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 jars^{4 note}

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 world^{5 note}

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 wear^{7 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 biscuit^{8 note}

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 suit^{9 note}

The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandring glances of the fool^{2 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 world^{3 note}
,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S.
Fye on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

Jaq.
What, for a counter^{4 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 sting^{5 note}

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 ebb^{6 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 bravery^{7 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 then^{8 note}

Orl.
Forbear, and eat no more.

Jaq.
Why, I have eat none yet.

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 civility^{9 note}

: yet am I inland bred^{1 note},
And know some nurture^{2 note}

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:

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 inaccessible^{3 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 have^{4 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 food^{5 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.

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 in^{6 note}

Jaq.
All the world's a stage^{7 note}

And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages^{8 note}. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then^{9 note}, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace^{1 note}, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow: Then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard^{2 note}

And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon^{5 note}

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 burden^{7 note}

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 ingratitude^{8 note}

;

Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen^{9 note}

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 warp^{1 note}

Thy sting is not so sharp
  As friend remember'd not^{2 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,

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 is^{3 note}:
Support him by the arm.—Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand. [Exeunt.

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