William Shakespeare - Shakespeare - The Complete Collection

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so?

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do.

Orl. O, but she is wise.

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this; the 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, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

Orl. 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 wive’s wit going to your neighbor’s bed.

Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

Ros. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take 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 herself, for she will breed it like a fool!

Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!

Orl. 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 a’ clock is your hour?

Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Ros. 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.

Orl. 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 [Orlando].

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 show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

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 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.

Cel. And I’ll sleep.

Exeunt.

¶

Enter Jaques and Lords [as] foresters.

Jaq. Which is he that kill’d the deer?

[1. 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?

[2. Lord.] Yes, sir.

Jaq. Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.

Music.

Song

[2. Lord.]

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 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.

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, 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 did bid me give you this.

[Gives 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 tenure. 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 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.

Sil.

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 freestone-colored hand. I verily did think

That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands;

She has a huswive’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 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 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 Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.

(Read.)

“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. ( Read. )

“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 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 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.

Exit Silvius

Enter Oliver.

Oli.

Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you (if you know)