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Orla. O, but she is wise.
Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this; the wifer, the waywarder: make the doors faft upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement ; ihut that, and 'will out at the key-hole ; stop that, it will fly with the smoak out at the chimney.
Orla. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, Wit, whither wilt?
Rof. Nay, you might keep that check for it, 'till you met your
wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.
Orla. 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 3 her fault her husband's occasion, let her never nurse her child her self, for she will breed it like a fool!
Orla. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. Ref. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours,
Orla. I must attend the Duke at dinner ; by two o'clock I will be with thee again.
Rof. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what
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'th'clock is your hour!
Orla. Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Rof. 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 3 her fault her husband's cccafion,].i. e. fhew what he did was occasioned by her husband's ill conduct.
4 I will think you the most PATHETICAL break-promise.] There is neither fenie nor humour in this expreflion. We should
you the most atheistical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be chofen out of the gross band of the unfaithfuls therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
Orla. With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind; so adieu.
Rof. Well, time is the old Justice that examines all fuch offenders, and let time try. Adieu! (Exit Orla.
S C E N E III. 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 Thew the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didft know how many fathom deep I am in love; but it cannot be founded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
Cel. O rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in it, 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 fight of Orlando ; I'll go find a shadow, and sigh 'till he come. Cel. And I'll neep.
S CE N E IV.
Enter Jaqués, Lords and Foresters.
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, Forefter, for this purpose?
For. Yes, Sir.
Jaq. Sing it ; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
Enter Rosalind and Celia. Rof. How fay you now, is it not past two o'clock? I wonder much, Orlando is not here.
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.
Ros. Patience her self 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: 'odds my will ! . Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.
Why writes she so to me? well, shepherd, well,
Sil. No, I proteft, I know not the contents ;
Rof. Come, come, you're a fool,
I saw her hand, she has a leathern hand,
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;
Sil. Sure, it is hers.
Rof. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel stile,
Sil. So please you, for I never heard ic yet ;
Rof. She Phebe's me; mark, how the tyrant writes.
Sil. Call you this railing?
Warrist thou with a woman's heart?
Wbiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.
If the scorn of your bright eyne
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 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, 1 charge ber to love thee: if She will not, I will never have ber, unless thou entreat
for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.
s C E N E VI.
Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones: pray you, if yok
know, Where, in the purlews of this forest, stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive-trees? Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom,