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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. Why, 't is a boisterous and cruel style,
Ros. She Phebes me: Mark how thy tyrant writes, [Reads.] Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?
Sil. Call you this railing ?
Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?
Whiles 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, hp deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a womanWhat? 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 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 one : Pray you,
Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we are.
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both:
Ros. I am: What must we understand by this?
Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know of me What map I am,--and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was stain'd.
Cel. I pray you, tell it. Oli . When last the young Orlando parted from
He left a promise to return again
prey on nothing that doth seem as dead :
Oli. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural.
Ros. But, to Orlando ;—Did he leave him there,
Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purposd so.:
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ?
Oli. By, and by. When, from the first to last, betwixt us two, Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd, As, how I came into that desert place ;—— In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, Who gave me fresh array, and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother's love; Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, And cry'd, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover'd him; bound up his wound; And, after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am, To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin, Dy'd in this blood, unto the shepherd youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
[Rosalind faints. Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede? sweet Gary
. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. Cel. There is more in it :—Cousin—Ganymede ! Oli. Look, he recovers. Ros. I would, I were at home.
Cel. We'll lead you thither :1 pray you,
you take him by the arm? Oli. Be of good cheer, youth:—You a man You lack a man's heart.
Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would think this was well counterfeited: I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. --Heigh ho !
Oli. This was not counterfeit ; there is too great testimony in your coraplexion, that it was a passion of earnest.
Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you." : i
Oli. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.
Ros. So I do: but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right.
Cel. Come, you look paler and paler ; pray you, draw homewards :—Good sir, go with us.
Ol. That will I; for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
Ros. I shall devise something : But, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him.
END OF ACT, IV.
SCENE I. A Part of the Forest. Enter Touchstone, and Audrey. Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey
Aud. 'Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman's saying.
Touch. A most wicked sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Mar-text. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.
Aud. Ay, I know who 't is ; he hath no interest in me in the world : here comes the man you mean.
Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown : By my troth, we that have good wits, have much to answer for ; we shall be flouting ; we cannot hold.