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It bears an angry tenour. Pardon me, |
I am but as a guiltless messenger. |
ROSALIND. 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. |
SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents; |
Phebe did write it. |
ROSALIND. 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 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. |
SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers. |
ROSALIND. 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 Ethiope words, blacker in their effect |
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter? |
SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet; |
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. |
ROSALIND. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. |
[Reads] |
'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, |
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?' |
Can a woman rail thus? |
SILVIUS. Call you this railing? |
ROSALIND. '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 the |
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.' |
SILVIUS. Call you this chiding? |
CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd! |
ROSALIND. 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 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 |
OLIVER. 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? |
CELIA. 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. |
OLIVER. 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? |
CELIA. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are. |
OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both; |
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind |
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he? |
ROSALIND. I am. What must we understand by this? |
OLIVER. Some of my shame; if you will know of me |
What man I am, and how, and why, and where, |
This handkercher was stain'd. |
CELIA. I pray you, tell it. |
OLIVER. 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 befell! He threw his eye aside, |
And mark what object did present itself. |
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd 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 |
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