Left on your right hand, brings you to the place : Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Like a ripe sister; but the woman low, The owner of the house I did inquire for? Ros. I am what must we understand by this? Oli. Some of my shame, if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was stain'd. 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; 1 and, pacing through the forest, Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,2 Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside, And, mark, what object did present itself! Under an old oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age, Within a certain time. 2 Love. And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, 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. Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother; And he did render1 him the most unnatural That lived 'mongst men. Oli. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural. Ros. But, to Orlando :—did he leave him there, Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness? Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purposed So: But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 1 Describe. Made him give battle to the lioness, 1 Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling 1 From miserable slumber I awaked. Cel. Are you his brother? Ros. Was it you he rescued? Cel. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill him? Oli. '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. Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? Oli. Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed, 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, 1 Scuffle. Died in this blood, unto the shepherd youth Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede? sweet Gany[Ros. faints. mede ? Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. Cel. There is more in it.-Cousin-Ganymede! Oli. Look, he recovers. Ros. I would, I were at home. Cel. We'll lead you thither.— I pray you, will you take him by the arm ? Oli. Be of good cheer, youth.—You a man ?You lack a man's heart. Ros. I 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! Oli. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your complexion, that it was a passion of earnest. Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. Oli. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man. Ros. So I do: but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right. Cel. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw homewards. Good sir, go with us. Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. Ros. I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go? [Exeunt. ACT V. SCENE I. The same. Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY. Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey. Aud. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman's saying. Touch. A most wicked sir Oliver, Audrey; a most vile Mar-text. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you. Aud. Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean. Enter WILLIAM. Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for: we shall be flouting; we cannot hold. Wil. Good even, Audrey. Aud. God ye good even, William. Wil. And good even to you, sir. Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee, be covered. How old are you, friend? Wil. Five and twenty, sir. Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William ? |