Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I 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 dash’d 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 liv’d many a fair year though Hero had turn’d 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 drown’d; 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 might kill me.
Ros. 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. 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 sayest 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?
Orl. Pray thee marry us.
Cel. 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. I might ask you for your commission, but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.
Orl. So do all thoughts, they are wing’d.
Ros. Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possess’d 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. 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 dispos’d to be merry. I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclin’d 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, ’twill 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 wive’s wit going to your neighbor’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. O, 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!
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 a’ 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 a’ 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 [Orlando].
Cel. You have simply misus’d our sex in your love- prate. We must have your doublet and hose pluck’d over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
Ros. 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.
Ros. No, that same wicked bastard of Venus that was begot of thought, conceiv’d of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally 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 sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come.
Cel. And I’ll sleep.
Exeunt.
¶
Scene II
Enter Jaques and Lords [as] foresters.
Jaq. Which is he that kill’d the deer?
[1. Lord.] Sir, it was I.
Jaq. Let’s present him to the Duke like a Roman conqueror, and it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?
[2. Lord.] Yes, sir.
Jaq. Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
Music.
Song
[2. Lord.]
What shall he have that kill’d the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Then