pardon me,

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

ROSALIND. 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 Phoenix. 'Od's 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.

SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents;

Phebe did write it.

ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn'd into the 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, 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.

SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers.

ROSALIND. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style;

A style for challengers. Why, she defies me,

Like Turk to Christian. Women's gentle brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,

Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect

Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

ROSALIND. 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?

SILVIUS. Call you this railing?

ROSALIND. 'Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr'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 the

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.'

SILVIUS. Call you this chiding?

CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd!

ROSALIND. 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 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 SILVIUS

Enter OLIVER

OLIVER. 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?

CELIA. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom.

The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream

Left on your right hand brings you to the place.

But at this hour the house doth keep itself;

There's none within.

OLIVER. 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; the woman low,

And browner than her brother.' Are not you

The owner of the house I did inquire for?

CELIA. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.

OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both;

And to that youth he calls his Rosalind

He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

ROSALIND. I am. What must we understand by this?

OLIVER. Some of my shame; if you will know of me

What man I am, and how, and why, and where,

This handkercher was stain'd.

CELIA. I pray you, tell it.

OLIVER. 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 befell! He threw his eye aside,

And mark what object did present itself.

Under an oak, 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 opening of his mouth; but suddenly,

Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,