Rof. 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 fky 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 defires than a monkey; I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain: and I will do that, when you are difpos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when you are inclin'd to fleep.

Orla. But will my Rofalind do fo?

Rof. By my life, fhe will do as I do.
Orla. O, but the is wife.

Rof. Or elfe fhe 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 cafement; fhut that, and 'twill out at the key hole; ftop that, it will fly with the fmoak out at the chimney.

Orla. A man that had a wife with fuch a wit, he might fay, 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? Rof. Marry, to fay fhe came to feek you there: you fhall never take her without her anfwer, unless you take her without her tongue. O that woman, that cannot make her fault her hufband's occafion, let her never nurfe her child herself, for fhe will breed it like a fool!

Orla. For these two hours, Rofalind, I will leave thee. Rof. 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 you would prove, my friends told me as much, and I thought no lefs; that flattering tongue of yours won me; 'tis but one caft away, and fo come death: Two o'th' clock. is your hour!

Orla. Ay, fweet Rofalind.

Rof. By my troth, and in good earneft, and fo God, mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous,

if you break one jot of your promile, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promife, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rofalind, that may be chofen out of the grofs band of the unfaithful; therefore beware my cenfure, and keep your promise.

Orla. With no lefs religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rofalind; fo adieu.

Adieu!

Rof. Well, time is the old juftice that examines all fuch offenders, and let time try. [Exit Orla.Cel. You have fimply mifus'd our fex in your love-prate: We must have your doublet and hofe pluck'd over your head, and fhew the world what the bird hath done to her own neft.

Rof. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst 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. Or rather, bottomlefs; that as faft as you pour affection in, it runs out.

Rof. No, that fame wicked baftard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rafcally 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 fhadow, and figh 'till

he come.

Cel. And I'll fleep.

Enter Jaques, Lords, and Forefters.
Jaq. Which is he that kill'd the deer?
Lord. Sir, it was I.

[Exeunt.

Jaq. Let's prefent him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; and it would do well to fet the deer's horns upon his head, for a branch of victory; have you no fong, forefter, for this purpofe?

For. Yes, Sir..

Jaq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, fo it make noife enough.

Mufick,

Mufick, Song.

What shall he have that kill'd the deer?

His leather fkin and horns to wear ;

Then fing him home:-take thou no scorn (24)

To wear the horn, the horn, the horn;
It was a creft ere thou waft born.

Thy father's father wore it,

And thy father bore it,

The horn, the horn, the lufty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to fcorn.

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

The reft hall

bear this burden.

[Exeunt

Rof. How fay you now, is it not paft 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 Aleep: Look, who comes here.

Enter Silvius.

Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth,
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:
I know not the contents; but, as I guess,
By the ftern 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 meffenger.

Rof Patience herself would startle at this letter, And play the fwaggerer; bear this, bear all.

(24) Then fing him home, the refi fball bear this burden.] This is an admirable inftance of the fagacity of our preceding editors, to fay nothing worse. One should expect, when they were poets, they would at least have taken care of the Rhymes, and not foifted in what has nothing to answer it. Now, where is the rhyme to, the reft shall bear this burden & or, to afk another queftion, where is the fenfe of it? does the poet mean, that he, that kill'd the deer, fhall be fung home, and the rest shall bear the deer on their backs. This is laying a burden on the poet, that we must help him to throw off. In short, the mystery of the whole is, that a marginal note is wifely thrust into the text: The fong being defign'd to be fung by a fingle voice, and the ftanza's to close with a burden to be fung by the whole company.

She

She fays, I am not fair; that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that the could not love me
Were men as rare as phoenix: 'Odds my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.
Why writes the fo to me? well, fhepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.

Sil. No, I proteft, I know not the contents;
Phebe did write it.

Rof. Come, come, you're a fool,

And turn'd into th' extremity of love.

I saw her hand, fhe has a leathern hand,

A free-flone coloured hand; I verily did think,
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;
She has a hufwife's hand, but that's no matter;
I fay, fhe never did invent this letter;

This is a man's invention, and his hand.
Sil. Sure, it is hers.

་

Rof. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel stile, A ftile for challengers; why, fhe defies me, Like Turk to Chriftian; woman's gentle brain Could not drop forth fuch 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.

Ref. She Phebe's me; mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads.] Art thou God to fhepherd turn'd,

That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?

Can a woman rail thus ?

Sil. Call you this railing?

Rof. [Reads.] Why, thy godhead laid apart. Warr'ft thou with a woman's heart?

Did you ever hear fuch railing?

Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.
Meaning me, a beast!

If the fcorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise fuch love in mine,
Alack, in me, what ftrange effect
Would they work in mild afpect?

W

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 feal up thy mind,
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make;
Or elfe by him my love deny,
And then I'll ftudy how to die.
Sil. Call you this chiding?
Cel. Alas, poor fhepherd!

Rof. Do you pity him? no, he deferves no pity: Wist thou love fuch a woman? what, to make thee an inftrument, and play falfe ftrains upon thee? not to be endured! well, go your way to her; (for I fee, love hath made thee a tame fnake,) and fay this to her; that if she love me, I charge her to love thee: If the 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 Sil

Enter Oliver.

Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones: Pray you, if you know, Where in the purlews of this foreft stands

A fheep-cote fenc'd about with olive-trees?

Cel. Weft of this place, down in the neighbour bottom, The rank of offers, by the murmuring ftream,

Left on your right-hand, brings you to the place;
But at this hour the houfe doth keep itself,

There's none within.

Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by defcription,
Such garments, and fuch years:

The boy is fair,

"Of female favour, and bestows himself
"Like a ripe fifter: But the woman low,
"And browner than her brother." Are not you
The owner of the houfe, I did enquire for?
Cel. It is no boast, being afk'd, to fay, we are,
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both,