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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 render him the most unnatural

That lived amongst 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 sucked 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,

Made him give battle to the lioness,

Who quickly fell before him : in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awaked.

Cel. Are you his brother?

Ros.

Was't 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?

By and by.

Oli.
When from the first to last betwixt us two

Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed,
As how I came into that desert place :-
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love;
Who led me instantly unto his cave,

There stripped 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
Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

[Rosalind swoons.

Oli.

Cel.

Oli.

Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede !
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede !
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, sirrah, 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?

W. Shakespeare.

THE

CLVIII.

EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID.

T was when from Spain across the main the Cid*
had come to Rome,

He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath
Saint Peter's dome.

'Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they?'-'Seven kings do sit thereon,

As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's

throne.

'The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss

his toe,

Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant

show;

For his great puissance, the King of France, next to the Pope may sit,

The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station

fit.'

'Ha!' quoth the Cid, 'now God forbid! it is a shame, I wiss,

To see the Castle† planted beneath the Flower-de-lys. ‡ No harm, I hope, good Father Pope-although I move thy chair.'

In pieces small he kicked it all ('twas of the ivory fair).

The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away, And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day;

* 'Roderigo or Ruy Diaz de Bivar, the Cid Campeador (noble champion), the most celebrated personage of the romances of Hispano-Moorish warfare, was born at Burgos in 1025. Cid is the Arab Said, noble.'

†The arms of Castille.

The arms of France,

Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly; Looks sour and bad, I trow he had, as grim as grim might be.

Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry

man,

His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the awful ban;

The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that sinner's

head

To hell and woe man's soul must go, if once that curse be laid.

I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woeful man

was he,

At dawn of day he came to pray, at the blesséd Father's

knee :

'Absolve, blesséd Father, have pity upon me,

Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will dree.'

'Who is the sinner,' quoth the Pope, 'that at my foot doth kneel?'

—‘I am Rodrigo Diaz-a poor Baron of Castille.'— Much marvelled all were in the hall, when that name they heard him say.

'Rise up, rise up,' the Pope he said, 'I do thy guilt away ;

I do thy guilt away,' he said-'and my curse I blot it

out

God save Rodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion stout ;—
I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore,
To curse Ruy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge upon the

Moor.'

T. G. Lockhart.

CLIX.

VERSES

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

AM monarch of all I survey;

My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain.
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship and Love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
O, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage,
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Lies hid in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver or gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.

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