Part 21

Ros. O coz, coz, coz: my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathome deepe I am in loue: but it cannot bee sounded: my affection hath an vnknowne bottome, like the Bay of Portugall

Cel. Or rather bottomlesse, that as fast as you poure affection in, it runs out

Ros. No, that same wicked Bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiu'd of spleene, and borne of madnesse, that blinde rascally boy, that abuses euery ones eyes, because his owne are out, let him bee iudge, how deepe I am in loue: ile tell thee Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: Ile goe finde a shadow, and sigh till he come

Cel. And Ile sleepe.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Iaques and Lords, Forresters.

Iaq. Which is he that killed the Deare? Lord. Sir, it was I

Iaq. Let's present him to the Duke like a Romane Conquerour, and it would doe well to set the Deares horns vpon his head, for a branch of victory; haue you no song Forrester for this purpose? Lord. Yes Sir

Iaq. Sing it: 'tis no matter how it bee in tune, so it make noyse enough.

Musicke, Song.

What shall he haue that kild the Deare? His Leather skin, and hornes to weare: Then sing him home, the rest shall beare this burthen; Take thou no scorne to weare the horne, It was a crest ere thou wast borne, Thy fathers father wore it, And thy father bore it, The horne, the horne, the lusty horne, Is not a thing to laugh to scorne.

Exeunt.

Scoena Tertia.

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

Ros. How say you now, is it not past two a clock? And heere much Orlando

Cel. I warrant you, with pure loue, & troubled brain, Enter Siluius.

He hath t'ane his bow and arrowes, and is gone forth To sleepe: looke who comes heere

Sil. My errand is to you, faire youth, My gentle Phebe, did bid me giue you this: I know not the contents, but as I guesse By the sterne brow, and waspish action Which she did vse, as she was writing of it, It beares an angry tenure; pardon me, I am but as a guiltlesse messenger

Ros. Patience her selfe would startle at this letter, And play the swaggerer, beare this, beare all: Shee saies I am not faire, that I lacke manners, She calls me proud, and that she could not loue me Were man as rare as Phenix: 'od's my will, Her loue is not the Hare that I doe hunt, Why writes she so to me? well Shepheard, well, This is a Letter of your owne deuice

Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents, Phebe did write it

Ros. Come, come, you are a foole, And turn'd into the extremity of loue. I saw her hand, she has a leatherne hand, A freestone coloured hand: I verily did thinke That her old gloues were on, but twas her hands: She has a huswiues hand, but that's no matter: I say she neuer did inuent this letter, This is a mans inuention, and his hand

Sil. Sure it is hers

Ros. Why, tis a boysterous and a cruell stile, A stile for challengers: why, she defies me, Like Turke to Christian: womens gentle braine Could not drop forth such giant rude inuention, Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect Then in their countenance: will you heare the letter? Sil. So please you, for I neuer heard it yet: Yet heard too much of Phebes crueltie

Ros. She Phebes me: marke how the tyrant writes.

Read.

Art thou god, to Shepherd turn'd? That a maidens heart hath burn'd. Can a woman raile thus? Sil. Call you this railing? Ros.

Read.