Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine:

Besides, I like you not; if you will know my house,
"Tis at the tuft of olives, here, hard by :

Will you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard :-
Come, sister:-Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud: though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.

[Exeunt RosALIND, CELIA, and CoRIN, R. Sylv. (L.) Sweet Phoebe !

Phoebe. (R.) Hah! what say'st thou, Sylvius?
Sylv. Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

Phoebe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Sylvius. `
Sylv. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
Phoebe. Sylvius, the time was that I hated thee.

And yet it is not that I bear thee love:

But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,

I will endure; and I'll employ thee, too :

Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Sylv. Not very well, but I have met him oft;
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
That the old Carlot once was master of.

Phoebe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; To fall in love with him: but, for my part,

I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

I have more cause to hate him than to love him;
For what had he to do to chide at me?

I marvel why I answer'd not again:

I'll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it-Wilt thou, Sylvius?
Sylv. Phoebe, with all my heart..
Phoebe. I'll write it straight;

'The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:
Go with me, Sylvius.

SCENE III.-The Forest.

[Exeunt, L.

Enter ROSALIND, R., and ORLANDO, L.

Orl. (L.) Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind. Ros. (R.) Why, how now, Orlando? where have you been all this while? You a lover!-An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

E

Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Ros. Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of a thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of Ĵove, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him 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.-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 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 mis tress?

Ros. Am I not 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 would kill me.

Enter CELIA, R.

Ros. (c.) 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. (c.) 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 say'st 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?

Cel. (R.) 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. Now, tell me how long would you 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. [CELIA retires up the Stage.] 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 hyena, and that, when

you are 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 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, it will fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

Orl. A man, that had a wife with such a wit, he might say-Wit, whither wilt?

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

SONG.-ROSALIND.

When daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady's smocks all silver white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he-
Cuckoo-

Cuckoo, cuckoo-O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men, for thus sings he—
Cuckoo-

Cuckoo, cuckoo-O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

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.

Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I 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 break-promise, 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 ORIANDO, L. Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your loveprate.

Ros. (L.) 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. Look who comes here!

Enter SYLVIUS, L.

Sylv. (1.) My errand is to you, fair youth; My gentle Phoebe bid me give you this:

[Giring 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 tenor: pardon me,

I am but as a guiltless messenger,

Ros. [Reading.] 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!