Rof. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours. Orla. I must attend the Duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again. Rof. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove, my friends told me as much, and I thought no lefs; that flattering tongue of yours won me ; 'tis but one caft away, and fo come death: two o'ch' clock is your hour! Orla. Ay, fweet Refalind, Ref. By my troth, and in good earnest, and fo God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promife, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promife, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rofalind, that may be chofen out of the grofs band of the unfaithful; therefore beware my cenfure, and keep your promife. Orla. With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed ny Rofalind; fo adieu. Rof. Well, time is the old Justice that examines all fuch offenders, and let time try. Adieu ! [Exit Orla. Cel. You have fimply mifus'd our fex in your loveprate we must have your doublet and hose pluck'd over your head, and fhew 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 bot tom, like the bay of Portugal. Cel. Or rather, bottomlefs; that as faft as you pour affection in it, it runs out. Rof. No, that fame wicked baftard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, and born of madrefs, that blind rafcally boy, that abufes every one's eyes, becaufe 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 a fhadow, and figh 'till he come. Cel. And I'll fleep. [Exeunt. Enter Enter Jaques, Lords, and Forefters. Jaq. Which is he that kill'd the deer ? faq. 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 purpofe? For. Yes, Sir. Jaq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, fo it make noife enough. Mufick, Song. What shall be have that kill'd the deer? Then fing him home:-take thou no scorn (12) The reft fhall To avear the horn, the horn, the horn: It was a creft, ere thau waft born. Thy father's father wore it, And thy father bore it, The barn, the born, the lufty horn, Enter Rofalind and Celia. bear this Bur den. [Exeunt. Ref. How fay you now, is it not paft two o'clock? 1. wonder much, Orlando is not here. (12) Then fing bim home, the reft shall bear this Burden.] This is no admirable Inftance of the Sagacity of our preceding Editors, to fay nothing worse. One fhould expect, when they were Poets, they would at least have taken care of the Rhimes, and not foifted in what has nothing to answer it. Now, where is the Rhime to, the reft fhall bear this Burden? Or, to afk another Queftion, where is the Senfe of it? Does the Poet mean, that he, that kill'd the Deer, fhall be fung home, and the Reft fhall bear the Deer on their Backs? This is laying a Burden on the Poet, that we must help him to throw off. In fhort, the Mystery of the whole is, that a Marginal Note is wifely thruft into the Text: the fong being defigned to be fung by a fingle Voce, and the Stanza's to clofe with a Burden to be fung by the whole Company. Cel. 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. Enter Silvius, Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth, Rof. Patience herself would startle at this letter, Why writes fhe fo to me? well, fhepherd, well, Sil. No, I proteft, I know not the contents; Rof. Come, come, you're a fool, And turn'd into th' extremity of love. I faw her hand, fhe has a leathern hand, A free-ftone colour'd hand; I verily did think, This is a man's invention, and his hand. Rof. Why, 'tis a boisterous and cruel file, Than in their countenance; will you hear the letter? Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. Rof. She Phebe's me mark, how the tyrant writes. [Reads.] Art thou God to Shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's beart hath burn'd? Can a woman rail thus ? ; Sil. Call you this railing? Ref. [Reads.] Why, thy Godhead laid apart, Did you ever hear fuch railing? Whiles the eye of man did woo me, Meaning me, a beast! If the fcorn of your bright eyne And then I'll fudy how to die. Sil. Call you this chiding? Cel. Alas, poor shepherd! Rof. Do you pity him? no; he deferves no pity: wilt thou love fuch a woman? what, to make thee an inftrument, and play falfe ftrains upon thee? not to be endured! Well, go your way to her; (for I fee, love hath made thee a tame fnake,) and fay this to her; "that "if she love me, I charge her to love thee: if the will "not, I will never have her, unless thou intreat for her." If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company. [Exit Silvius. Enter Enter Oliver. Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know Where, in the purlews of this forest, stands A fheep cote fenc'd about with olive-trees? Cel. Weft of this place, down in the neighbour bottom, Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, "And browner than her brother." Are not you Cel. It is no boaft, being ask'd, to say, we are. Cel. I pray you, tell it. Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again Within an hour; and pacing through the foreft, A wretched ragged man, o'er-grown with hair, And |