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?