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 clapped him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail. Orl. Of a snail?

Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head: a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

Orl. What's that?

Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.

Orl. 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 holiday humour, and like enough to consent.What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind.

Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.

Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion 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.

Orl. How if the kiss be denied?

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Orl. 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.

Orl. What, of my suit?

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit.-Am not I your Rosalind?

Orl. 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.

Orl. 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 dashed 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

lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; 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.

Orl. 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 fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

Orl. Then love me, Rosalind.

Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays and Saturdays,
and all.

Orl. And wilt thou have me?
Ros. Ay, and twenty such.
Orl. What sayst thou?
Ros. Are you not good?
Orl. 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?

Orl. 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?

Orl. I will.

Ros. Ay, but when?

Orl. Why now; as fast as she can marry us. Ros. Then you must say, "I take thee, Rosalind, for wife."

Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. Ros. I might ask you for your commission; but, I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There a girl goes before the priest; and certainly a woman's thought runs before her actions. Orl. So do all thoughts: they are winged. Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, after you have possessed her.

Orl. 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 disposed to be merry: I will

laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

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 't will out at the keyhole; stop that, 't will fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, "Wit, whither wilt?"

he might say,

Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife's wit going to your neigh

bour'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 o'clock I will be with thee again.

I

Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways. 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'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 breakpromise, 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 misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and shew 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, conceived 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.

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 bid me give you this.

[Giving 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 tenour: 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 turned into the extremity of love. I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand, A freestone-coloured hand: I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but 't was 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.

Meaning me a beast.—

Reads.

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 aspéct!
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 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 SILVIUS.

Enter OLIVER.

Oli. Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know

Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
A sheepcote, fenced 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, brings 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 I should 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 inquire for?

Cel. It is no boast, being asked, 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 stained.

:

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 itself!—
Under an old oak, whose boughs were mossed
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 wreathed itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush under which bush's 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 't is 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 lived 'mongst 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 sucked and hungry lioness?

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purposed 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.

Cel. Are you his brother?

Ros. Was it you he rescued?

Cel. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill

him?

arm

Committing me unto my brother's love;
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripped himself, and here upon his
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recovered 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,
Dyed in this blood, unto the shepherd youth,
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Gany-
mede!
[ROSALIND faints.

Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on

blood.

Cel. There is more in it.-Cousin! Ganymede! 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 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 of earnest.

man.

[Exeunt.