Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, wit whether wil't? Ros. Nay, you might keepe that checke for it, till you met your wiues wit going to your neighbours bed
Orl. And what wit could wit haue, to excuse that? Rosa. Marry to say, she came to seeke you there: you shall neuer take her without her answer, vnlesse you take her without her tongue: o that woman that cannot make her fault her husbands occasion, let her neuer nurse her childe her selfe, for she will breed it like a foole
Orl. For these two houres Rosalinde, I wil leaue thee
Ros. Alas, deere loue, I cannot lacke thee two houres
Orl. I must attend the Duke at dinner, by two a clock I will be with thee againe
Ros. I, goe your waies, goe your waies: I knew what you would proue, my friends told mee as much, and I thought no lesse: that flattering tongue of yours wonne me: 'tis but one cast away, and so come death: two o' clocke is your howre
Orl. I, sweet Rosalind
Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend mee, and by all pretty oathes that are not dangerous, if you breake one iot of your promise, or come one minute behinde your houre, I will thinke you the most patheticall breake-promise, and the most hollow louer, and the most vnworthy of her you call Rosalinde, that may bee chosen out of the grosse band of the vnfaithfull: therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise
Orl. With no lesse religion, then if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so adieu
Ros. Well, Time is the olde Iustice that examines all such offenders, and let time try: adieu. Enter.
Cel. You haue simply misus'd our sexe in your loue-prate: we must haue your doublet and hose pluckt ouer your head, and shew the world what the bird hath done to her owne neast
Ros. O coz, coz, coz: my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathome deepe I am in loue: but it cannot bee sounded: my affection hath an vnknowne bottome, like the Bay of Portugall
Cel. Or rather bottomlesse, that as fast as you poure affection in, it runs out
Ros. No, that same wicked Bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceiu'd of spleene, and borne of madnesse, that blinde rascally boy, that abuses euery ones eyes, because his owne are out, let him bee iudge, how deepe I am in loue: ile tell thee Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: Ile goe finde a shadow, and sigh till he come
Cel. And Ile sleepe.
Enter Iaques and Lords, Forresters.
Iaq. Which is he that killed the Deare? Lord. Sir, it was I
Iaq. Let's present him to the Duke like a Romane Conquerour, and it would doe well to set the Deares horns vpon his head, for a branch of victory; haue you no song Forrester for this purpose? Lord. Yes Sir
Iaq. Sing it: 'tis no matter how it bee in tune, so it make noyse enough.
What shall he haue that kild the Deare? His Leather skin, and hornes to weare: Then sing him home, the rest shall beare this burthen; Take thou no scorne to weare the horne, It was a crest ere thou wast borne, Thy fathers father wore it, And thy father bore it, The horne, the horne, the lusty horne, Is not a thing to laugh to scorne.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.