Act IV, Scene III: Another part of the Forest

by William Shakespeare

　　[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

　　ROSALINDHow say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? And here much Orlando!

　　CELIAI warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth—to sleep. Look, who comes here.

　　[Enter SILVIUS.]

　　SILVIUSMy errand is to you, fair youth;— My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this: [Giving a letter.] I know not the contents; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenor: pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger.

　　ROSALINDPatience herself would startle at this letter, And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all: She says 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. Od's my will! Her love is not the hare that I do hunt; Why writes she so to me?—Well, shepherd, well, This is a letter of your own device.

　　SILVIUSNo, I protest, I know not the contents:Phebe did write it.

　　ROSALINDCome, come, you are a fool, And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand, A freestone-colour'd hand: I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands; She has a huswife's hand: but that's no matter: I say she never did invent this letter: This is a man's invention, and his hand.

　　SILVIUSSure, it is hers.

　　ROSALINDWhy, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style; A style for challengers: why, she defies me, Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance.—Will you hear the letter?

　　SILVIUSSo please you, for I never heard it yet; Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

　　ROSALINDShe Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.[Reads]"Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?"

　　Can a woman rail thus?

　　SILVIUSCall you this railing?

　　ROSALIND"Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?" Did you ever hear such railing? "Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me."— Meaning me a beast.— "If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspéct? Whiles you chid me, I did love; How then might your prayers move? He that brings this love to thee Little knows this love in me: And by him seal up thy mind; Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me and all that I can make; Or else by him my love deny, And then I'll study how to die."

　　SILVIUSCall you this chiding?

　　CELIAAlas, poor shepherd!

　　ROSALINDDo you pity him? no, he deserves no pity.—Wilt thou love such a woman?—What, to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee! Not to be endured!—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.]

　　OLIVERGood morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?

　　CELIAWest of this place, down in the neighbour bottom: The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream, Left on your right hand, brings you to the place. But at this hour the house doth keep itself; There's none within.

　　OLIVERIf that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then should I know you by description; Such garments, and such years: "The boy is fair, Of female favour, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister: the woman low, And browner than her brother." Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for?

　　CELIAIt is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.

　　OLIVEROrlando doth commend him to you both; And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin:—are you he?

　　ROSALINDI am: what must we understand by this?

　　OLIVERSome of my shame; if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where, This handkerchief was stain'd.

　　CELIAI pray you, tell it.

　　OLIVERWhen last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest, Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside, And, mark, what object did present itself! Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age, And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, Who, with her head nimble in threats, approach'd The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself, And with indented glides did slip away Into a bush: under which bush's shade A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis The royal disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: This seen, Orlando did approach the man, And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

　　CELIAO, I have heard him speak of that same brother; And he did render him the most unnatural That liv'd amongst men.

　　OLIVERAnd well he might so do,For well I know he was unnatural.

　　ROSALINDBut, to Orlando:—did he leave him there, Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

　　OLIVERTwice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awak'd.

　　CELIAAre you his brother?

　　ROSALINDWas it you he rescued?

　　CELIAWas't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

　　OLIVER'Twas I; but 'tis not I: I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

　　ROSALINDBut, for the bloody napkin?—

　　OLIVERBy 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 cried, 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 his blood, unto the shepherd-youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

　　[ROSALIND faints.]

　　CELIAWhy, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

　　OLIVERMany will swoon when they do look on blood.

　　CELIAThere is more in it:—Cousin—Ganymede!

　　OLIVERLook, he recovers.

　　ROSALINDI would I were at home.

　　CELIAWe'll lead you thither:—I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

　　OLIVERBe of good cheer, youth:—you a man?—You lack a man's heart.

　　ROSALINDI 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!—

　　OLIVERThis was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.

　　ROSALINDCounterfeit, I assure you.

　　OLIVERWell then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.

　　ROSALINDSo I do: but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right.

　　CELIACome, you look paler and paler: pray you draw homewards.— Good sir, go with us.

　　OLIVERThat will I, for I must bear answer backHow you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

　　ROSALINDI shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him.—Will you go?

　　[Exeunt.]