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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 casement; thut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop 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 excufe 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 husband's occafion, let her never nurfe her child her self, 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 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 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, 4 I will think
3 her fault her husband's occafion,] i. e. fhew what she did was occafioned by her husband's ill conduct.
4 I will think you the most PATHETICAL break-promife.] There is neither fenfe nor humour in this expreffion. We should
you the most atheistical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the moft 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.
Rof. Well, time is the old Justice that examines all fuch offenders, and let time try. Adieu! [Exit Orla.
Cel. You have fimply mifus'd our fex in your love prate: we must have your doublet and hose 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. O rather, bottomlefs; that as faft as you pour affection in it, it runs out.
Rof. No, that fame wicked baftard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of fpleen, 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?
ATHEISTICAL break-promife. His answer confirms it, that he would keep his promife with no lefs Religion, than
Faq. 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 Song, Forefter, for this purpose?
For. Yes, Sir.
Faq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, fo it make noise enough.
What shall be have, that kill'd the deer?
Then fing him home :—take Thou no Scorn
To wear the horn, the horn, the born:) The reft fhall
bear this Bur.
It was a creft, ere thou waft born.
Enter Rofalind and Celia.
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 fleep: look, who comes here.
Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth,
Rof. Patience her felf would startle at this letter, And play the fwaggerer; bear this, bear all. She fays, 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: 'odds my will! Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.
Why writes fhe fo to me? well, fhepherd, well,
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.
A free-ftone-colour'd hand; I verily did think,
Sil. Sure, it is hers.
Rof. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel ftile,
Than in their countenance; will you hear the letter?
Rof. She Phebe's me; mark, how the tyrant writes.
Sil. Call you this railing?
Rof. [Reads.] Why, thy Godhead laid apart,
Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
If the fcorn of your bright eyne
Sil. Call you this chiding?
Rof. Do you pity him? no, he deferves no pity: wilt 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 say this to her; that if she love me, I charge her to love thee: if fhe 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.
SCEN E VI.
Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,
Where, in the purlews of this foreft, ftands
Cel. Weft of this place, down in the neighbour bottom,