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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.

SONG.

What shall he have, that kill'd the deer?
His leather skin, and horns to wear.
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.

[Then sing him home: the rest shall bear this burden.]

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Forest.

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Ros. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock ? And here much Orlando!

Then sing him home:] The words, "Then sing him home: the rest shall bear this burden," are clearly only stage-directions, although, by error, printed as part of the song in the old copies. "Then sing him home" has reference to the carrying of the lord, who killed the deer, to the duke; and we are to suppose that the foresters sang as they quitted the stage for their "home" in the wood. "The rest shall bear this burden" alludes to the last six lines, which are the burden of the song. Modern editors have taken upon

them to divide the song between the first and second lord, by the figures 1 & 2; but without any warrant. We have reprinted it precisely as it stands in the original copies, with the exception above noticed. It is to be observed, that it is found in Playford's "Musical Companion," (as Boswell pointed out,) without the words "Then sing him home." It is also in "Catch that Catch can," 1652, in the same form.

Cel. I warrant you, with pure love, and troubled brain, He hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forthTo sleep. Look, who comes here.

Enter SILVIUS.

Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth.— My gentle Phebe did 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 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 housewife'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,

To sleep. Look, who comes here.] We regulate this and the four preceding lines of verse as in the old copies: modern editors have taken it for granted, because a little irregular, that they were prose.

6 My gentle Phebe DID bid me give you this:] So the first folio: the second omits “did.” “Phebe" is to be spoken in the time of one syllable.

A style for challengers: why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian. Woman'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.

"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. "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 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 sheep-cote, fenc'd 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 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?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, 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 stain'd.

Cel.
VOL. III.

I pray you, tell it.

G

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 moss'd with
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,
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 catlike watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
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.

age,

Cel. O! I have heard him speak of that same brother; And he did render him the most unnatural

That liv'd '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 suck'd and hungry lioness?

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd 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 awak'd.

Cel. Are you his brother?

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