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Rof. Ay, and twenty fuch.
Rof. Why then, can one defire too much of a good thing? Come, fifter, you fhall be the priest, and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, fister?
Orla. Pray thee, marry us.
Gel. I cannot say the words.
Rof. You must begin, Will you
Cel. Go to: Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rofalind?
Orla. I will.
Rof. Ay, but when?
Orla. Why, now, as faft as fhe can marry us.
Rof. Then you must say, I take thee Rosalind for wife.
Rof. I might afk you for your commiffion; but I do take thee,
Rof. Now tell me, how long you would love her after you have poffefs'd her.
Orla. For ever and a day.
Rof. 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: I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more newfangled than an ape; more giddy in my defires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are difpos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when you are inclin'd to fleep.
Orla. But will my Rofalind do fo?
Rof. By my life, fhe will do as I do..
Orla. O, but he is wife.
Rof. Or else she could not have the wit to do this; the wiser,
the waywarder: make the doors fast upon a woman's wit, and it
Orla. A man that had a wife with fuch a wit, he might say,
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 excuse that?
Rof. Marry, to fay, fhe came to feek you there: you shall never take her without her anfwer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman, that cannot make her fault her husband's accufation, let her never nurse her child herself, for fhe will breed it like a fool!
Orla. For these two hours, Rofalind, I will leave thee.
Orla. I must attend the duke at dinner, by two o'clock I will
Rof. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you
Rof. By my troth, and in good earnest, and fo god mend me,
Orla. With no lefs religion than if thou wert indeed my
Rof. Well, time is the old justice that examines all fuch offenders, and let time try: adieu.
Cel. You have fimply mifus'd our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hofe pluck'd over your head, and fhow the world what the bird hath done to her own neft.
Rof. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didft 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. Or rather bottomlefs, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.
Rof. No, that fame wicked baftard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, 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 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?
Jaq. 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 fong, forefter, for this purpose ? For. Yes, fir.
Jaq. Sing it: 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noife enough.
What fhall he have that kill'd the deer?
[The reft shall bear this burden.
To wear the horn, the horn, the born:
Thy father's father wore it,
Enter Rofalind, and Celia.
Rof. How fay you now, is it not past two o'clock?
I wonder much Orlando is not here.
Syl. My errand is to you, fair youth,
Rof. Patience herself would startle at this letter,
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.
And play the fwaggerer; bear this, bear all.
[after reading the letter.
I saw her hand; fhe has a leathern hand,
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;
Syl. Sure, it is hers.
Rof. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style, A ftyle for challengers; why, fhe defies me, Like Turk to Chriftian; woman's gentle brain Could not drop forth fuch giant rude invention, Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance: will you hear the letter?
Syl. So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.
Rof. She Phebe's me: mark, how the tyrant writes.
[reads.] Art thou god to fhepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?
Can a woman rail thus ?
Syl. Call you this railing?
Rof. [reads.] Why, thy godhead lay'd apart,
Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
Meaning me a beast.
If the fcorn of your bright eyne