JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer? 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? LORD. Yes, sir. JAQUES. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough. SONG. What shall he have that kill'd the deer? His leather skin and horns to wear. [The rest shall hear this burden:] Then sing him home. 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. 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. Look, who comes here. Enter SILVIUS SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth; My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this. 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 tenour. 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; Phebe did write it. ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool, And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand; she has a leathern hand, A freestone-colour'd 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 Ethiope 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 Phebe's cruelty. ROSALIND. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads] 'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?'