As You Like It - 4

Total number of words is 4864
Total number of unique words is 1208
52.5 of words are in the 2000 most common words
68.1 of words are in the 5000 most common words
75.2 of words are in the 8000 most common words
Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in
them.
ROSALIND.
But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
CELIA.
Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
ROSALIND.
Do you think so?
CELIA.
Yes. I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer, but for his
verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a
worm-eaten nut.
ROSALIND.
Not true in love?
CELIA.
Yes, when he is in, but I think he is not in.
ROSALIND.
You have heard him swear downright he was.
CELIA.
“Was” is not “is”. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the
word of a tapster. They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He
attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.
ROSALIND.
I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me
of what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as he, so he laughed
and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as
Orlando?
CELIA.
O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words,
swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart
the heart of his lover, as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on
one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all’s brave that
youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?
Enter Corin.
CORIN.
Mistress and master, you have oft enquired
After the shepherd that complained of love,
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
CELIA.
Well, and what of him?
CORIN.
If you will see a pageant truly played
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.
ROSALIND.
O, come, let us remove.
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. Another part of the Forest
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe.
Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin, at a distance.
PHOEBE.
I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye.
’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable
That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor I am sure there is not force in eyes
That can do hurt.
SILVIUS.
O dear Phoebe,
If ever—as that ever may be near—
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love’s keen arrows make.
PHOEBE.
But till that time
Come not thou near me. And when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
ROSALIND.
[_Advancing_.] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty—
As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed—
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes too!
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it.
’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman. ’Tis such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favoured children.
’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her,
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love.
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
PHOEBE.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together!
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND.
He’s fall’n in love with your foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my
anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks,
I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?
PHOEBE.
For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND.
I pray you do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.
Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.
Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.
[_Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin._]
PHOEBE.
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE.
Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS.
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined.
PHOEBE.
Thou hast my love. Is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS.
I would have you.
PHOEBE.
Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure, and I’ll employ thee too.
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
SILVIUS.
So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
PHOEBE.
Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
SILVIUS.
Not very well, but I have met him oft,
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
That the old carlot once was master of.
PHOEBE.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
’Tis but a peevish boy—yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? Yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—
But sure he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him.
He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall, yet for his years he’s tall;
His leg is but so-so, and yet ’tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but for my part
I love him not nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him.
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black,
And now I am remembered, scorned at me.
I marvel why I answered not again.
But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance.
I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS.
Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE.
I’ll write it straight,
The matter’s in my head and in my heart.
I will be bitter with him and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius.
[_Exeunt._]


ACT IV
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

Enter Rosalind, Celia and Jaques.
JAQUES.
I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
ROSALIND.
They say you are a melancholy fellow.
JAQUES.
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
ROSALIND.
Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and
betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
JAQUES.
Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
ROSALIND.
Why then, ’tis good to be a post.
JAQUES.
I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the
musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud;
nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is
politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all
these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,
extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my
travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous
sadness.
ROSALIND.
A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you
have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and
to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
JAQUES.
Yes, I have gained my experience.
ROSALIND.
And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me
merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.
Enter Orlando.
ORLANDO.
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
JAQUES.
Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
ROSALIND.
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits;
disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your
nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are,
or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.
[_Exit Jaques._]
Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover!
An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
ORLANDO.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
ROSALIND.
Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a
thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute
in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped
him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
ORLANDO.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be
wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO.
Of a snail?
ROSALIND.
Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his
head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he
brings his destiny with him.
ORLANDO.
What’s that?
ROSALIND.
Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives
for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his
wife.
ORLANDO.
Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND.
And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA.
It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer
than you.
ROSALIND.
Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough
to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very
Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND.
Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack
of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when
they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn
us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
ORLANDO.
How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND.
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO.
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND.
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my
honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO.
What, of my suit?
ROSALIND.
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your
Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND.
Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO.
Then, in mine own person, I die.
ROSALIND.
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 dashed 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 lived many a fair year
though Hero had turned 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 drowned; 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.
ORLANDO.
I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her
frown might kill me.
ROSALIND.
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.
ORLANDO.
Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO.
And wilt thou have me?
ROSALIND.
Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO.
What sayest thou?
ROSALIND.
Are you not good?
ORLANDO.
I hope so.
ROSALIND.
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?
ORLANDO.
Pray thee, marry us.
CELIA.
I cannot say the words.
ROSALIND.
You must begin “Will you, Orlando—”

CELIA.
Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I will.
ROSALIND.
Ay, but when?
ORLANDO.
Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
ROSALIND.
Then you must say “I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”
ORLANDO.
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
ROSALIND.
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.
ORLANDO.
So do all thoughts. They are winged.
ROSALIND.
Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.
ORLANDO.
For ever and a day.
ROSALIND.
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 disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a
hyena, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.
ORLANDO.
But will my Rosalind do so?
ROSALIND.
By my life, she will do as I do.
ORLANDO.
O, but she is wise.
ROSALIND.
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 keyhole. Stop that, ’twill
fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
ORLANDO.
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, “Wit, whither
wilt?”
ROSALIND.
Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit
going to your neighbour’s bed.
ORLANDO.
And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
ROSALIND.
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.
ORLANDO.
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
ROSALIND.
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
ORLANDO.
I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee
again.
ROSALIND.
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 o’clock is your
hour?
ORLANDO.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
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.
ORLANDO.
With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.
ROSALIND.
Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let
time try. Adieu.
[_Exit Orlando._]
CELIA.
You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate! We must have your
doublet and hose plucked over your head and show the world what the
bird hath done to her own nest.
ROSALIND.
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.
CELIA.
Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs
out.
ROSALIND.
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought,
conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that
abuses everyone’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.
CELIA.
And I’ll sleep.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Another part of the Forest
Enter Jaques and Lords, like foresters.
JAQUES.
Which is he that killed the deer?
FIRST LORD.
Sir, it was I.
JAQUES.
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?
SECOND LORD.
Yes, sir.
JAQUES.
Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
SONG
SECOND LORD.
[_Sings_.]
What shall he have that killed the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Then sing him home:
[_The rest shall bear this burden_.]
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn.
It was a crest ere thou wast born.
Thy father’s father wore it
And thy father bore it.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
ROSALIND.
How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? And here much Orlando.
CELIA.
I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain he hath ta’en his bow
and arrows and is gone forth to sleep.
Enter Silvius.
Look who comes here.
SILVIUS.
My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phoebe 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.
ROSALIND.
Patience 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.
SILVIUS.
No, I protest, I know not the contents.
Phoebe did write it.
ROSALIND.
Come, come, you are a fool,
And turned into the extremity of love.
I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand,
A freestone-coloured 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.
SILVIUS.
Sure, it is hers.
ROSALIND.
Why, ’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?
SILVIUS.
So please you, for I never heard it yet,
Yet heard too much of Phoebe’s cruelty.
ROSALIND.
She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.
[_Reads._]
_Art thou god to shepherd turned,
That a maiden’s heart hath burned?_
Can a woman rail thus?
SILVIUS.
Call 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 aspect?
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._
SILVIUS.
Call you this chiding?
CELIA.
Alas, poor shepherd.
ROSALIND.
Do 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.
OLIVER.
Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know,
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheepcote fenced about with olive trees?
CELIA.
West 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.
OLIVER.
If 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?
CELIA.
It is no boast, being asked, to say we are.
OLIVER.
Orlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
ROSALIND.
I am. What must we understand by this?
OLIVER.
Some of my shame, if you will know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkerchief was stained.
CELIA.
I pray you tell it.
OLIVER.
When 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 mossed 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 wreathed itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached
The opening of his mouth. But suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked 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 catlike 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.
CELIA.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived amongst men.
OLIVER.
And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
ROSALIND.
But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,
Food to the sucked and hungry lioness?
OLIVER.
Twice did he turn his back and purposed 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 awaked.
CELIA.
Are you his brother?
ROSALIND.
Was it you he rescued?
CELIA.
Was’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.
ROSALIND.
But, for the bloody napkin?
OLIVER.
By and by.
When from the first to last betwixt us two
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed—
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 stripped 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 recovered 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,
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
[_Rosalind faints._]
CELIA.
Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede!
OLIVER.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
CELIA.
There is more in it. Cousin—Ganymede!
OLIVER.
Look, he recovers.
ROSALIND.
I would I were at home.
CELIA.
We’ll lead you thither.
I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
OLIVER.
Be of good cheer, youth. You a man? You lack a man’s heart.
ROSALIND.
I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well
counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited.
Heigh-ho.
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