Introductory matter
PRELIMINARY REMARKS.
As you like it was certainly borrowed, if we believe Dr.
Grey and Mr. Upton, from the Coke's Tale of Gamelyn; which
by the way was not printed till a century afterward: when in
truth the old bard, who was no hunter of MSS. contented himself
solely with Lodge's Rosalynd, or Euphues' Golden Legacye,
4to. 1590.
Farmer.
Shakspeare has followed Lodge's novel more exactly than is
his general custom when he is indebted to such worthless originals;
and has sketched some of his principal characters, and
borrowed a few expressions from it. His imitations, &c. however,
are in general too insignificant to merit transcription.
It should be observed, that the characters of Jaques, the
Clown, and Audrey, are entirely of the poet's own formation.
Although I have never met with any edition of this comedy
before the year 1623, it is evident, that such a publication was
at least designed. At the beginning of the second volume of the
entries at Stationers' Hall, are placed two leaves of irregular
prohibitions, notes, &c. Among these are the following:
“Aug. 4.
“As You Like It, a book. . . . to be staid.”
“Henry the Fift, a book. . . . to be staid.”
“The Comedy of Much Ado, a book. to be staid.”
The dates scattered over these plays are from 1596 to 1615.
Steevens.
This comedy, I believe, was written in 1599. See An Attempt
to ascertain the Order of Shakspeare's Plays.
Malone.
-- 348 --
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Duke, living in Exile.
Frederick, Brother to the Duke, and Usurper of his Dominions.
Amiens, Lord attending upon the Duke in his Banishment.
Jaques, Lord attending upon the Duke in his Banishment.
Le Beau, a Courtier attending upon Frederick.
Charles, his Wrestler.
Oliver, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois.
Jaques [Jaques de Bois], Son of Sir Rowland de Bois.
Orlando, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois.
Adam, Servant to Oliver.
Dennis, Servant to Oliver.
Touchstone, a Clown.
Sir Oliver Mar-Text [Sir Oliver Martext], a Vicar.
Corin, Shepherd.
Sylvius [Silvius], Shepherd.
William, a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey.
A Person representing Hymen.
Rosalind, Daughter to the banished Duke.
Celia, Daughter to Frederick.
Phebe, a Shepherdess.
Audrey, a Country Wench.
Lords belonging to the two Dukes; Pages, Foresters, and other Attendants.
[Lord 1], [Lord 2], [Page 1], [Page 2]
The SCENE lies, first, near Oliver's House; afterwards, partly in the Usurper's Court, and partly in the Forest of Arden.
note
-- 349 --
AS YOU LIKE IT.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
An Orchard, near Oliver's House.
Enter Orlando and Adam.
Orl.
As I remember, Adam, it was upon this
fashion. He bequeathed me by will, but a poor
thousand crowns; and, as thou say'st, charged my
brother, on his blessing, to breed me well1 note
: and
-- 350 --
there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he
keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his
profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at home,
or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home
unkept2 note
: For call you that keeping for a gentleman
of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of
an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides
that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught
their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired:
but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but
growth; for the which his animals on his dunghills
are as much bound to him as I. Besides this
nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something
that nature gave me, his countenance seems
to take from me3 note
: he lets me feed with his hinds,
-- 351 --
bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in
him lies, mines my gentility with my education.
This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit
of my father, which I think is within me, begins to
mutiny against this servitude: I will no longer endure
it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to
avoid it.
Enter Oliver.
Adam.
Yonder comes my master, your brother.
Orl.
Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how
he will shake me up.
Oli.
Now, sir! what make you here4 note
?
Orl.
Nothing: I am not taught to make any
thing.
Oli.
What mar you then, sir?
Orl.
Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that
which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours,
with idleness.
Oli.
Marry, sir, be better employ'd, and be
naught awhile5 note
.
-- 352 --
Orl.
Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with
them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I
should come to such penury?
Oli.
Know you where you are, sir?
Orl.
O, sir, very well: here in your orchard.
-- 353 --
Oli.
Know you before whom, sir?
Orl.
Ay, better than him I am before knows me6 note
.
I know, you are my eldest brother; and, in the
gentle condition of blood, you should so know me:
The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in
that you are the first-born; but the same tradition
takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers
betwixt us: I have as much of my father in
me, as you; albeit, I confess, your coming before
me is nearer to his reverence7 note
.
Oli.
What, boy!
Orl.
Come, come, elder brother, you are too
young in this.
Oli.
Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
Orl.
I am no villain8 note: I am the youngest son of
sir Rowland de Bois; he was my father; and he is
thrice a villain, that says, such a father begot villains:
-- 354 --
Wert thou not my brother, I would not take
this hand from thy throat, till this other had pulled
out thy tongue for saying so; thou hast railed on
thyself.
Adam.
Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's
remembrance, be at accord.
Oli.
Let me go, I say.
Orl.
I will not, till I please; you shall hear me.
My father charged you in his will to give me good
education: you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring
and hiding from me all gentleman-like
qualities: the spirit of my father grows strong in
me, and I will no longer endure it: therefore allow
me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or
give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament;
with that I will go buy my fortunes.
Oli.
And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is
spent? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be
troubled with you: you shall have some part of
your will: I pray you, leave me.
Orl.
I will no further offend you than becomes
me for my good.
Oli.
Get you with him, you old dog.
Adam.
Is old dog my reward? Most true, I have
lost my teeth in your service.—God be with my old
master! he would not have spoke such a word.
[Exeunt Orlando and Adam.
Oli.
Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me?
I will physick your rankness, and yet give no thousand
crowns neither. Hola, Dennis!
Enter Dennis.
Den.
Calls your worship?
Oli.
Was not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here
to speak with me?
Den.
So please you, he is here at the door, and
importunes access to you.
-- 355 --
Oli.
Call him in. [Exit Dennis.]—'Twill be a
good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.
Enter Charles.
Cha.
Good morrow to your worship.
Oli.
Good monsieur Charles!—what's the new
news at the new court?
Cha.
There's no news at the court, sir, but the
old news: that is, the old duke is banished by his
younger brother the new duke; and three or four
loving lords have put themselves into voluntary
exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich
the new duke; therefore he gives them good leave9 note
to wander.
Oli.
Can you tell, if Rosalind, the duke's daughter1 note
,
be banished with her father.
Cha.
O, no; for the duke's daughter2 note
, her cousin,
so loves her,—being ever from their cradles bred
together,—that she would have followed her exile,
or have died to stay behind her. She is at the
court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own
daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.
Oli.
Where will the old duke live?
-- 356 --
Cha.
They say, he is already in the forest of
Arden3 note
, and a many merry men with him; and
there they live like the old Robin Hood of England:
they say, many young gentlemen flock to
him every day; and fleet the time carelessly, as
they did in the golden world.
Oli.
What, you wrestle to-morrow before the
new duke?
Cha.
Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint
you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand,
that your younger brother, Orlando, hath
a disposition to come in disguis'd against me to try
a fall: To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit;
and he that escapes me without some broken limb,
shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young,
and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to
foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come
in: therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither
to acquaint you withal; that either you might stay
him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace
well as he shall run into; in that it is a thing of his
own search, and altogether against my will.
Oli.
Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me,
which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite.
I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein,
and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade
him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee,
Charles,—it is the stubbornest young fellow of
-- 357 --
France; full of ambition, an envious emulator of
every man's good parts, a secret and villainous contriver
against me his natural brother; therefore use
thy discretion; I had as lief thou didst break his
neck as his finger: And thou wert best look to't;
for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do
not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise
against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous
device, and never leave thee till he hath
ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other: for,
I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it,
there is not one so young and so villainous this day
living, I speak but brotherly of him; but should I
anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and
weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
Cha.
I am heartily glad I came hither to you:
If he come to-morrow, I'll give him his payment:
If ever he go alone again, I'll never wrestle for
prize more: And so, God keep your worship!
[Exit.
Oli.
Farewell good Charles.—Now will I stir
this gamester4 note
: I hope, I shall see an end of him;
for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing
more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd,
and yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts5 note
enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so much in
the heart of the world, and especially of my own
people, who best know him, that I am altogether
misprised: but it shall not be so long; this wrestler
shall clear all: nothing remains, but that I kindle
the boy thither6 note
, which now I'll go about.
[Exit.
-- 358 --
SCENE II.
A Lawn before the Duke's Palace.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Cel.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be
merry.
Ros.
Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am
mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier7 note?
Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father,
you must not learn me how to remember any
extraordinary pleasure.
Cel.
Herein, I see, thou lovest me not with the
full weight that I love thee: if my uncle, thy banished
father, had banished thy uncle, the duke my
father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could
have taught my love to take thy father for mine;
so would'st thou, if the truth of thy love to me
were so righteously temper'd as mine is to thee.
Ros.
Well, I will forget the condition of my
estate, to rejoice in yours.
Cel.
You know, my father hath no child but I,
nor none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies,
thou shalt be his heir: for what he hath taken away
from thy father perforce, I will tender thee again in
affection; by mine honour, I will; and when I break
that oath, let me turn monster: therefore, my
sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.
Ros.
From henceforth I will, coz, and devise
sports: let me see; What think you of falling in
love?
Cel.
Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal:
but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in
sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thou
may'st in honour come off again.
-- 359 --
Ros.
What shall be our sport then?
Cel.
Let us sit and mock the good housewife,
Fortune, from her wheel8 note
, that her gifts may henceforth
be bestowed equally.
Ros.
I would, we could do so; for her benefits
are mightily misplaced: and the bountiful blind
woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.
Cel.
'Tis true: for those, that she makes fair,
she scarce makes honest; and those, that she makes
honest, she makes very ill-favouredly.
Ros.
Nay, now thou goest from fortune's office
to nature's: fortune reigns in gifts of the world,
not in the lineaments of nature.
Enter Touchstone.
Cel.
No? When nature hath made a fair creature,
may she not by fortune fall into the fire?—
Though nature hath given us wit to flout at fortune,
hath not fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?
Ros.
Indeed, there is fortune too hard for nature;
when fortune makes nature's natural the cutter
off of nature's wit.
Cel.
Peradventure, this is not fortune's work
neither, but nature's; who perceiveth our natural
wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath
sent this natural for our whetstone9 note: for always the
-- 360 --
dulness of the fool is the whetstone of his wits.—
How now, wit? whither wander you?
Touch.
Mistress, you must come away to your
father.
Cel.
Were you made the messenger?
Touch.
No, by mine honour: but I was bid to come for you.
Ros.
Where learned you that oath, fool?
Touch.
Of a certain knight, that swore by his
honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his
honour the mustard was naught: now, I'll stand to
it, the pancakes were naught, and the mustard was
good; and yet was not the knight forsworn.
Cel.
How prove you that, in the great heap of
your knowledge?
Ros.
Ay, marry; now unmuzzle your wisdom.
Touch.
Stand you both forth now: stroke your
chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave.
Cel.
By our beards, if we had them, thou art.
Touch.
By my knavery, if I had it, then I were:
but if you swear by that that is not, you are not
forsworn: no more was this knight, swearing by
his honour, for he never had any1 note
; or if he had, he
had sworn it away, before ever he saw those pancakes
or that mustard.
Cel.
Pr'ythee, who is't that thou mean'st?
Touch.
One that old Frederick, your father, loves.
Ros.
My father's love is enough to honour him2 note
.
-- 361 --
Enough! speak no more of him; you'll be whip'd
for taxation3 note
, one of these days.
Touch.
The more pity, that fools may not speak
wisely, what wise men do foolishly.
Cel.
By my troth, thou say'st true: for since
-- 362 --
the little wit, that fools have, was silenced3 note, the
little foolery, that wise men have, makes a great
show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.
Enter Le Beau.
Ros.
With his mouth full of news.
Cel.
Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed
their young.
Ros.
Then shall we be news-cramm'd.
Cel.
All the better; we shall be the more marketable.
Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau: What's
the news?
Le Beau.
Fair princess, you have lost much good
sport.
Cel.
Sport? Of what colour?
Le Beau.
What colour, madam? How shall I
answer you?
Ros.
As wit and fortune will.
Touch.
Or as the destinies decree.
Cel.
Well said; that was laid on with a trowel4 note
.
Touch.
Nay, if I keep not my rank,—
Ros.
Thou losest thy old smell.
Le Beau.
You amaze me, ladies5 note
: I would have
-- 363 --
told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the
sight of.
Ros.
Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
Le Beau.
I will tell you the beginning, and, if
it please your ladyships, you may see the end; for
the best is yet to do; and here, where you are,
they are coming to perform it.
Cel.
Well,—the beginning, that is dead and
buried.
Le Beau.
There comes an old man, and his
three sons,—
Cel.
I could match this beginning with an old
tale.
Le Beau.
Three proper young men, of excellent
growth and presence;—
Ros.
With bills on their necks,—Be it known
unto all men by these presents6 note
,—
-- 364 --
Le Beau.
The eldest of the three wrestled with
Charles, the duke's wrestler; which Charles in a
moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs,
that there is little hope of life in him: so he served
the second, and so the third: Yonder they lie; the
poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole
over them, that all the beholders take his part with
weeping.
Ros.
Alas!
Touch.
But what is the sport, monsieur, that the
ladies have lost?
Le Beau.
Why, this that I speak of.
Touch.
Thus men may grow wiser every day! it
is the first time that ever I heard, breaking of ribs
was sport for ladies.
-- 365 --
Cel.
Or I, I promise thee.
Ros.
But is there any else longs to see this broken
musick in his sides7 note
? is there yet another dotes
upon rib-breaking?—Shall we see this wrestling,
cousin?
Le Beau.
You must, if you stay here: for here
is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they
are ready to perform it.
Cel.
Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now
stay and see it.
Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and Attendants.
Duke F.
Come on; since the youth will not be
entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.
-- 366 --
Ros.
Is yonder the man?
Le Beau.
Even he, madam.
Cel.
Alas, he is too young: yet he looks successfully.
Duke F.
How now, daughter, and cousin? are
you crept hither to see the wrestling?
Ros.
Ay, my liege? so please you give us leave.
Duke F.
You will take little delight in it, I can
tell you, there is such odds in the men8 note: In pity of
the challenger's youth, I would fain dissuade him,
but he will not be entreated: Speak to him, ladies;
see if you can move him.
Cel.
Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
Duke F.
Do so; I'll not be by.
[Duke goes apart.
Le Beau.
Monsieur the challenger, the princesses
call for you9 note
.
Orl.
I attend them, with all respect and duty.
Ros.
Young man, have you challenged Charles
the wrestler1 note?
Orl.
No, fair princess; he is the general challenger:
I come but in, as others do, to try with
him the strength of my youth.
Cel.
Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold
for your years: You have seen cruel proof of this
man's strength: if you saw yourself with your eyes,
or knew yourself with your judgment2 note
, the fear of
-- 367 --
your adventure would counsel you to a more equal
enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to
embrace your own safety, and give over this attempt.
Ros.
Do, young sir; your reputation shall not
therefore be misprised: we will make it our suit to
the duke, that the wrestling might not go forward.
Orl.
I beseech you, punish me not with your
hard thoughts; wherein I confess me much guilty,
to deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing3 note
. But
let your fair eyes, and gentle wishes, go with me to
my trial4 note
: wherein if I be foiled, there is but one
-- 368 --
shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one
dead that is willing to be so: I shall do my friends
no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the world
no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the
world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied
when I have made it empty.
Ros.
The little strength that I have, I would it
were with you.
Cel.
And mine, to eke out hers.
Ros.
Fare you well. Pray heaven, I be deceived
in you!
Cel.
Your heart's desires be with you.
Cha.
Come, where is this young gallant, that is
so desirous to lie with his mother earth?
Orl.
Ready, sir; but his will hath it in a more
modest working.
Duke F.
You shall try but one fall.
Cha.
No, I warrant your grace; you shall not
entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded
him from a first.
Orl.
You mean to mock me after; you should
not have mocked me before: but come your ways.
Ros.
Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!
Cel.
I would I were invisible, to catch the
strong fellow by the leg.
[Charles and Orlando wrestle.
Ros.
O excellent young man!
Cel.
If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can
tell who should down.
[Charles is thrown. Shout.
Duke F.
No more, no more.
Orl.
Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet
well breathed.
Duke F.
How dost thou, Charles?
Le Beau.
He cannot speak, my lord.
Duke F.
Bear him away.
[Charles is borne out
-- 369 --
What is thy name, young man?
Orl.
Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of
sir Rowland de Bois.
Duke F.
I would, thou hadst been son to some man else.
The world esteem'd thy father honourable,
But I did find him still mine enemy:
Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed,
Hadst thou descended from another house.
But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;
I would, thou hadst told me of another father.
[Exeunt Duke Fred. Train, and Le Beau.
Cel.
Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
Orl.
I am more proud to be sir Rowland's son,
His youngest son5 note
;—and would not change that calling6 note,
To be adopted heir to Frederick.
Ros.
My father lov'd sir Rowland as his soul,
And all the world was of my father's mind:
Had I before known this young man his son,
I should have given him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventur'd.
Cel.
Gentle cousin,
Let us go thank him, and encourage him:
My father's rough and envious disposition
Sticks me at heart.—Sir, you have well deserv'd:
If you do keep your promises in love,
But justly, as you have exceeded all promise7 note,
-- 370 --
Your mistress shall be happy.
Ros.
Gentleman,
[Giving him a chain from her neck.
Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune8 note
;
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.—
Shall we go, coz?
Cel.
Ay:—Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orl.
Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts
Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up,
Is but a quintaine, a mere lifeless block9 note
10Q0007.
-- 371 --
Ros.
He calls us back: My pride fell with my fortunes:
I'll ask him what he would:—Did you call, sir?—
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.
Cel.
Will you go, coz?
Ros.
Have with you:—Fare you well.
[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.
Orl.
What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference.
Re-enter Le Beau.
O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown;
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.
Le Beau.
Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you
To leave this place: Albeit you have deserv'd
High commendation, true applause, and love;
Yet such is now the duke's condition1 note,
That he misconstrues all that you have done.
-- 372 --
The duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,
More suits you to conceive, than me to speak of2 note.
Orl.
I thank you, sir: and, pray you, tell me this;
Which of the two was daughter of the duke
That here was at the wrestling?
Le Beau.
Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;
But yet, indeed, the smaller3 note
is his daughter:
The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,
And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,
To keep his daughter company; whose loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
But I can tell you, that of late this duke
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece;
Grounded upon no other argument,
-- 373 --
But that the people praise her for her virtues,
And pity her for her good father's sake;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
Will suddenly break forth.—Sir, fare you well;
Hereafter, in a better world than this4 note,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
Orl.
I rest much bounden to you: fare you well!
[Exit Le Beau.
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
From tyrant duke, unto a tyrant brother:—
But heavenly Rosalind!
[Exit.
SCENE III.
A Room in the Palace.
Enter Celia and Rosalind.
Cel.
Why, cousin; why, Rosalind;—Cupid have
mercy!—Not a word?
Ros.
Not one to throw at a dog.
Cel.
No, thy words are too precious to be cast
away upon curs, throw some of them at me; come,
lame me with reasons.
Ros.
Then there were two cousins laid up; when
the one should be lamed with reasons, and the
other mad without any.
Cel.
But is all this for your father?
Ros.
No, some of it for my child's father5 note: O,
how full of briars is this working-day world!
Cel.
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon
thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden
paths, our very petticoats will catch them.
-- 374 --
Ros.
I could shake them off my coat; these
burs are in my heart.
Cel.
Hem them away.
Ros.
I would try; if I could cry hem, and have
him.
Cel.
Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
Ros.
O, they take the part of a better wrestler
than myself.
Cel.
O, a good wish upon you! you will try in
time, in despite of a fall.—But, turning these jests
out of service, let us talk in good earnest: Is it
possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so
strong a liking with old sir Rowland's youngest son?
Ros.
The duke my father lov'd his father dearly.
Cel.
Doth it therefore ensue, that you should
love his son dearly? By this kind of chase6 note, I
should hate him, for my father hated his father
dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
Ros.
No 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Cel.
Why should I not? doth he not deserve
well7 note
?
Ros.
Let me love him for that; and do you
-- 375 --
love him, because I do:—Look, here comes the
duke.
Cel.
With his eyes full of anger.
Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords.
Duke F.
Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Ros.
Me, uncle?
Duke F.
You, cousin:
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our publick court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.
Ros.
I do beseech your grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
If with myself I hold intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;
If that I do not dream, or be not frantick,
(As I do trust I am not,) then, dear uncle,
Never, so much as in a thought unborn,
Did I offend your highness.
Duke F.
Thus do all traitors;
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself:—
Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.
Ros.
Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:
Tell me, whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke F.
Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough.
Ros.
So was I, when your highness took his dukedom;
So was I, when your highness banish'd him:
Treason is not inherited, my lord;
Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor:
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much,
-- 376 --
To think my poverty is treacherous.
Cel.
Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke F.
Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake,
Else had she with her father rang'd along.
Cel.
I did not then entreat to have her stay,
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse8 note
;
I was too young that time to value her,
But now I know her: if she be a traitor,
Why so am I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together9 note
;
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled, and inseparable.
Duke F.
She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,
Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous1 note,
When she is gone: then open not thy lips;
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.
Cel.
Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege;
I cannot live out of her company.
Duke F.
You are a fool:—You, niece, provide yourself;
-- 377 --
If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
[Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords.
Cel.
O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am.
Ros.
I have more cause.
Cel.
Thou hast not, cousin2 note
;
Pr'ythee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke
Hath banish'd me his daughter?
Ros.
That he hath not.
Cel.
No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one3 note
:
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us:
And do not seek to take your change upon you4 note
,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
-- 378 --
Ros.
Why, whither shall we go?
Cel.
To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden5 note
.
Ros.
Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cel.
I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face6 note;
The like do you: so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.
Ros.
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-ax7 note upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,)
We'll have a swashing8 note and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have,
That do outface it with their semblances.
Cel.
What shall I call thee, when thou art a man?
Ros.
I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,
And therefore look you call me, Ganymede.
-- 379 --
But what will you be call'd?
Cel.
Something that hath a reference to my state;
No longer Celia, but Aliena.
Ros.
But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal
The clownish fool out of your father's court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
Cel.
He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him: Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together;
Devise the fittest time, and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight: Now go we in content9 note,
To liberty, and not to banishment.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Forest of Arden.
Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of Foresters.
Duke S.
Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exíle,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam1 note
,
-- 380 --
The season's difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,—
This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head2 note
;
-- 381 --
And this our life, exempt from publick haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks3 note
,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
Ami.
I would not change it4 note: Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
Duke S.
Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,—
Being native burghers of this desert city5 note
,—
Should, in their own confínes, with forked heads6 note
-- 382 --
Have their round haunches gor'd.
1 Lord.
Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens, and myself,
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood7 note
:
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase8 note
: and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
-- 383 --
Duke S.
But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?
1 Lord.
O, yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping in the needless stream9 note;
Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much1 note
: Then, being there alone2 note,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
'Tis right, quoth he; thus misery doth part
The flux of company: Anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him; Ay, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion: Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of country3 note
, city, court,
-- 384 --
Yea, and of this our life: swearing, that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up,
In their assign'd and native dwelling place.
Duke S.
And did you leave him in this contemplation?
2 Lord.
We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.
Duke S.
Show me the place;
I love to cope him4 note in these sullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.
2 Lord.
I'll bring you to him straight.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Room in the Palace.
Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants.
Duke F.
Can it be possible, that no man saw them?
It cannot be: some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.
1 Lord.
I cannot hear of any that did see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
-- 385 --
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
2 Lord.
My lord, the roynish clown5 note
, at whom so oft
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses, that she secretly o'er-heard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler6 note
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.
Duke F.
Send to his brother7 note; fetch that gallant hither;
If he be absent, bring his brother to me,
I'll make him find him: do this suddenly;
And let not search and inquisition quail8 note
To bring again these foolish runaways.
[Exeunt.
-- 386 --
SCENE III.
Before Oliver's House.
Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.
Orl.
Who's there?
Adam.
What! my young master?—O, my gentle master,
O, my sweet master, O you memory9 note
Of old sir Rowland! why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would you be so fond1 note
to overcome
The bony priser2 note
of the humorous duke?
-- 387 --
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men3 note
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely,
Envenoms him that bears it?
Orl.
Why, what's the matter?
Adam.
O unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:
Your brother—(no, no brother; yet the son—
Yet not the son;—I will not call him son—
Of him I was about to call his father,)—
Hath heard your praises; and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off:
I overheard him, and his practices.
This is no place4 note
, this house is but a butchery;
-- 388 --
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orl.
Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
Adam.
No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orl.
What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?
Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subjéct me to the malice
Of a diverted blood5 note
, and bloody brother.
Adam.
But do not so: I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown;
Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow6 note
,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
All this I give you: Let me be your servant:
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty:
-- 389 --
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood7 note
;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
Orl.
O good old man; how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat, but for promotion;
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having8 note: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry:
But come thy ways, we'll go along together;
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.
Adam.
Master, go on; and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.—
From seventeen years9 note till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore, it is too late a week:
-- 390 --
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better,
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
The Forest of Arden.
Enter Rosalind in boy's clothes, Celia drest like a Shepherdess, and Touchstone.
Ros.
O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits1 note
!
Touch.
I care not for my spirits, if my legs were
not weary.
Ros.
I could find in my heart to disgrace my
man's apparel, and to cry like a woman: but I
must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and
hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat:
therefore, courage, good Aliena.
Cel.
I pray you, bear with me; I cannot go no
further.
Touch.
For my part, I had rather bear with you,
than bear you2 note
: yet I should bear no cross3 note, if I
-- 391 --
did bear you; for, I think, you have no money in
your purse.
Ros.
Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Touch.
Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool
I; when I was at home, I was in a better place;
but travellers must be content.
Ros.
Ay, be so, good Touchstone:—Look you,
who comes here; a young man, and an old, in
solemn talk.
Enter Corin and Silvius.
Cor.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
Sil.
O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!
Cor.
I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil.
No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess;
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow:
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
(As sure I think did never man love so,)
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Cor.
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil.
O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily:
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly4 note
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd:
-- 392 --
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearing thy hearer5 note in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not lov'd:
Or if thou hast not broke from company,
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!
[Exit Silvius.
Ros.
Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound6 note,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
Touch.
And I mine: I remember, when I was
in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid
him take that for coming anight7 note to Jane Smile:
and I remember the kissing of her batlet8 note
, and the
cow's dugs that her pretty chop'd hands had milk'd:
and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of
her; from whom I took two cods9 note
, and, giving her
-- 393 --
them again, said with weeping tears1 note
, Wear these
for my sake. We, that are true lovers, run into
strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is
all nature in love mortal in folly2 note.
Ros.
Thou speak'st wiser, than thou art 'ware of.
Touch.
Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own
wit, till I break my shins against it.
Ros.
Jove! Jove! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.
Touch,
And mine; but it grows something stale with me.
Cel.
I pray you, one of you question yond man,
If he for gold will give us any food;
-- 394 --
I faint almost to death.
Touch.
Holla; you, clown!
Ros.
Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.
Cor.
Who calls?
Touch.
Your betters, sir.
Cor.
Else are they very wretched.
Ros.
Peace, I say:—
Good even to you, friend3 note.
Cor.
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
Ros.
I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love, or gold,
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and feed:
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
And faints for succour.
Cor.
Fair sir, I pity her,
And wish for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her:
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not sheer the fleeces that I graze;
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks4 note
to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality:
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on; but what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be5 note.
Ros.
What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor.
That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
-- 395 --
That little cares for buying any thing.
Ros.
I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
Cel.
And we will mend thy wages: I like this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.
Cor.
Assuredly, the thing is to be sold:
Go with me; if you like, upon report,
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The Same.
Enter Amiens, Jaques, and Others.
SONG.
Ami.
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune6 note
his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
Jaq.
More, more, I pr'ythee, more.
-- 396 --
Ami.
It will make you melancholy, monsieur
Jaques.
Jaq.
I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. I can
suck melancholy out of a song, as a weazel sucks
eggs: More, I pr'ythee, more.
Ami.
My voice is ragged7 note
; I know, I cannot
please you.
Jaq.
I do not desire you to please me, I do desire
you to sing: Come, more; another stanza* note;
Call you them stanzas† note?
Ami.
What you will, monsieur Jaques.
Jaq.
Nay, I care not for their names; they owe
me nothing: Will you sing?
Ami.
More at your request, than to please myself.
Jaq.
Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll
thank you: but that they call compliment, is like
the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man
-- 397 --
thanks me heartily, methinks, I have given him
a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks.
Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your
tongues.
Ami.
Well, I'll end the song.—Sirs, cover the
while; the duke will drink under this tree:—he
hath been all this day to look you.
Jaq.
And I have been all this day to avoid him.
He is too dispútable8 note for my company: I think of
as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks,
and make no boast of them. Come, warble,
come.
SONG.
Who doth ambition shun,
[All together here.
And loves to live i' the sun9 note
,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
Jaq.
I'll give you a verse to this note, that I
made yesterday in despite of my invention.
Ami.
And I'll sing it.
Jaq.
Thus it goes:
If it do come to pass,
That any man turn ass
Leaving his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please,
-- 398 --
Ducdàme, ducdàme, ducdàme1 note
;
Here shall he see,
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.
-- 399 --
Ami.
What's that ducdàme?
Jaq.
'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a
circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail
against all the first-born of Egypt2 note
.
Ami.
And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is
prepar'd.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE VI.
The Same.
Enter Orlando and Adam.
Adam.
Dear master, I can go no further: O, I
die for food! Here lie I down, and measure out
my grave3 note
. Farewell, kind master.
-- 400 --
Orl.
Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart
in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself
a little: If this uncouth forest yield any thing
savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it for
food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy
powers. For my sake, be comfortable; hold death
awhile at the arm's end: I will here be with thee
presently; and if I bring thee not something to eat,
I'll give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before
I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well
said! thou look'st cheerily: and I'll be with thee
quickly.—Yet thou liest in the bleak air: Come, I
will bear thee to some shelter: and thou shalt not
die for lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in
this desert. Cheerly, good Adam!
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
The Same.
A Table set out. Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Lords, and others.
Duke S.
I think he be transform'd into a beast;
For I can no where find him like a man.
1 Lord.
My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
Duke S.
If he, compact of jars4 note
, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres:—
Go, seek him; tell him, I would speak with him.
-- 401 --
Enter Jaques.
1 Lord.
He saves my labour by his own approach.
Duke S.
Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily.
Jaq.
A fool, a fool!—I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool;—a miserable world5 note
!—
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms,—and yet a motley fool.
Good-morrow, fool, quoth I: No, sir, quoth he,
Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune6 note
:
-- 402 --
And then he drew a dial from his poke;
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, It is ten o'clock:
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine;
And after one hour more, 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot, and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial.—O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear7 note
.
Duke S.
What fool is this?
Jaq.
O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier;
And says, if ladies be but young, and fair,
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,—
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit8 note
-- 403 --
After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms:—O, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke S.
Thou shalt have one.
Jaq.
It is my only suit9 note
;
Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them,
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind1 note
,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh: And why, sir, must they so?
The why is plain as way to parish church:
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob2 note
: if not,
-- 404 --
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandring glances of the fool2 note.
Invest me in my motley; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world3 note
,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke S.
Fye on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
Jaq.
What, for a counter4 note
, would I do, but good?
Duke S.
Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting5 note
itself;
-- 405 --
And all the embossed sores, and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
Jaq.
Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the very very means do ebb6 note?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say, The city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say, that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says, his bravery7 note
is not on my cost,
(Thinking that I mean him,) but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
There then; How then? what then8 note
? Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man.—But who comes* note here?
Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.
Orl.
Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq.
Why, I have eat none yet.
-- 406 --
Orl.
Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq.
Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke S.
Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress;
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty?
Orl.
You touch'd my vein at first; the thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility9 note
: yet am I inland bred1 note,
And know some nurture2 note
: But forbear, I say;
He dies, that touches any of this fruit,
Till I and my affairs are answered.
Jaq.
An you will not be answered with reason,
I must die.
Duke S.
What would you have? Your gentleness shall force,
More than your force move us to gentleness.
Orl.
I almost die for food, and let me have it.
Duke S.
Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orl.
Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:
-- 407 --
I thought, that all things had been savage here;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment: But whate'er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible3 note,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have look'd on better days;
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church;
If ever sat at any good man's feast;
If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S.
True is it that we have seen better days;
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have4 note,
That to your wanting may be ministred.
Orl.
Then, but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food5 note
. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,—
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,—
I will not touch a bit.
Duke S.
Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.
-- 408 --
Orl.
I thank ye; and be bless'd for your good comfort!
[Exit.
Duke S.
Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in6 note
.
Jaq.
All the world's a stage7 note
,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
-- 409 --
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages8 note. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then9 note, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace1 note, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow: Then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard2 note
,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick3 note
in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice;
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances4 note
,
-- 410 --
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon5 note
;
With spectacles on nose6 note
, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
-- 411 --
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.
Duke S.
Welcome: Set down your venerable burden7 note
,
And let him feed.
Orl.
I thank you most for him.
Adam.
So had you need;
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Duke S.
Welcome, fall to: I will not trouble you
As yet, to question you about your fortunes:—
Give us some musick; and, good cousin, sing.
Amiens sings.
SONG.
I.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude8 note
;
-- 412 --
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen9 note
,
Although thy breath be rude.
-- 413 --
Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh, ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
II.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp1 note
,
-- 414 --
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not2 note
.
Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! &c.
Duke S.
If that you were the good sir Rowland's son,—
As you have whisper'd faithfully, you were;
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd, and living in your face,—
Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke,
-- 415 --
That lov'd your father: The residue of your fortune,
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is3 note:
Support him by the arm.—Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Room in the Palace.
Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, and Attendants.
Duke F.
Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument4 note
Of my revenge, thou present: But look to it;
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is;
Seek him with candle5 note; bring him dead or living,
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine,
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands;
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth,
Of what we think against thee.
Oli.
O, that your highness knew my heart in this!
-- 416 --
I never lov'd my brother in my life.
Duke F.
More villain thou.—Well, push him out of doors;
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands6 note
:
Do this expediently7 note
, and turn him going.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Forest.
Enter Orlando, with a paper.
Orl.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
And, thou, thrice-crowned queen of night8 note
, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway9 note
.
O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character:
-- 417 --
That every eye, which in this forest looks,
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando; carve, on every tree,
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive1 note
she.
[Exit.
Enter Corin and Touchstone.
Cor.
And how like you this shepherd's life,
master Touchstone?
Touch.
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is
a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's
life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like
it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a
very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it
pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the
court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you,
it fits my humour well; but as there is no more
plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach.
Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?
Cor.
No more, but that I know, the more one
sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that
wants money, means, and content, is without three
good friends:—That the property of rain is to wet,
and fire to burn: That good pasture makes fat
sheep; and that a great cause of the night, is lack
of the sun: That he, that hath learned no wit by
nature nor art, may complain of good breeding, or
comes of a very dull kindred2 note
.
-- 418 --
Touch.
Such a one is a natural philosopher3 note
.
Wast ever in court, shepherd?
Cor.
No, truly.
Touch.
Then thou art damn'd.
Cor.
Nay, I hope,—
Touch.
Truly, thou art damn'd; like an ill-roasted
egg4 note
, all on one side.
-- 419 --
Cor.
For not being at court? Your reason.
Touch.
Why, if thou never wast at court, thou
never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st
good manners, then thy manners must be wicked;
and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation: Thou
art in a parlous state, shepherd.
Cor.
Not a whit, Touchstone: those, that are
good manners at the court, are as ridiculous in the
country, as the behaviour of the country is most
mockable at the court. You told me, you salute
not at the court, but you kiss your hands; that
courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.
Touch.
Instance, briefly; come, instance.
Cor.
Why, we are still handling our ewes; and
their fells, you know, are greasy.
Touch.
Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat?
and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as
the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: A better
instance, I say; come.
Cor.
Besides, our hands are hard.
Touch.
Your lips will feel them the sooner.
Shallow, again: A more sounder instance, come.
Cor.
And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery
of our sheep; And would you have us kiss tar?
The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.
Touch.
Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat,
in respect of a good piece of flesh: Indeed!—Learn
of the wise, and perpend: Civet is of a baser birth
than tar; the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend
the instance, shepherd.
Cor.
You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.
-- 420 --
Touch.
Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee,
shallow man! God make incision in thee5 note
! thou
art raw6 note.
Cor.
Sir, I am a true labourer; I earn that I eat,
get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's
-- 421 --
happiness; glad of other men's good, content with
my harm: and the greatest of my pride is, to see
my ewes graze, and my lambs suck.
Touch.
That is another simple sin in you; to
bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer
to get your living by the copulation of cattle: to be
bawd to a bell-wether7 note; and to betray a she-lamb
of a twelvemonth, to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly
ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou
be'st not damn'd for this, the devil himself will
have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou
shouldst 'scape.
Cor.
Here comes young master Ganymede, my
new mistress's brother.
Enter Rosalind, reading a paper.
Ros.
From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures, fairest lin'd8 note,
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind9 note
.
-- 422 --
Touch.
I'll rhyme you so, eight years together;
dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted;
it is the right butter-woman's rate to market1 note
.
Ros.
Out, fool!
Touch.
for a taste:—
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
-- 423 --
If the cat will after kind,
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Winter-garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap, must sheaf and bind;
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sowrest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find,
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses2 note; Why do you
infect yourself with them.
Ros.
Peace, you dull fool; I found them on a
tree.
Touch.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Ros.
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff
it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit3 note
in the country: for you'll be rotten e'er you be half
ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.
Touch.
You have said; but whether wisely or no,
let the forest judge.
Enter Celia, reading a paper.
Ros.
Peace!
Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
Cel.
Why should this desert silent be4 note
?
For it is unpeopled? No;
-- 424 --
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show5 note
.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage;
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age.
Some, of violated vows
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend:
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence' end,
Will I Rosalinda write;
Teaching all that read, to know
-- 425 --
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show6 note
.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd7 note
That one body should be filld
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty;
Atalanta's better part8 note
;
Sad9 note
Lucretia's modesty.
-- 426 --
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd;
-- 427 --
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches1 note
dearest priz'd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.
Ros.
O most gentle Jupiter!—what tedious homily
of love have you wearied your parishioners
withal, and never cry'd, Have patience, good people!
Cel.
How now! back friends;—Shepherd, go
off a little:—Go with him, sirrah.
Touch.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
retreat; though not with bag and baggage,
yet with scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt Corin and Touchstone.
Cel.
Didst thou hear these verses?
Ros.
O, yes, I heard them all, and more too;
-- 428 --
for some of them had in them more feet than the
verses would bear.
Cel.
That's no matter; the feet might bear the
verses.
Ros.
Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not
bear themselves without the verse, and therefore
stood lamely in the verse.
Cel.
But didst thou hear, without wondering
how thy name should be hang'd and carved upon
these trees?
Ros.
I was seven of the nine days out of the
wonder, before you came; for look here what I
found on a palm-tree2 note; I was never so be-rhymed
since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat3 note
,
which I can hardly remember.
Cel.
Trow you, who hath done this?
Ros.
Is it a man?
-- 429 --
Cel.
And a chain, that you once wore, about
his neck: Change you colour?
Ros.
I pr'ythee, who?
Cel.
O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends
to meet4 note
: but mountains may be removed with
earthquakes, and so encounter5 note.
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.
Cel.
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after
that out of all whooping6 note
!
Ros.
Good my complexion7 note
! dost thou think,
-- 430 --
though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet
and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay
more is a South-sea of discovery8 note
; I pr'ythee, tell
me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace: I would
-- 431 --
thou couldst stammer, that thou might'st pour this
concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes
out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle; either too much
at once, or none at all. I pr'ythee take the cork
out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
Cel.
So you may put a man in your belly.
Ros.
Is he of God's making? What manner of
man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth
a beard?
Cel.
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Ros.
Why, God will send more, if the man will
be thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard,
if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
Cel.
It is young Orlando; that tripp'd up the
wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an instant.
Ros.
Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak
sad brow, and true maid9 note.
Cel.
I' faith, coz, 'tis he.
Ros.
Orlando?
Cel.
Orlando.
Ros.
Alas the day! what shall I do with my
doublet and hose?—What did he, when thou saw'st
him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein
went he1 note? What makes he here? Did he ask for
me? Where remains he? How parted she with
thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer
me in one word.
Cel.
You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth2 note
-- 432 --
first: 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this
age's size: To say, ay, and no, to these particulars,
is more than to answer in a catechism.
Ros.
But doth he know that I am in this forest,
and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he
did the day he wrestled?
Cel.
It is as easy to count atomies3 note
, as to resolve
the propositions of a lover:—but take a taste of my
finding him, and relish it with a good observance.
I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn.
Ros.
It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it
drops forth such fruit4 note
.
Cel.
Give me audience, good madam.
Ros.
Proceed.
-- 433 --
Cel.
There lay he, stretch'd along, like a wounded
knight.
Ros.
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground5 note
.
Cel.
Cry, holla! to thy tongue6 note
, I pr'ythee; it
curvets very unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a
hunter.
Ros.
O ominous! he comes to kill my heart7 note
.
Cel.
I would sing my song without a burden:
thou bring'st me out of tune.
Ros.
Do you not know I am a woman? when I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Cel.
You bring me out:—Soft! comes he not
here?
-- 434 --
Ros.
'Tis he; slink by, and note him.
[Celia and Rosalind retire.
Jaq.
I thank you for your company; but, good
faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.
Orl.
And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake,
I thank you too for your society.
Jaq.
God be with you* note; let's meet as little as we
can.
Orl.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
Jaq.
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing
love-songs in their barks.
Orl.
I pray you mar no more† note of my verses
with reading them ill-favouredly.
Jaq.
Rosalind is your love's name?
Orl.
Yes, just.
Jaq.
I do not like her name.
Orl.
There was no thought of pleasing you,
when she was christen'd.
Jaq.
What stature is she of?
Orl.
Just as high as my heart.
Jaq.
You are full of pretty answers: Have you
not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and
conn'd them out of rings?
Orl.
Not so; but I answer you right painted
cloth8 note
, from whence you have studied your questions.
-- 435 --
Jaq.
You have a nimble wit; I think 't was
made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with
-- 436 --
me? and we two will rail against our mistress the
world, and all our misery.
Orl.
I will chide no breather in the world9 note
, but
myself; against whom I know most faults.
Jaq.
The worst fault you have, is to be in love.
Orl.
'Tis a fault I will not change for your best
virtue. I am weary of you.
Jaq.
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when
I found you.
Orl.
He is drown'd in the brook; look but in,
and you shall see him.
Jaq.
There shall I see mine own figure.
Orl.
Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher.
Jaq.
I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good
signior love.
Orl.
I am glad of your departure; adieu, good
monsieur melancholy.
[Exit Jaques.—Celia and Rosalind come forward.
Ros.
I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and
under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you
hear, forester?
-- 437 --
Orl.
Very well; What would you?
Ros.
I pray you, what is't a clock?
Orl.
You should ask me, what time o'day; there's
no clock in the forest.
Ros.
Then there is no true lover in the forest;
else sighing every minute, and groaning every hour,
would detect the lazy foot of time, as well as a
clock.
Orl.
And why not the swift foot of time? had
not that been as proper?
Ros.
By no means, sir: Time travels in divers
paces with divers persons: I'll tell you who Time
ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time
gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orl.
I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal?
Ros.
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid,
between the contract of her marriage1 note, and the day
it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight,
Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of
seven years.
Orl.
Who ambles Time withal?
Ros.
With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich
man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps
easily, because he cannot study; and the other
lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one
lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning;
the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury:
These Time ambles withal.
Orl.
Who doth he gallop withal?
Ros.
With a thief to the gallows: for though he
go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too
soon there.
-- 438 --
Orl.
Who stays it still withal?
Ros.
With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep
between term and term, and then they perceive
not how time moves.
Orl.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Ros.
With this shepherdess, my sister: here in
the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orl.
Are you native of this place?
Ros.
As the coney, that you see dwell where she
is kindled.
Orl.
Your accent is something finer than you
could purchase in so removed2 note
a dwelling.
Ros.
I have been told so of many: but, indeed,
an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak,
who was in his youth an in-land man3 note
; one that
knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love.
I have heard him read many lectures against it;
and I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touch'd
with so many giddy offences as he hath generally
tax'd their whole sex withal.
Orl.
Can you remember any of the principal
evils, that he laid to the charge of women?
Ros.
There were none principal; they were all
-- 439 --
like one another, as half-pence are: every one fault
seeming monstrous, till his fellow fault came to
match it.
Orl.
I pr'ythee, recount some of them.
Ros.
No; I will not cast away my physick, but
on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the
forest, that abuses our young plants with carving
Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns,
and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth,
deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet
that fancy-monger, I would give him some good
counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love
upon him.
Orl.
I am he that is so love-shaked; I pray you,
tell me your remedy.
Ros.
There is none of my uncle's marks upon
you: he taught me how to know a man in love;
in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not
prisoner.
Orl.
What were his marks?
Ros.
A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue
eye4 note, and sunken; which you have not: an unquestionable
spirit5 note
; which you have not: a beard
-- 440 --
neglected; which you have not:—but I pardon
you for that; for, simply, your having6 note
in beard is
a younger brother's revenue:—Then your hose
should be ungarter'd7 note
, your bonnet unbanded, your
sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every
thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation.
But you are no such man; you are rather
point-device8 note in your accoutrements; as loving
yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.
Orl.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee
believe I love.
Ros.
Me believe it? you may as soon make her
that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is
apter to do, than to confess she does: that is one
of the points in the which women still give the lie
to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you
-- 441 --
he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein
Rosalind is so admired?
Orl.
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand
of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
Ros.
But are you so much in love as your rhymes
speak?
Orl.
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how
much.
Ros.
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you,
deserves as well a dark house, and a whip, as madmen
do: and the reason why they are not so punished
and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary,
that the whippers are in love too: Yet I profess
curing it by counsel.
Orl.
Did you ever cure any so?
Ros.
Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to
imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him
every day to woo me: At which time would I, being
but a moonish youth9 note
, grieve, be effeminate,
changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical,
apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles;
for every passion something, and for no passion truly
any thing, as boys and women are for the most part
cattle of this colour: would now like him, now
loath him; then entertain him, then forswear him;
now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave
my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living
humour of madness1 note
; which was, to forswear the
-- 442 --
full stream of the world, and to live in a nook
merely monastick: And thus I cured him; and this
way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean
as a sound sheep's heart2 note, that there shall not be
one spot of love in't.
Orl.
I would not be cured, youth.
Ros.
I would cure you, if you would but call me
Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo
me.
Orl.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell
me where it is.
Ros.
Go with me to it, and I'll show it you:
and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the
forest you live: Will you go?
Orl.
With all my heart, good youth.
Ros.
Nay, you must call me Rosalind:—Come,
sister, will you go?
[Exeunt.
-- 443 --
SCENE III.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey3 note; Jaques at a distance, observing them.
Touch.
Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch
up your goats, Audrey: And how, Audrey? am I
the man yet? Doth my simple feature content
you4 note
?
Aud.
Your features! Lord warrant us! what features?
Touch.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as
-- 444 --
the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among
the Goths5 note
.
Jaq.
O knowledge ill-inhabited6 note
! worse than
Jove in a thatch'd house!
[Aside.
Touch.
When a man's verses cannot be understood,
nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward
child, understanding, it strikes a man more
dead than a great reckoning in a little room7 note:—
Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
-- 445 --
Aud.
I do not know what poetical is: Is it honest
in deed, and word? Is it a true thing?
Touch.
No, truly; for the truest poetry is the
most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and
what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers,
they do feign8 note
.
Aud.
Do you wish then, that the gods had made
me poetical?
Touch.
I do, truly: for thou swear'st to me, thou
art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have
some hope thou didst feign.
Aud.
Would you not have me honest?
Touch.
No truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd:
for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a
sauce to sugar.
Jaq.
A material fool9 note
!
[Aside.
Aud.
Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray
the gods make me honest!
Touch.
Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a
foul slut, were to put good meat into an unclean
dish.
Aud.
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I
am foul1 note
.
-- 446 --
Touch.
Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness!
sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it
as it may be, I will marry thee: and to that end, I
have been with Sir Oliver Mar-text, the vicar of the
next village; who hath promised to meet me in this
place of the forest, and to couple us.
Jaq.
I would fain see this meeting.
[Aside.
Aud.
Well, the gods give us joy!
Touch.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a
fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we
have no temple but the wood, no assembly but
horn-beasts. But what though2 note? Courage! As
-- 447 --
horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said,—
Many a man knows no end of his goods: right:
many a man has good horns, and knows no end of
them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis
none of his own getting. Horns? Even so:—
Poor men alone?—No, no; the noblest deer hath
them as huge as the rascal3 note. Is the single man
therefore blessed? No: as a wall'd town is more
worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married
man more honourable than the bare brow of a
bachelor: and by how much defence4 note is better than
no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than
to want.
Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.
Here comes sir Oliver5 note
:—Sir Oliver Mar-text, you
-- 448 --
are well met: Will you dispatch us here under this
tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
Sir Oli.
Is there none here to give the woman?
Touch.
I will not take her on gift of any man.
Sir Oli.
Truly, she must be given, or the marriage
is not lawful.
Jaq. [Discovering himself.]
Proceed, proceed;
I'll give her.
Touch.
Good even, good master What ye call't:
How do you, sir? You are very well met: God'ild
you5 note
for your last company: I am very glad to see
you:—Even a toy in hand here, sir:—Nay; pray,
be cover'd.
Jaq.
Will you be married, motley?
Touch.
As the ox hath his bow6 note
, sir, the horse
his curb, and the faulcon her bells, so man hath
his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would
be nibbling.
Jaq.
And will you, being a man of your breeding,
be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get
you to church, and have a good priest that can tell
you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you
together as they join wainscot; then one of you
will prove a shrunk pannel, and, like green timber,
warp, warp.
-- 449 --
Touch.
I am not in the mind, but I were better
to be married of him than of another: for he is
not like to marry me well: and not being well
married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter,
to leave my wife.
[Aside.
Jaq.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Touch.
Come, sweet Audrey:
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry,
Farewell, good master Oliver!
Not—O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver7 note
,
Leave me not behind thee:
But—Wind away,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.
[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey.
-- 450 --
Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical
knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.
[Exit.
-- 451 --
SCENE IV.
The same. Before a Cottage.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Ros.
Never talk to me, I will weep.
Cel.
Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to
consider, that tears do not become a man.
Ros.
But have I not cause to weep?
Cel.
As good cause as one would desire; therefore
weep.
Ros.
His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Cel.
Something browner than Judas's8 note
: marry,
his kisses are Judas's own children.
-- 452 --
Ros.
I'faith, his hair is of a good colour9 note.
Cel.
An excellent colour: your chesnut was
ever the only colour.
Ros.
And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the
touch of holy bread1 note.
Cel.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of
Diana2 note: a nun of winter's sisterhood3 note
kisses not
-- 453 --
more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in
them.
Ros.
But why did he swear he would come this
morning, and comes not?
Cel.
Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Ros.
Do you think so?
Cel.
Yes: I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a
horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think
him as concave as a cover'd goblet4 note
, or a worm-eaten
nut.
Ros.
Not true in love?
Cel.
Yes, when he is in; but, I think he is not in.
Ros.
You have heard him swear downright, he
was.
Cel.
Was is not is: besides, the oath of a lover
is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are
both the confirmers of false reckonings: He attends
here in the forest on the duke your father.
Ros.
I met the duke yesterday, and had much
question5 note
with him: He ask'd me, of what parentage
I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he
laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers,
when there is such a man as Orlando?
Cel.
O, that's a brave man! he writes brave
-- 454 --
verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and
breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart6 note
the
-- 455 --
heart of his lover7 note
; as a puny tilter, that spurs his
horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble
goose: but all's brave, that youth mounts, and folly
guides:—Who comes here?
Enter Corin.
Cor.
Mistress, and master, you have oft enquired
After the shepherd that complain'd of love;
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
Cel.
Well, and what of him?
Cor.
If you will see a pageant truly play'd,
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.
Ros.
O, come, let us remove;
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:—
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:
Say, that you love me not; but say not so
-- 456 --
In bitterness: The common executioner,
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon; Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops8 note
?
-- 457 --
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, at a distance.
Phe.
I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye:
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable9 note,
That eyes,—that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,—
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;
And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee;
Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;
Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush1 note,
The cicatrice and capable impressure2 note
-- 458 --
Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not:
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
Than can do hurt.
Sil.
O dear Phebe,
If ever, (as that ever may be near,)
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy3 note,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
Phe.
But, till that time,
Come not thou near me: and, when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee.
Ros.
And why, I pray you? [Advancing.] Who might be your mother4 note,
That you insult, exult, and all at once5 note
,
-- 459 --
Over the wretched? What though you have mo beauty6 note
,
-- 460 --
(As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,)
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you, than in the ordinary
Of nature's sale-work7 note:—Od's my little life!
I think, she means to tangle my eyes too!
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:
'Tis not your inky brows, your black-silk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship8 note
.—
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman: 'Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children:
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can show her.—
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:
-- 461 --
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,—
Sell when you can: you are not for all markets:
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer9 note.
So, take her to thee, shepherd;—fare you well.
Phe.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.
Ros.
He's fallen in love with her foulness1 note, and
she'll fall in love with my anger: If it be so, as fast
as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce
her with bitter words.—Why look you so upon me?
Phe.
For no ill will I bear you.
Ros.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine:
Besides, I like you not: If you will know my house,
'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by:—
Will you go, sister?—Shepherd, ply her hard:—
Come, sister:—Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud: though all the world could see,
None could be so abus'd in sight as he2 note
.
Come, to our flock.
[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe.
Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight3 note
?
-- 462 --
Sil.
Sweet Phebe,—
Phe.
Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil.
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be;
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief,
Were both extermin'd.
Phe.
Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly?
Sil.
I would have you.
Phe.
Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;
And yet it is not, that I bear thee love:
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil.
So holy, and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then
A scatter'd smile4 note
, and that I'll live upon.
-- 463 --
Phe.
Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere while?
Sil.
Not very well, but I have met him oft;
And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds,
That the old carlot once was master of5 note.
Phe.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy6 note
:—yet he talks well;—
But what care I for words? yet words do well,
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth:—not very pretty:—
But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him:
He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall7 note
:
His leg is but so so; and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip;
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask8 note.
-- 464 --
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him: but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause9 note to hate him than to love him:
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me:
I marvel, why I answer'd not again:
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it; Wilt thou, Silvius?
Sil.
Phebe, with all my heart.
Phe.
I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:
Go with me, Silvius.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
The Same.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.
Jaq.
I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better1 note
acquainted with thee.
Ros.
They say, you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaq.
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
Ros.
Those, that are in extremity of either, are
-- 465 --
abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every
modern censure, worse than drunkards.
Jaq.
Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.
Ros.
Why then, 'tis good to be a post.
Jaq.
I have neither the scholar's melancholy,
which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is
fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor
the soldier's, which is ambitious: nor the lawyer's,
which is politick; nor the lady's, which is nice2 note
;
nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy
of mine own, compounded of many simples,
extracted from many objects; and, indeed,
the sundry contemplation of my travels; which
by often rumination wraps me, in a most humorous
sadness3 note
.
Ros.
A traveller! By my faith, you have great
reason to be sad: I fear, you have sold your own
lands, to see other men's; then, to have seen much,
and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor
hands.
Jaq.
Yes, I have gained my experience.
-- 466 --
Enter Orlando.
Ros.
And your experience makes you sad: I had
rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience
to make me sad; and to travel for it too.
Orl.
Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Jaq.
Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in
blank verse.
[Exit.
Ros.
Farewell, monsieur traveller: Look, you
lisp, and wear strange suits; disable4 note all the benefits
of your own country; be out of love with your
nativity, and almost chide God for making you that
countenance you are; or I will scarce think you
have swam in a gondola5 note
.—Why, how now, Orlando!
where have you been all this while? You a
lover?—An you serve me such another trick, never
come in my sight more.
Orl.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of
my promise.
Ros.
Break an hour's promise in love? He that
will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and
break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute
in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that
Cupid hath clap'd him o' the shoulder, but I'll warrant
him heart-whole.
Orl.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
-- 467 --
Ros.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in
my sight; I had as lief be woo'd of a snail.
Orl.
Of a snail?
Ros.
Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly,
he carries his house on his head; a better jointure,
I think, than you can make a woman6 note: Besides,
he brings his destiny with him.
Orl.
What's that?
Ros.
Why, horns; which such as you are fain to
be beholden to your wives for: but he comes armed
in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.
Orl.
Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind
is virtuous.
Ros.
And I am your Rosalind.
Cel.
It pleases him to call you so; but he hath
a Rosalind of a better leer than you7 note
.
Ros.
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in
a holiday humour, and like enough to consent:—
What would you say to me now, an I were your
very very Rosalind?
Orl.
I would kiss, before I spoke.
Ros.
Nay, you were better speak first; and when
you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might
-- 468 --
take occasion to kiss8 note. Very good orators, when
they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking
(God warn us9 note
!) matter, the cleanliest shift is to
kiss.
Orl.
How if the kiss be denied?
Ros.
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there
begins new matter.
Orl.
Who could be out, being before his beloved
mistress?
Ros.
Marry, that should you, if I were your
mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than
my wit.
Orl.
What, of my suit?
Ros.
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of
your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
Orl.
I take some joy to say you are, because I
would be talking of her.
Ros.
Well, in her person, I say—I will not have
you.
Orl.
Then, in mine own person, I die.
Ros.
No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world
is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time
there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet,
in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed
out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could
to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love.
Leander, he would have lived many a fair year,
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for
-- 469 --
a hot midsummer night: for, good youth, he went
but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being
taken with the cramp, was drowned: and the foolish
chroniclers of that age1 note
found it was—Hero of
Sestos. But these are all lies; men have died from
time to time, and worms have eaten them, but
not for love.
Orl.
I would not have my right Rosalind of this
mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill me.
Ros.
By this hand, it will not kill a fly: But
come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more
coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will,
I will grant it.
Orl.
Then love me, Rosalind.
Ros.
Yes, faith will I, Fridays, and Saturdays, and
all.
Orl.
And wilt thou have me?
Ros.
Ay, and twenty such.
Orl.
What say'st thou?
Ros.
Are you not good?
Orl.
I hope so.
Ros.
Why then, can one desire too much of a
good thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest,
-- 470 --
and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando:—What
do you say, sister?
Orl.
Pray thee, marry us.
Cel.
I cannot say the words.
Ros.
You must begin,—Will you, Orlando,—
Cel.
Go to:—Will you, Orlando, have to
wife this Rosalind?
Orl.
I will.
Ros.
Ay, but when?
Orl.
Why now; as fast as she can marry us.
Ros.
Then you must say,—I take thee, Rosalind,
for wife.
Orl.
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Ros.
I might ask you for your commission; but,—I
do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: There
a girl goes before the priest2 note; and, certainly, a
woman's thought runs before her actions.
Orl.
So do all thoughts; they are winged.
Ros.
Now tell me, how long you would have
her, after you have possessed her.
Orl.
For ever, and a day.
Ros.
Say a day, without the ever: No, no, Orlando;
men are April when they woo, December
when they wed: maids are May when they are
maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I
will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon
over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot
against rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more
giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for
nothing, like Diana in the fountain3 note
, and I will do
-- 471 --
that when you are disposed to be merry; I will
laugh like a hyen4 note
, and that when thou art inclined
to sleep.
Orl.
But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros.
By my life, she will do as I do.
Orl.
O, but she is wise.
Ros.
Or else she could not have the wit to do
this: the wiser, the waywarder: Make the doors5 note
upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement;
shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole;
stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the
chimney.
Orl.
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he
might say,—Wit, whither wilt6 note
?
-- 472 --
Ros.
Nay, you might keep that check for it, till
you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's
bed.
Orl.
And what wit could wit have to excuse
that?
Ros.
Marry, to say,—she came to seek you there.
You shall never take her without her answer7 note
, unless
you take her without her tongue. O, that
woman that cannot make her fault her husband's
occasion8 note, let her never nurse her child herself, for
she will breed it like a fool.
-- 473 --
Orl.
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave
thee.
Ros.
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
Orl.
I must attend the duke at dinner; by two
o'clock I will be with thee again.
Ros.
Ay, go your ways, go your ways;—I knew
what you would prove; my friends told me as much,
and I thought no less:—that flattering tongue of
yours won me:—'tis but one cast away, and so,—
come, death.—Two o'clock is your hour?
Orl.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ros.
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so
God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not
dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise,
or come one minute behind your hour, I will think
you the most pathetical break-promise9 note
, and the
most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her
you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the
gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my
censure, and keep your promise.
Orl.
With no less religion, than if thou wert
indeed my Rosalind: So, adieu.
Ros.
Well, time is the old justice that examines
all such offenders, and let time try1 note
: Adieu!
[Exit Orlando.
-- 474 --
Cel.
You have simply misus'd our sex in your
love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose
plucked over your head, and show the world what
the bird hath done to her own nest2 note.
Ros.
O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that
thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in
love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath
an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.
Cel.
Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you
pour affection in, it runs out.
Ros.
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus,
that was begot of thought3 note
, conceived of spleen,
and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that
abuses every one's eyes, because his own are out,
let him be judge, how deep I am in love:—I'll tell
thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando:
I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come4 note
.
Cel.
And I'll sleep.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Jaques and Lords, in the habit of Foresters.
Jaq.
Which is he that killed the deer?
-- 475 --
1 Lord.
Sir, it was I.
Jaq.
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?
2 Lord.
Yes, sir.
Jaq.
Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune,
so it make noise enough.
SONG.
1.
What shall he have, that kill'd the deer?
2.
His leather skin, and horns to wear5 note
.
1.
Then sing him home6 note
:
Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn7 note
;
It was a crest ere thou wast born.
The rest shall bear this burden.
-- 476 --
1
Thy father's father wore it;
2.
And thy father bore it:
All.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
[Exeunt.
7 note.
SCENE III
The Forest.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Ros.
How say you now? Is it not past two
o'clock? and here much Orlando8 note
!
-- 477 --
Cel.
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.
Sil.
My errand is to you, fair youth;—
My gentle Phebe did bid me9 note 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 tenour: pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
Ros.
Patience herself would startle at this letter,
And play the swaggerer1 note
; 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 Phœnix; 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.
Sil.
No, I protest, I know not the contents;
Phebe did write it.
Ros.
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 hand2 note
; I verily did think
-- 478 --
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.
Sil.
Sure, it is hers.
Ros.
Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style,
A style for challengers; why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian: woman's gentle brain3 note
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance:—Will you hear the letter?
Sil.
So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.
Ros.
She Phebes me: Mark how the tyrant writes.
Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
[Reads.
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?—
Can a woman rail thus?
Sil.
Call you this railing?
Ros.
Why, thy godhead laid apart,
Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing?—
Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance4 note to me.—
Meaning me a beast.—
If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
-- 479 --
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspéct?
Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How then might your prayers move?
He, that brings this love to thee,
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind5 note
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make6 note;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I'll study how to die.
Sil.
Call you this chiding?
Cel.
Alas, poor shepherd!
Ros.
Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity.—
Wilt thou love such a woman?—What, to make
thee an instrument, and play false strains upon
thee! not to be endured!—Well, go your way to
her, (for I see, love hath made thee a tame snake7 note
,)
and say this to her;—That if she love me, I charge
her to love thee: if she will not, I will never have
her, unless thou entreat for her.—If you be a true
lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes
more company.
[Exit Silvius.
-- 480 --
Enter Oliver.
Oli.
Good-morrow, fair ones: Pray you, if you know
Where, in the purlieus8 note
of this forest, stands
A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive-trees?
Cel.
West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom,
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand9 note, 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 I should know you by description;
Such garments, and such years: The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister1 note
: but the woman low2 note,
And browner than her brother. Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
-- 481 --
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 napkin3 note
; 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 handkerchief 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 hour4 note
; and, pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy5 note
,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside,
And, mark, what object did present itself!
-- 482 --
Under an old oak6 note
, whose boughs were moss'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
-- 483 --
Into a bush: under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry7 note
,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast,
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:
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 him8 note
the most unnatural
That liv'd 'mongst* note 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 suck'd and hungry lioness?
Oli.
Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd 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 hurtling9 note
From miserable slumber I awak'd.
Cel.
Are you his brother?
-- 484 --
Ros.
Was it you he rescu'd?
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?—
Oli.
By, and by.
When from the first to last, betwixt us two,
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,
As, how I came into that desert place1 note
;—
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 stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And cry'd, 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,
Dy'd in this blood2 note
: unto the shepherd youth
-- 485 --
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Cel.
Why, how now, Ganymede? sweet Ganymede?
[Rosalind faints.
Oli.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
Cel.
There is more in it:—Cousin—Ganymede3 note!
Oli.
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, sir4 note, 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?
[Exeunt.
-- 486 --
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The Same.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
Touch.
We shall find a time, Audrey; patience,
gentle Audrey.
Aud.
'Faith, the priest was good enough, for all
the old gentleman's saying.
Touch.
A most wicked sir Oliver, Audrey, a most
vile Mar-text. But, Audrey, there is a youth here
in the forest lays claim to you.
Aud.
Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no interest
in me in the world: here comes the man you mean.
Enter William.
Touch.
It is meat and drink to me to see a clown:
By my troth, we that have good wits, have much
to answer for; we shall be flouting; we cannot
hold.
Will.
Good even, Audrey.
Aud.
God ye good even, William.
Will.
And good even to you, sir.
Touch.
Good even, gentle friend: Cover thy
head, cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee, be covered.
How old are you, friend?
Will.
Five and twenty, sir.
Touch.
A ripe age: Is thy name William?
Will.
William, sir.
Touch.
A fair name: Wast born i'the forest
here?
Will.
Ay, sir, I thank God.
Touch.
Thank God;—a good answer: Art rich?
Will.
'Faith, sir, so, so.
Touch.
So, so, is good, very good, very excellent
-- 487 --
good:—and yet it is not: it is but so so. Art thou
wise?
Will.
Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
Touch.
Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember
a saying; The fool doth think he is wise,
but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. The
heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a
grape, would open his lips when he put it into his
mouth5 note
; meaning thereby, that grapes were made
to eat, and lips to open. You do love this maid6 note?
Will.
I do, sir.
Touch.
Give me your hand: Art thou learned?
Will.
No, sir.
Touch.
Then learn this of me; To have, is to
have: For it is a figure in rhetorick, that drink,
being poured out of a cup into a glass, by filling
the one doth empty the other: For all your writers
do consent, that ipse is he; now you are not ipse,
for I am he.
Will.
Which he, sir?
Touch.
He, sir, that must marry this woman:
Therefore, you clown, abandon,—which is in the
vulgar, leave,—the society,—which in the boorish
-- 488 --
is, company,—of this female,—which in the common
is,—woman, which together is, abandon the
society of this female; or, clown thou perishest; or,
to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill
thee7 note, make thee away, translate thy life into death,
thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with
thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with
thee in faction; I will o'er-run thee with policy; I
will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways; therefore
tremble, and depart.
Aud.
Do, good William.
Will.
God rest you merry, sir.
[Exit.
Enter Corin.
Cor.
Our master and mistress seek you; come,
away, away.
Touch.
Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey;—I attend,
I attend.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Same.
Enter Orlando and Oliver.
Orl.
Is't possible8 note
, that on so little acquaintance
you should like her? that, but seeing, you should
-- 489 --
love her? and, loving, woo? and, wooing, she
should grant? and will you perséver to enjoy her?
Oli.
Neither call the giddiness of it in question,
the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my
sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting9 note; but
say with me, I love Aliena; say with her, that she
loves me; consent with both, that we may enjoy
each other: it shall be to your good; for my father's
house, and all the revenue that was old sir
Rowland's, will I estate upon you, and here live and
die a shepherd.
Enter Rosalind.
Orl.
You have my consent. Let your wedding
be to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke, and
all his contented followers: Go you, and prepare
Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
Ros.
God save you, brother.
Oli.
And you, fair sister1 note
.
-- 490 --
Ros.
O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to
see thee wear thy heart in a scarf.
Orl.
It is my arm.
Ros.
I thought, thy heart had been wounded with
the claws of a lion.
Orl.
Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
Ros.
Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited
to swoon, when he showed me your handkerchief?
Orl.
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
Ros.
O, I know where you are:—Nay, 'tis true:
there was never any thing so sudden, but the fight
of two rams2 note, and Cæsar's thrasonical brag of—I
came, saw, and overcame: For your brother and my
sister no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner
looked, but they loved; no sooner loved, but they
sighed; no sooner sighed, but they asked one another
the reason; no sooner knew the reason, but
they sought the remedy: and in these degrees
have they made a pair of stairs to marriage, which
they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent
before marriage: they are in the very wrath of love,
and they will together; clubs cannot part them3 note
.
-- 491 --
Orl.
They shall be married to morrow; and I
will bid the duke to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter
a thing it is to look into happiness through another
man's eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow
be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how
much I shall think my brother happy, in having
what he wishes for.
Ros.
Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your
turn for Rosalind?
Orl.
I can live no longer by thinking.
Ros.
I will weary you no longer then with idle
talking. Know of me then, (for now I speak to
some purpose,) that I know you are a gentleman of
good conceit: I speak not this, that you should
bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch,
I say, I know you are; neither do I labour for a
greater esteem than may in some little measure
draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and
not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that
I can do strange things: I have, since I was three
years old, conversed with a magician, most profound
in this art, and yet not damnable. If you do
love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture
cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall
you marry her: I know into what straits of fortune
she is driven; and it is not impossible to me, if it
appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before
your eyes to-morrow, human as she is4 note, and without
any danger.
Orl.
Speakest thou in sober meanings?
Ros.
By my life, I do; which I tender dearly,
-- 492 --
though I say I am a magician5 note
: Therefore, put you
in your best array, bid your friends6 note
; for if you will
be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind,
if you will.
Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of
hers.
Phe.
Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,
To show the letter that I writ to you.
Ros.
I care not, if I have: it is my study,
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you:
You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
Phe.
Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.
Sil.
It is to be all made of sighs and tears;—
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe.
And I for Ganymede.
Orl.
And I for Rosalind.
Ros.
And I for no woman.
-- 493 --
Sil.
It is to be all made of faith and service;—
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe.
And I for Ganymede.
Orl.
And I for Rosalind.
Ros.
And I for no woman.
Sil.
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes;
All adoration, duty and observance,
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance7 note
;—
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe.
And so am I for Ganymede.
Orl.
And so am I for Rosalind.
Ros.
And so am I for no woman.
Phe.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
[To Rosalind.
Sil.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
[To Phebe.
Orl.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
Ros.
Who do you speak to8 note, why blame you me
to love you?
Orl.
To her, that is not here, nor doth not hear.
Ros.
Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the
howling of Irish wolves against the moon9 note.—I will
help you, [To Silvius] if I can:—I would love
you, [To Phebe] if I could.—To-morrow meet
-- 494 --
me all together.—I will marry you, [To Phebe]
if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow:
—I will satisfy you, [To Orlando] if ever I
satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow:
—I will content you, [To Silvius] if what pleases
you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow.
—As you [To Orlando] love Rosalind,
meet;—as you [To Silvius] love Phebe, meet;
And as I love no woman, I'll meet.—So, fare you
well; I have left you commands.
Sil.
I'll not fail, if I live.
Phe.
Nor I.
Orl.
Nor I.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The Same.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
Touch.
To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey;
to-morrow will we be married.
Aud.
I do desire it with all my heart: and I hope
it is no dishonest desire, to desire to be a woman of
the world1 note
. Here come two of the banished duke's
pages.
Enter two Pages.
1 Page.
Well met, honest gentleman.
Touch.
By my troth, well met: Come, sit, sit,
and a song.
2 Page.
We are for you: sit i'the middle.
1 Page.
Shall we clap into't roundly, without
-- 495 --
hawking, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse; which
are the only prologues to a bad voice?
2 Page.
I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like
two gypsies on a horse.
SONG2 note
.
I.
I
It was a lover, and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty rank time3 note
,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
II.
II
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
In spring time, &c.
-- 496 --
III.
III
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In spring time, &c.
IV.
IV
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crowned with the prime
In spring time, &c.
Touch.
Truly, young gentlemen, though there
was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was
very untuneable4 note
.
1 Page.
You are deceived, sir; we kept time,
we lost not our time.
Touch.
By my troth, yes; I count it but time
lost to hear such a foolish song. God be with you;
and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey.
[Exeunt.
-- 497 --
SCENE IV.
Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia.
Duke S.
Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised?
Orl.
I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear5 note
.
-- 498 --
Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.
Ros.
Patience once more, whiles our compáct is urg'd:—
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
[To the Duke.
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
Duke S.
That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
Ros.
And you say, you will have her, when I bring her?
[To Orlando.
Orl.
That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
Ros.
You say, you'll marry me, if I be willing?
[To Phebe.
Phe.
That will I, should I die the hour after.
Ros.
But, if you do refuse to marry me,
You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?
Phe.
So is the bargain.
Ros.
You say, that you'll have Phebe, if she will?
[To Silvius.
Sil.
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
Ros.
I have promis'd to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;—
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter:—
Keep your word, Phebe6 note, that you'll marry me;
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd:—
Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her,
If she refuse me:—and from hence I go,
To make these doubts all even7 note
.
[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.
Duke S.
I do remember in this shepherd-boy
-- 499 --
Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.
Orl.
My lord, the first time that I ever saw him,
Methought he was a brother to your daughter:
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born;
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
Jaq.
There is, sure, another flood toward, and
these couples are coming to the ark! Here comes
a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues
are called fools8 note
.
Touch.
Salutation and greeting to you all!
Jaq.
Good my lord, bid him welcome; This is
the motley-minded gentleman, that I have so often
met in the forest: he hath been a courtier, he
swears.
Touch.
If any man doubt that, let him put me
to my purgation. I have trod a measure9 note
; I have
-- 500 --
flattered a lady; I have been politick with my
friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone
three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to
have fought one.
Jaq.
And how was that ta'en up?
Touch.
'Faith, we met, and found the quarrel
was upon the seventh cause1 note
.
Jaq.
How seventh cause?—Good my lord, like
this fellow.
Duke S.
I like him very well.
Touch.
God'ild you, sir2 note
; I desire you of the
like3 note
. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the
country copulatives, to swear, and to forswear; according
-- 501 --
as marriage binds, and blood breaks4 note
:—A
poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine
own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that
no man else will: Rich honesty dwells like a miser,
sir, in a poor-house; as your pearl, in your foul
oyster.
Duke S.
By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
Touch.
According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such
dulcet diseases5 note
.
Jaq.
But, for the seventh cause; how did you
find the quarrel on the seventh cause?
Touch.
Upon a lie seven times removed6 note
;—
-- 502 --
Bear your body more seeming7 note
, Audrey:—as thus,
sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's
beard8 note
; he sent me word, if I said his beard was
-- 503 --
not cut well, he was in the mind it was: This is
called the Retort courteous. If I sent him word
again, it was not well cut, he would send me word,
he cut it to please himself: This is called the Quip
modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled
my judgment: This is call'd the Reply churlish.
If again, it was not well cut, he would answer, I
spake not true: This is call'd the Reproof valiant.
If again, it was not well cut, he would say, I lie:
This is called the Countercheck quarrelsome: and so
to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct.
Jaq.
And how oft did you say, his beard was not
well cut?
Touch.
I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial,
nor he durst not give me the Lie direct;
and so we measured swords, and parted.
Jaq.
Can you nominate in order now the degrees
of the lie?
Touch.
O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book9 note
;
-- 504 --
as you have books for good manners1 note
: I will name
you the degrees. The first, the Retort courteous;
-- 505 --
the second, the Quip modest; the third, the Reply
churlish; the fourth, the Reproof valiant; the fifth,
the Countercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie,
with circumstance; the seventh, the Lie direct.
All these you may avoid, but the lie direct; and
you may avoid that too, with an If. I knew when
seven justices could not take up a quarrel; but
when the parties were met themselves, one of them
thought but of an If, as, If you said so, then I
said so; and they shook hands, and swore brothers.
Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in
If.
Jaq.
Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he's as
good at any thing, and yet a fool.
Duke S.
He uses his folly like a stalking-horse2 note,
and under the presentation of that, he shoots his
wit.
Enter Hymen3 note
, leading Rosalind in woman's
cloaths; and Celia.
Still Musick.
Hym.
Then is there mirth in heaven,
When earthly things made even
Atone together.
-- 506 --
Good duke, receive thy daughter,
Hymen from heaven brought her,
Yea, brought her hither;
That thou might'st join her hand with his,
Whose heart within her bosom is4 note
.
-- 507 --
Ros.
To you I give myself, for I am yours.
[To Duke S.
To you I give myself, for I am yours.
[ToOrlando.
Duke S.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
Orl.
If there be truth in sight5 note
, you are my Rosalind.
Phe.
If sight and shape be true,
Why then,—my love adieu!
Ros.
I'll have no father, if you be not he:—
[To Duke S.
I'll have no husband, if you be not he:—
[To Orlando.
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be be not she.
[To Phebe.
Hym.
Peace, ho! I bar confusion:
'Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events:
Here's eight that must take hands,
To join in Hymen's bands,
If truth holds true contents6 note.
You and you no cross shall part:
[To Orlando and Rosalind.
You and you are heart in heart:
[To Oliver and Celia.
You [To Phebe] to his love must accord,
Or have a woman to your lord:—
-- 508 --
You and you are sure together,
[To Touchstone and Audrey.
As the winter to foul weather.
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning7 note;
That reason wonder may diminish,
How thus we met, and these things finish.
SONG.
Wedding is great Juno's crown8 note
;
O blessed bond of board and bed!
'Tis Hymen peoples every town;
High wedlock then be honoured:
Honour, high honour and renown,
To Hymen, god of every town!
Duke S.
O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me;
Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.
Phe.
I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine9 note
.
[To Silvius.
-- 509 --
Enter Jaques de Bois.
Jaq. de B.
Let me have audience for a word, or two;
I am the second son of old sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:—
Duke Frederick1 note, hearing how that every day
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot,
In his own conduct purposely to take
His brother here, and put him to the sword:
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;
Where, meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprize, and from the world:
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,
And all their lands restor'd to them again
That were with him exíl'd: This to be true,
I do engage my life.
Duke S.
Welcome, young man;
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding:
To one, his lands with-held; and to the other,
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
That here were well begun, and well begot:
And after, every of this happy number,
That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us,
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,
And fall into our rustick revelry:—
-- 510 --
Play, musick;—and you brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heap'd in joy, toth' measures fall.
Jaq.
Sir, by your patience; If I heard you rightly,
The duke hath put on a religious life,
And thrown into neglect the pompous court?
Jaq. de B.
He hath.
Jaq.
To him will I: out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learn'd.—
You to your former honour I bequeath;
[To Duke S.
Your patience, and your virtue, well deserves it:—
You [To Orlando] to a love, that your true faith doth merit:—
You [To Oliver] to your land, and love, and great allies:—
You [To Silvius] to a long and well deserved bed;—
And you [To Touchstone] to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
Is but for two months victual'd:—So to your pleasures;
I am for other than for dancing measures.
Duke S.
Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq.
To see no pastime, I:—what you would have
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave2 note
.
[Exit.
-- 511 --
Duke S.
Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,
And we do trust they'll end, in true delights.
[A dance.
EPILOGUE.
Ros.
It is not the fashion to see the lady the
epilogue: but it is no more unhandsome, than to
see the lord the prologue. If it be true, that good
wine needs no bush3 note
, 'tis true that a good play
needs no epilogue: Yet to good wine they do use
good bushes; and good plays prove the better by
the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in
then4 note
, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot
-- 512 --
insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play?
I am not furnished like a beggar5 note, therefore to beg
will not become me: my way is, to conjure you;
and I'll begin with the women. I charge you, O
women, for the love you bear to men, to like as
much of this play as please you: and I charge you,
O men, for the love you bear to women, (as I perceive
by your simpering, none of you hate* note them,)
that between you and the women, the play may
please6 note
. If I were a woman7 note, I would kiss as many
-- 513 --
of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions
that liked me8 note, and breaths that I defied not9 note: and,
-- 514 --
I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good
faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer,
when I make curt'sy, bid me farewell.
[Exeunt1.
