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Left on your right hand brings you to the place.

But at this hour the house doth keep itself,

There’s none within.

Oli.

If that an eye may profit by a tongue,

Then should I know you by description—

Such garments and such years. “The boy is fair,

Of female favor, and bestows himself

Like a ripe sister; the woman low,

And browner than her brother.” Are not you

The owner of the house I did inquire for?

Cel.

It is no boast, being ask’d, to say we are.

Oli.

Orlando doth commend him to you both,

And to that youth he calls his Rosalind

He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

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 handkercher 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, and pacing through the forest,

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,

Lo what befell! He threw his eye aside,

And mark what object did present itself