Adam.
Orlando.
As I remember, Adam, it was† note bequeathed me by
will, but a poor thousand crowns; and, as thou
say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed
me well: and 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 unkept:
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,
-- 78 --
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 me. He lets me
feed with his hinds; 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.
Orla.
Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he
will shake me up.
Oli.
Now, sir, what make you here?
Orla.
Nothing, I am not taught to make any thing,
Oli.
What mar you then, sir?
Orla.
Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that,
which Heav'n made; a poor unworthy brother of
yours, with idleness.
Oli.
Know you where you are, sir?
Orla.
O, sir, very well; here in your orchard.
Oli.
Know you before whom, sir?
Orla.
Ay, better than he I am before knows me.
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 revenue.
Oli.
What, boy!
Orla.
Come, come, elder brother, you are too
young in this.
Oli.
Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
-- 79 --
Orla.
I am no villain: I am the youngest son of Sir
Rowland de Bois; and he is thrice a villain that says
such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother,
I would not take this hand from thy throat, 'till
this other had pull'd out thy tongue, for saying so.
Thou hast rail'd on thy self.* note
Adam.
Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's
remembrance, be at accord.
Oli.
Let me go, I say.
Orla.
I will not, 'till I please: you shall hear me.
My father charg'd you in his will, to give me a good
education: you have train'd me up 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.
Orla.
I will no further offend you, than becomes
me for my good.† note
Oli.
Get you with him, you old dog.
Adam.
Is old dog my reward? Most true, I have
lost my teeth in your service. Heav'n be with my old
master, he would not have spoke such a word.&verbar2; note
[Exeunt Orlando and Adam.
-- 80 --
Oli.
Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me?
I will physic your rankness, and yet give you no
thousand crowns neither. Holla, 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.
Oli.
Call him in; 'twill be a good way; and tomorrow
the wrestling is.
Enter Charles.
Char.
Good-morrow to your worship.
Oli.
Good monsieur Charles, what's the new news
at the new court?
Char.
There's no news at the court, sir, but the old
news; that is, the old duke is banish'd 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 leave to wander.
Oli.
Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke's daughter,
be banish'd with her father?
Char.
O, no; for the duke's daughter, her cousin,
so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together,
that she would have follow'd her exile, or
have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and
no less belov'd of her uncle, than his own daughter
and never two ladies lov'd, as they do.
Oli.
Where will the old duke live?
Char.
They say he is already in the forest of Arden,
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 carelesly, as they did in the golden world.
Oli.
What, you wrestle, to-morrow, before the new
duke?
-- 81 --
Char.
Marry do I, sir, and I come 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 brokem limb, shall acquit
him well. Your brother is but young and tender,
and for your love, I would be loth to foil him, as I
must, for mine own honour, if he come in.
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 under-hand means, labour'd to dissuade him from
it; but he is resolute. I tell thee, Charles, he is the
stubbornest young fellow of France; full of ambition,
an envious emulator of every man's good parts; a
secret, and villanous 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 villanous, 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
look pale, and wonder.
Char.
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 Heav'n keep your worship.
[Exit.
Oli.
Farewel, good Charles. I hope I shall see an end
of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing
more than him. Yet he's gentle, never school'd,
and yet learned, full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly
belov'd; 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
-- 82 --
it shall not be so, long; this wrestler shall clear all
Nothing remains, but that I kindle the boy thither
which now I'll go about.
[Exit
Scene
SCENE, the Palace.
* noteEnter Rosalind and Celia.
Cel.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet coz, be merry.
Ros.
Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am
mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless
you could teach me to forget a banish'd father,
you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary
pleasure.
Cel.
Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full
weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banish'd
father, had banish'd 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 me, 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, per force, I will render 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.† note
Ros.
From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports.
Let me see, what think you of falling in love?
-- 83 --
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.
Ros.
What shall be the sport, then?
Cel.
Let us sit and mock the good housewife, fortune,
from her wheel, 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 woman.
Cel.
'Tis true, for those that she makes fair, she
scarce makes honest; and those that she makes honest,
she makes very ill-favoured.
Ros.
Nay, now thou go'st from fortune's office, to
nature's: fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in
the lineaments of nature.
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 this argument?* note
Ros.
Indeed, there is fortune too hard for nature.
Cel.
Peradventure this is not fortune's work neither,
but nature's; who perceiving our natural wits too
dull to reason of such goddesses, hath sent this natural
for our whetstone: for always the dulness of
the fool, is the whetstone of the wits.
Enter Touchstone.
How now, 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?
-- 84 --
Touch.
Of a certain knight, that swore by his honour
they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour
the mustard was nought. Now I'll stand to it,
the pancakes were nought, 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 any; or if he had, he had
sworn it away, before ever he saw those pancakes, or
that mustard.† note
Cel.
Here comes monsieur Le Beu.
Enter Le Beu.
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-cram'd.
Cel.
All the better, we shall be the more marketable.
Bon jour, monsieur Le Beu, what news?
Le Beu.
Fair princesses, you have lost much sport.
Cel.
Sport; of what colour?
Le Beu.
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 trowel.
Le Beu.
You amaze me, ladies! I would have told
you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.
Ros.
Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
-- 85 --
Le Beu.
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 Beu.
There comes an old man and his three sons.
Cel.
I could match this beginning with an old tale.
Le Beu.
Three proper young men, of excellent
growth and presence.
Ros.
With bills on their neck: Be it known unto all
men, by these presents.
Le Beu.
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 serv'd 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?* note
Le Beu.
Why this that I speak of.
Touch.
Thus men grow wiser, every day. It is the
first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport
for ladies.
Cel.
Or I, I promise thee.
Ros.
But is there any else longs to see this broken
music in his sides? Is there yet another doats upon
rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?
Le Beu.
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.
-- 86 --
Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and Attendants.
Duke.
Come on; since the youth will not be entreated,
his own peril on his forwardness.
Ros.
Is yonder the man?
Le Beu.
Even he, madam.
Cel.
Alas, he's too young; yet he looks successfully.
Duke.
How now, daughter and cousin; are you
crept hither to see the wrestling?
Ros.
Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.
Duke.
You will take little delight in it, I can tell
you, there's such odds in the men. 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 Beu.
Duke.
Do so; I'll not be by.
[Retires.
Le Beu.
Monsieur the challenger, the princess calls
for you.
Orla.
I attend her, with all respect and duty.
Ros.
Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the
wrestler?* note
Orla.
No, fair princess; he is the general challenger:
I come but, 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 our eyes, or knew
yourself with our judgment, the fear of 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.† note
-- 87 --
Orla.
I beseech you, punish me not with your hard
thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny
so fair and excellent ladies any thing: but let your
fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to the trial,
wherein if I be foil'd, there is but one sham'd that was
never gracious; if kill'd, 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 make it
empty.‡ note
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 deceiv'd in
you.
Orla.
Your heart's desires be with you.
Cha.
Come, where is this young gallant, that is so
desirous to lie with his mother earth?
Orla.
Ready, sir.
Duke.
You shall try but one fall.
Cha.
No, I warrant your grace, you shall not intreat
him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him
from a first.
Orla.
You mean to mock me after; you should not
have mock'd 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.
[They wrestle.
Duke.
No more, no more.
[Charles is thrown.
Orla.
Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet
well breath'd.
Duke.
How dost thou, Charles?
Touch.
He cannot speak, my lord.
Duke.
Bear him away. What is thy name, young
man?
Orla.
Orlando, my liege, the youngest son of Sir
Rowland de Bois.
-- 88 --
Duke.
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.
But fare thee well, thou art a gallant youth,
I would thou had'st told me of another father.* note
[Exit Duke, &c.
Cel.
Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
Orla.
I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,
His youngest son, and would not change that calling
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.† note
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 in promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
Ros.
Gentleman,
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,
That would give more, but that her hand lacks means.
Shall we go, coz?
Cel.
Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orla.
Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts
Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up,
Is but a mere lifeless block.&verbar2; note
-- 89 --
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 Ros. and Cel.
Orla.
What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
I cannot speak to her; yet she urg'd conference.
Enter Le Beu.
O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown;
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.
Le Beu.
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 condition,
That he misconstrues all that you have done.
The duke is humourous: what he is indeed
More suits you to conceive, than me to speak of.
Orla.
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 Beu.
Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners,
But yet, indeed, the shorter is his daughter;* note
-- 90 --
Sir, fare you well;
Hereafter, in a better world than this,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
[Exit.
Orla.
I rest much bounden to you: fare you well!
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
From tyrant duke, unto a tyrant brother;
But heavenly Rosalind!
[Exit.
Scene
SCENE a Saloon.
Re-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. But is all
this for your father?
Ros.
No, some of it is for my father's child. Oh,
how full of briers 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.* note
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 despight of a fall. But turning these jests out of
service, let us talk in good earnest; is it possible, on
-- 91 --
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 chase I should hate
him, for my father hated his father deadly; yet I
hate not Orlando.
Ros.
No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Cel.
Why should I? Doth he not deserve well?
Enter Duke, with Lords.
Ros.
Let me love him for that; and do you love him
because I do. Look, here comes the duke.
Cel.
With his eyes full of anger.
Duke.
Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Ros.
Me, uncle!
Duke.
You, cousin.
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our public 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 my own desires;
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,
As I do trust I am not, then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn,
Did I offend your highness.
Duke.
Thus do all traitors.
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
Ros.
Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.
Tell me wherein the likelihood depends.
Duke.
Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.* note
Ros.
So was I when your highness took his dukedom,
-- 92 --
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,
To think my poverty is treacherous.
Cel.
Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke.
Ay, Celia, we but staid her for your sake,
Else had she with her father rang'd along.
Cel.
I did not then intreat to have her stay;
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse;
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 together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.* note
Duke.
She is too subtle for thee, and her smoothness,
Her very silence and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her:† note
Then open not thy lips;
Firm and irrevocable is my doom,
Which I have past upon her; she is banish'd.
Cel.
Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege,
I cannot live out of her company.
Duke.
You, niece, provide yourself;
If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
[Exeunt Duke, &c.
Cel.
O, my poor Rosalind, where 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, cousin;
-- 93 --
Pry'thee be chearful; know'st thou not the duke
Has banish'd me his daughter?
Ros.
That he hath not.
Cel.
No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth me that thou and I are one.
Shall we be sundered? 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 the charge upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out:
For by this heav'n, now at our sorrows pale.
Say what thou can'st, I'll go along with thee.* note
Ros.
Why, whither shall we go?
Cel.
To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
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,
The like do you; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.
Ros.
Were't not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man;
A gallant cutlass by my side,
A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will)
We'll have a swashing 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 ye call me Ganimede.
But what will you be call'd?
Cel.
Something that has a reference to my state:
No longer Celia, but Aliena.
-- 94 --
Ros.
But, cousin, what if we essayed 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 content,
To liberty, and not to banishment.* note
[Exeunt.
End of the First Act.
ACT II.
Scene
SCENE, The Forest of Arden.
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords. like Foresters.
Duke Senior.
Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,† note
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 Adam,
The season's difference; as the icy phang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which when it bites, and blows upon my body,
-- 95 --
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 head:
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
Ami.
I would not change it—Happy is your grace,
That can traslate the stubborness of fortune,
Into so quiet, and so sweet a style.
Duke Sen.
Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should in their own confines, with forked heads,
Have their round hanches goar'd.
Jaques.* note
Indeed, my lord, I've often griev'd at that,
And in that kind, swear you do more usurp,
Than doth your brother, that hath banish'd you.
To day, my lord of Amiens and myself,
Did steal behind an oak,
Whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood,
To the which place, a poor sequestered stag,
That from the hunter's 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 chase; and thus the hairy fool,
Stood on th' extemest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke Sen.
But what said you?
Did you not moralize this spectacle?
Jaques.
O yes, into a thousand similies.
-- 96 --
First, for his weeping in the needless stream;
Poor dear, said I, thou mak'st a testament,
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much. Then, being alone,
Left, and abandon'n of his velvet friends;
'Tis right, quoth I, 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, said I,
Sweep on, ye fat and greasy citizens,
'Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there.
Thus, most invectively did I pierce through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, murderers,
To fright the animals, and kill them up
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
Duke Sen.
Show me the place;
I love to cope you in these sullen sits,
For then you're full of matter.
Jaques.
I'll bring you to it straight.
[Exeunt.
Scene
The Palace.
Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords.
Duke.
Can it be possible that no man saw them?
Lord.
My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hisperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses that she secretly o'er-heard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler,
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.
Duke.
Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither;
-- 97 --
And let not search and inquisition quail,
To bring again these foolish runaways.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE, Oliver's House.
Enter Orlando and Adam.* note
Orla.
Who's there?
Adam.
What, my young master? Oh, my gentle master,
Oh, my sweet master, Oh, you memory
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 fond to overcome
The boney priser of the humouros duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men,
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely,
Envenoms him that bears it!
Orla.
Why, what's the matter?
Adam.
Oh, unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof,
The enemy of all your graces lives:
Your brother 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 place, this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orla.
Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
-- 98 --
Adam.
No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orla.
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 subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, 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 sparrow,
Be comfort to my age. Here is the gold,
All this I give you. Let me be your servant;
Tho' I look old, yet I am strong and lusty,
For in my youth, I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did I 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.* note
Orla.
Oh, good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world;
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!† note
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat, but for promotion,
And having that, do choak their service up,
Even with the hazing. It is not so with thee:
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
-- 99 --
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.* note
From seventeen years, 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;
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better,
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE, the Forest of Arden.
Enter Rosalind in Boy's Clothes for Ganimed, Celia
drest like a Shepherdess for Aliena, and Touchstone.
Ros.
O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!
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 cry like a woman; but I must comfort
the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to shew
itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage,
good Aliena.
Cel.
I pray you bear with me, I can go no farther.
Touch.
For my part, I had rather bear with you,
than bear you; yet I should bear no cross, if I 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.
-- 100 --
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,
Tho' 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 never man did love so)
How many actions most ridiculous,
Hast thou been drawn to, by thy fantasie?
Cor.
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil.
O thou didst then ne'er love so heartily;† note
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd.
Or if thou hast not fate, as I do now,
Wearying thy hearer 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 Sil.
Ros.
Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
I have, by hard adventure, found my 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 a-nights to Jane Smile; and I remember
the kissing of her batlet,* note and the cows dugs that
her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember
the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I
-- 101 --
took two cods, and giving her them again, said, with
weeping tears, Wear these for my sake. We that are
true lovers, run into strange capers; but all is mortal
in nature, so is all nature in love, mortal in folly.
Ros.
Thou speak'st wiser than thou art aware of.
Touch.
Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of my own wit,
till I break my shins against it.
Cel.
I pray you, one of you question yon man,
If he for gold will give us any food;
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 they are very wretched.
Ros.
Peace, I say. Good, even to you, friend.
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 wreaks to find the way to heav'n,
By doing deeds of hospitality.
Besides, his cot, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
Are now on sale, and at our sheep-cote 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 be.
Ros.
What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor.
That young swain that you saw here, but ere while,
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.
-- 102 --
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 foil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.
[Exeunt.
Enter Amiens and Jaques.
Jaq.
More, more, I pr'ythee, more.
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 weasel sucks eggs.
Come, warble, warble.
SONG.
Under the green wood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune 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.
I'll go to sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail
against all the first born of Egypt.
Ami.
And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is
prepar'd.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE another Part in the Forest.
Enter Orlando and Adam.
Adam.
Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die
for food! Here I lie down, and measure out my grave.
Farewell, kind master.
Orlan.
Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in
thee? Live a little, comfort a little, cheer thyself a
-- 103 --
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. Well said, thou look'st cheerly;
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. Cheery, good Adam.
[Exeunt.
Scene
Scene, the Forest of Arden.
Enter Duke Sen. and Lords.
[A Table set out.
Duke Sen.
I think he is transform'd into a beast,
For I can no where find him like a man.
Lord.
My lord, he is but even now gone hence,
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
Duke Sen.
If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres:
Go seek him; tell him I would speak with him.
Enter Jaques.
Lord.
He saves my labour by his own approach.
Duke Sen.
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'th' forest,* note
A motley fool; a miserable world!
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 fortune:
And then he drew a dial from his poak,
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;
-- 104 --
'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.
Who comes here?* note
-- 105 --
Enter Orlando.
Orla.
Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq.
Why, I have eat none yet.
Orla.
Nor shalt thou, 'till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq.
Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke Sen.
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?
Orla.
You touch'd my vein, at first, the thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the shew
Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred,
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:
He dies that touches any of this fruit,
'Till I and my affairs are answered.
Duke Sen.
What would you have? Your gentleness shall force,
More than your force move us to gentleness.
-- 106 --
Orla.
I almost die for food, and let me have it.
Duke Sen.
Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orla.
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,* 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 Sen.
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,
That to your wanting may be ministred.
Orla.
Then but forbear your food, a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. 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,
Opress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.
Duke Sen.
Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste 'till you return.
-- 107 --
Orla.
I thank ye, and be bless'd for your good comfort.‡ note
[Exit.
Duke Sen.
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play.
Jaq.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;† note
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts:
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
And then, the whining school-boy with his satchel,
And shining morning-face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick 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,* note and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
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,
-- 108 --
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.* note
Enter Orlando with Adam.
Duke Sen.
Welcome: set down your venerable burden,
And let him feed.
Orla.
I thank you most for him.
Adam.
So had you need,
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Duke Sen.
Welcome, fall too: I will not trouble you,
As yet to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some musick, and, good cousin, sing.
SONG.† note
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind,
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Altho' thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh,
As benefits forgot:
Tho' thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp,
As friend remembred not.
Duke Sen.
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 limb'd, and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither. I'm the duke
That lov'd your father. The residue of your fortune,
-- 109 --
Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man,
Thou art welcome, as thy master is.
Support him by the arm; give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.* note
[Exeunt.
End of the Second Act.
ACT III.
Scene
SCENE the Palace.
Enter Duke, Lords, and Oliver.
Duke.
Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be;
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it,
Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is,
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.
Oh that your highness knew my heart in this:
I never lov'd my brother in my life.
-- 110 --
Duke.
More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors,
And let my officers of such a nature,
Make an extent upon his house and lands.
Do this expediently,* note and turn him going.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE the Forest of Arden.
Enter Orlando.
Orla.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
And thou thrice crowned queen of night, survey,
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books.
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,
That every eye which in this fotest looks,
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree,
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
[Exit.
Enter Corin and Touchstone.† note
Cor.
And how like you this shepherd's life, Mr.
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?
-- 111 --
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 or art, may
complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull
kindred.
Touch.
Such a one is a natural philosopher. 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
egg, all on one side.
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.‡ note Sir, I am a true labourer, I earn that
I eat; get that I wear; owe no man hate; envy no
man's 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.* note
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 a bawd to a
bell-weather, and to betray a she-lamb, of a twelve-month
old, to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out
of all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damn'd for
-- 112 --
this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot
see else how thou should'st 'scape.† note
Cor.
Here comes young Mr. Ganimede, my new
mistress's brother.
Enter Rosalind, with a Paper.
Ros.
From the east to the western Inde,
No jewel is like Rosalind,
Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures, fairest limn'd,
Are but black to Rosalind;
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the face of Rosalind.
Touch.
I'll rhime you so, eight years together, dinners
and suppers and sleeping hours excepted: it is
the right butter-women's rate to market.
Ros.
Out, fool.
Touch.
For a taste.
If a hart doth lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So be sure will Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.* note
This is the very false gallop of verses. 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.
Enter Celia, with a Writing.
Ros.
Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand
aside.
-- 113 --
Cel.
Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled. No.
Tongues I'd hang on every tree,
That should civil sayings show.
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
This quintessence of every sprite,
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd,
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd;
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheeks, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty;
Atalanta's better part;‡ note
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind, of many parts,
By heav'nly synod was devis'd,
Of many faces, eyes and hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Heav'n 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 parishoners 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
-- 114 --
retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet with
scrip and scrippage.
[Ex. Cor. and Touch.
Cel.
Didst thou hear these verses?
Ros.
O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for
some of them had in them more feet than the verses
would bear.
Cel.
But didst thou hear without wond'ring, how thy
name should be hang'd and carv'd upon these trees?
Ros.
I was seven of the nine days out of wonder,
before you came: for look here what I found on a
palm-tree; I was never so be-rhim'd since Pythagoras's
time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.* note
Cel.
Trow you who has done this?
Ros.
Is it a man?
Cel.
And a chain that you once wore, about his
neck: Change you colour?
Ros.
I pry'thee, who?
Cel.
O lord, lord, it is hard matter for friends to
meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes,
and so encounter.
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.
Cel.
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderfully
wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that
out of all hooping—
Ros.
Odd's, my complexion, dost thou think, though
I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and a
hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a
south-sea off discovery. I pr'ythee take the cork out
of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings. What
manner of man? Is his head worth a hat? or his chin
worth a beard?
-- 115 --
Cel.
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Ros.
Why, heav'n 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.
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? Where went he? What
makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains
he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou
see him again? Answer we in one word.
Cel.
You must borrow me Garagantua's mouth 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 the forest, and
in man's apparel? Looks he as fresh as he did the
day he wrestled?
Cel.
It is as easy to count atoms, as to resolve the
propositions of a lover: but take a taste of my finding
him, and relish it with good observance. I found him
under an oak-tree, like a dropp'd acorn.
Ros.
It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops
forth such fruit.
Cel.
Give me audience, good madam.
Ros.
Proceed.
Cel.
There lay he stretch'd along, like a wounded
knight. He was furnish'd like a hunter.
Ros.
O, ominous, he comes to kill my heart.
Cel.
I would sing my song without a burden, thou
bring'st me out of tune.
Ros.
Do you not know that I am a woman, what I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
-- 116 --
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Cel.
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
Ros.
'Tis he, slink by, and note him.
Jaq.
I thank you for your company; but, good
faith, I had as lief have been by myself alone.
Orla.
And so had I; but yet for fashion sake, I
thank you too for your society.
Jaq.
Heav'n be with you, let's meet as little as we can.
Orla.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
Jaq.
I pray you marr no more trees, with writing
love songs on their barks.
Orla.
I pray you marr no more of my verses, with
reading them ill-favouredly.
Jaq.
Rosalind is your love's name.
Orla.
Yes, just.
Jaq.
I do not like her name.
Orla.
There was no thought of pleasing you, when
she was christen'd.
Jaq.
What stature is she of?
Orla.
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. You have a nimble wit. Will
you sit down with me, and we two will rail against our
mistresses, the world, and all our misery.
Orla.
I will chide no breather in the world, but myself,
against whom I know no faults.
Jaq.
The worst fault you have, is to be in love.
Orla.
'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.
Orla.
He is drown'd in the brook, look but in,
and you shall see him.
Jaq.
There shall I see mine own figure.
Orla.
Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher.
Jaq.
I'll stay no longer with you; farewel, good
signor Love.
[Exit.
-- 117 --
Orla.
I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good
monsieur Melancholy.
Ros.
I will speak to him, like a saucy lacquey, and
under that habit play the knave with him. Do you
hear, forester?
Orla.
Very well, what would you?
Ros.
I pray you, what is't a clock?
Orla.
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.
Orla.
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.* note I'll tell you who time
ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops
withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orla.
I pr'ythee, whom doth he trot withal?
Ros.
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between
the contract of her marriage, and the day it is
solemnized: if the interim be but a sennight; time's
pace is so hard, that it seems the length of seven
years.
Orla.
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. These time ambles
withal.
Orla.
Whom doth he gallop withal.
Ros.
With a thief to the gallows: for tho' he goes as
softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon
there.
Orla.
Whom stays it still withal?
Ros.
With lawyers, in the vacation: for they sleep
-- 118 --
between term and term; and then they perceive not
how time moves.* note
Orla.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Ros.
With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the
skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orla.
Your accent is something finer than you
could purchase in so removed 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 man,† note one that knew
courtship too well: for there he fell in love. I have
heard him read many lectures against it. I thank
Heav'n I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many
giddy offences, as he had generally tax'd their whole
sex withal.
Orla.
Can you remember any of the principal evils
that he laid to the charge of women?
Ros.
There were none principal, they were all like
one another; every one fault seeming monstrous, till
his fellow fault came to match it.
Orla.
I pr'ythee, recount some of them.
Ros.
No, I will not cast away my physic, 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.
Orla.
I am he that is so love-shak'd. 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.
Orla.
What were his marks?
-- 119 --
Ros.* note
A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue
eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable
spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected,
which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for
simply your having no beard, is a younger brother's
revenue: then your hose should be ungarter'd, your
bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbotton'd, your shoe
untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a
careless desolation. But you are no such man, you
are rather point device, in your accoutrements, as loving
yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.
Orla.
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 lye to their consciences.
But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses
on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admir'd?
Orla.
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of
Rosalind, I am he, that unfortunate he.
Ros.
But are you so much in love, as your rhimes
speak?
Orla.
Neither rhime 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 punish'd and cur'd,
is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are
in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Orla.
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 youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,
longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow,
-- 120 --
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 drove my suitor from his
mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness,
which was to forswear the full stream of the world, and
to live in a nook merely monastic: and thus I cured
him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your
liver as clear as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall
not be one spot of love in't.* note
Orla.
I would not be cur'd, youth.
Ros.
I would cure you, if you would but call me
Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me.
Orla.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will.† note Tell
me where it is.
Ros.
Go with me to it, and I will shew it you; and
by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you
live. Will you go?
Orla.
With all my heart, good youth.
Ros.
Nay, nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come,
sister, will you go?
[Exeunt.
Enter Touchstone, and Audrey.
Touch.
Come apace, good Audrey, I will fetch up
your goats, Audrey; and now, Audrey, am I the man
yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
Aud.
Your features, lord warrant us. What features?
Touch.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the
most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the
Goths. 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
-- 121 --
great reckoning in a little room. Truly I would the
Gods had made thee poetic.
Aud.
I do not know what poetical is. Is it honest,
in deed and word? Is it a true thing?* note
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
feign.
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.
Aud.
Well, I am not fair, and therefore, I pray the
Gods make me honest.
Touch.
Truly, and to cast away honestly 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
foul.† note
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 at this place of the
forest, and to couple us.
Aud.
Well, the Gods give us joy.
Touch.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful
heart, stagger in his attempt; for here we have no
temple but the wood, no assembly but horn'd-beasts.
But what tho'? Courage. As horns are odious, they
are necessary. It is said, many a man knows no end
-- 122 --
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 then as huge as the rascal. Is the single
man therefore blessed? No. As a wall'd town is
worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married
man more honourable, than the bare brow of a
batchelor.* note So, come, sweet Audrey, we must be
married, or we must live in baudry.† note
[Exeunt.
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 a cause as one would desire, therefore
weep.‡ note
Ros.
But, why did he swear he would come, this
morning, and comes not?
Cel.
Nay, certainly there is no truth in him.
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
-- 123 --
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
question 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 verses,
speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks
them bravely. But all's brave that youth mounts,
and folly guides. Who comes here?
Enter Corin.
Cor.
Mistress, and master, you have oft enquir'd
After the shepherd that complain'd of love,
Whom you saw fitting 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,* note
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 but to this fight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.
[Exeunt.
Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe;
Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness; the common executioner,
Whose heart th' accustom'd fight of death makes hard,
Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,
-- 124 --
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be,
Than he that lives and dies by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
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 eyes;
'Tis pretty sure, and very probable,
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.* note
Sil.
O, dear Phebe,
If ever (as that ever may be near)
You meet in some fresh cheek the pow'r of fancy,
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? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and rail, at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have beauty,
(Tho' by my faith, I see no more in you,
Than without candle may go dark to bed)
-- 125 --
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-work. Odds, my little life,
I think she means to tangle mine 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 worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you
That make the world so full of ill-favour'd children;
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatter her.
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank Heav'n, fasting, for a good man's love;
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.
So take her to thee. Shepherd, fare thee well.* note
Phe.
Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.
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 would 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; tho' all the world could see,
None could be so abus'd in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.
[Exeunt Ros. and Celia.
Sil.
Sweet Phebe!
Phe.
Hah, 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.
-- 126 --
Phe.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;
And yet, it is not that I bear thee love.
But since that thou can'st 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.
Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me, erewhile?
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 of.
Phe.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.* note
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 cause to hate him, than to love him.
For what had he to do to chide 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.
-- 127 --
I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius.† note
[Exeunt.
End of the Third Act.
ACT IV.
Scene
SCENE continues in the Forest.
Enter Rosalind, meeting Orlando.
Orla.
Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind.* note
Ros.
Why, how now, Orlando. Where
have you been, all this while? You a lover! An
you serve me such an other trick, never come in my
sight, more.
Orla.
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 a thousandth part of a minute, in the
affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath
clapt him o'th' shoulder, but, I'll warrant him heartwhole.
Orla.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Ros.
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a
holy-day humour, and like enough to consent. What
would you say to me, now, an I were your very, very
Rosalind?
Orla.
I would kiss, before I spoke.
Ros.
Nay, you were better speak first, and when
you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take
-- 128 --
occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are
out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking, God warn
us, matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
Orla.
How if the kiss be denied?
Ros.
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins
new matter. Am not I your Rosalind?
Orla.
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.
Orla.
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 dash'd 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 liv'd many a fair year, tho' Hero
had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer
night; for, good youth, he went but forth to
wash in the Hellespont, and being taken by the cramp,
was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age
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.* note
Orla.
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.
Orla.
Then love me, Rosalind.
Ros.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and
all.
Orla.
And wilt thou have me?
Ros.
Ay, and twenty such.
Orla.
What say'st thou?
Ros.
Are you not good?
Orla.
I hope so.
-- 129 --
Ros.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good
thing?
Enter Celia.
Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us.
Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?
Orla.
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?
Orla.
I will.
Ros.
Ay, but when?
Orla.
Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
Ros.
Then you must say, I take thee, Rosalind, for
wife.
Orla.
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Ros.
Now tell me, how long you would have her,
after you have possess'd her?
Orla.
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 fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed
to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen,† note and that when
you are inclin'd to sleep.‡ note
Orla.
But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros.
By my life, she will do as I do.
Orla.
O, but she is wise.
-- 130 --
Ros.
Or else she could not have the wit to do this.
The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors fast upon
a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut
that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, it will
fly with the smoak out at the chimney.
Orla.
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he
might say, wit, whether wilt?
Ros.
Nay, you might keep that check for it, 'till
you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.
Orla.
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 answer, unless
you take her without her tongue. O that woman,
that cannot make her fault her husband's accusation,
let her never nurse her child herself, for she will
breed it like a fool.
SONG, by Rosalind.* note
I.
When daises pied and violets blue,
And ladies' smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight:
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings be:
Cuckoo, cuckoo, O word of fear!
Unpleasing to a married ear.
II.
When shepherds pipe on oaken straws,
And merry larks are plowmen's clocks,
And turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks;
The cuckoo then, on ev'ry tree,
Mocks marry'd men, for thus sings he:
Cuckoo, cuckoo, O word of fear!
Unpleasing to a marry'd ear.
-- 131 --
Orla.
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
Ros.
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
Orla.
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'th' clock is your hour!
Orla.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ros.
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so
heav'n 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-promise, 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.
Orla.
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 try. Adieu.
[Exit Orla.
Cel.
You have simply misus'd our sex, in your loveprate.
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 thought, conceiv'd 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 sight of Orlando; I'll go find a shadow, and
sigh till he come.
Cel.
And I'll sleep.
[Exit Celia.
-- 132 --
Enter Silvius.
Sil.
My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:
I know not the contents; but as I guess,
By the stern brow, and waspish action,
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenure. Pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
Ros.
Patience herself would startle at this letter,
And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all.
She says I am not fair; that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,
Were man as rare as Phœnix. Odds, 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're a fool,
And turn'd into th' extremity of love.
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 stile,
A stile for challengers; why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian; woman's gentle brain
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 Phebe's me! Mark, how the tyrant writes.
[Reads.]
Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?
Can a woman rail thus?
Sil.
Call you this railing?
Ros.
[Reads.]
Why, thy godhead laid apart,
War'st thou with a woman's heart?
-- 133 --
Did you ever hear such railing?
Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.
Meaning me, a beast.
If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me, what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect?
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 kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make;
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 endur'd! Well, go your way to her, for I see
love hath made thee a tame snake, 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 intreat
for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a
word; for here comes more company.
[Exit Sil.
Enter Oliver.
Oli.
Good-morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,
Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive-trees?
Cel.
West of this place, down in the neighbouring bottom,
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place;
-- 134 --
But at this hour the house doth keep itself,
There's none within.
Oli.
If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description,
Such garments, and such years: the boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister: but the woman low,
And browner than her brother. Are not you
The owner of the house I did enquire for?
Cel.
It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.
Oli.
Orlando doth commend him to you both;
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind,
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
Ros.
I am, what must we understand by this?
Oli.
Some of my shame, if you will know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This 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 hour; and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself.
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,* note
And high-top bald, of dry antiquity:
And 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,
Into a bush, under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like 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:
-- 135 --
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
And found it was his brother, his eldest brother.
Cel.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
And he did render him the most unnatural,
That liv'd 'mongst 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 hurtling,
From miserable slumber I awak'd.
Cel.
Are you his brother?
Ros.
Was't 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 place;
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love,
Who led me instantly into his cave,
There strip'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 his blood, unto the shepherd youth,
That he, in sport, doth call his Rosalind.
-- 136 --
Cel.
Why, how now, Ganimede, sweet Ganimede?
[Ros. faints.
Oli.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
Cel.
There is no more in't—cousin Ganimede.* note
Oli.
Look, he recovers.
Ros.
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. 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.† note
[Exeunt.
End of the Fourth Act.
-- 137 --
ACT V.
Scene
SCENE, the Forest.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
Touchstone.
We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.
Audrey.
Faith, the priest was good enough, for all
the old gentleman's saying.
Touch.
A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey; a most
vile Martext! 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
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 ev'n, Audrey.
Aud.
God ye good ev'n, William.
Will.
And good ev'n to you, sir.
Touch.
Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head,
cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee be cover'd. 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'th' forest here?
Will.
Ay, sir, I thank Heav'n.
Touch.
Thank Heav'n. A good answer. Art rich?
Will.
'Faith, sir, so, so.
Touch.
So, so, is good, very good, very excellent
good; and yet it is not: it is but so, so. Art thou
wise?
-- 138 --
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 mouth;
meaning thereby, that grapes were made to eat, and
lips to open. You do love this maid?
Will.
I do, sir.
Touch.
Give me thy hand. Art thou learned?
Will.
No, sir.
Touch.
Then learn this of me. To have, is to
have. For it is a figure in rhetoric, 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, 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,
deist; or, to wit, I kill thee, 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.
Heav'n rest you merry, sir.* note
[Exit.
Touch.
Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. I attend, I attend.
[Exeunt.
-- 139 --
Scene
SCENE, another part in the Forest.
Enter Orlando and Oliver.
Orla.
Is't possible, that on so little acquaintance,
you should like her? That, but seeing, you should
love her; and loving, woo? and wooing, she should
grant? And will you persevere 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 consenting. 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.
Orla.
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.
Heav'n save you, brother.
Oli.
And you, fair sir.
Ros.
Oh, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me, to
see thee wear thy heart in a scarf.
Orla.
It is my arm.
Ros.
I thought thy heart had been wounded with
the claws of a lion.
Orla.
Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
Ros.
Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited
to swoon, when he shew'd me your handkerchief.
Orla.
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
Ros.
O, I know where you are: nay, 'tis true.
There never was any thing so sudden, but the fight of
two rams, 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 lov'd; no sooner lov'd, but they sigh'd; no
-- 140 --
sooner sigh'd, but they ask'd 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 them.
Orla.
They shall be married, to-morrow; and I will
bid the duke to the nuptials. But O, how bitter a
thing it is, to look into happiness through another
man's eyes.
Ros.
Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your
turn for Rosalind.
Orla.
I can live no longer by thinking.
Ros.
I will weary you then no longer with idle talking.
Know of me then, that I can do strange things. I
have, since I was three years old, convers'd with a magician,
most profound in his 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,
you shall marry her. I know into what streights 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 is, and without
any danger.
Orla.
Speakest thou in sober meanings?
Ros.
By my life, I do, which I tender dearly, tho'
I say I am a magician. Therefore, put you on your
best array; bid your friends: 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 shew 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.
-- 141 --
Phe.
Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.
Sil.
Is to be made all of sighs and tears,
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe.
And I for Ganimede.
Orla.
And I for Rosalind.
Ros.
And I for no woman.* note
Pray you, no more of this; I will help you, if I can.
I would love you if I cou'd. To-morrow meet me all
together. I will marry you, if ever I marry woman,
and I'll be married, to-morrow; [To Phe.] I will satisfy
you, if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be
married, to-morrow; [To Orl.] I will content you,
if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be
married, to-morrow; [To Sil.] As you love Rosalind,
meet; as you love Phebe, meet; and as I love no woman,
I'll meet. So fare you well: I have left you
commands.
-- 142 --
Sil.
I'll not fail, if I live.
Phe.
Nor I.
Orla.
Nor I.* note
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE, the Forest of Arden.
Enter Duke Senior, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia.
Duke Sen.
Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promis'd?
Orla.
I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not,
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.
Ros.
Patience, once more, whilst our compact is urg'd.
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
[To the Duke.
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
Duke Sen.
That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
Ros.
And you say, you will have her when I bring her?
[To Orlando.
Orla.
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 bargin.
Ros.
You say, that you'll have Phebe, if she will?
[To Silvius.
Sil.
Tho' to have her and death were both one thing.
Ros.
I've 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, Phebe, that you'll marry me;
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd.
Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her,
-- 143 --
If she refuse me; and from hence I go,
To make these doubts all even.
[Ex. Ros. and Celia.
Duke Sen.
I do remember in this shepherd boy,
Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.
Orla.
My lord, the first time 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 call'd
fools.
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 measure, I have flatter'd
a lady, I have been politic with my friend, smooth
with mine enemy, I have undone three taylors, 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 cause.
Jaq.
How the seventh cause? Good, my lord, like
this fellow.
Duke Sen.
I like him, very well.
Touch.
God'ild you, sir, I desire you of the like: I
press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives,
to swear, and to forswear, according as marriage
binds, and blood breaks: a poor virgin, sir, an
ill-favour'd thing, sir, but mine own, a poor humour
of mine, sir, to take that no man else will. Rich honestly
dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house, as
your pearl in foul oysters.
-- 144 --
Duke Sen.
By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
Touch.
According to the fools bolt, sir, and such
dulcet diseases.
Jaq.
But for the seventh cause; how did you find
the quarrel on the seventh cause?
Touch.
Upon a lye seven times remov'd; (bear your
body more seeming, Audrey) as thus, sir; I did dislike
the cut of a certain courtier's beard; he sent me
word, if I said his beard was 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
wou'd send me word, he cut it to please himself; this
is call'd the quip modest. If again, it was not well
cut, he disabled my judgment; this is called the reply
churlish. If, again, it was not well cut, he would
answer, I spake not true; this is called the reproof valiant.
If again, it was not well cut, he would say, I
lie; this is called the countercheck quarrelsome; and
so the lie circumstantial, and the lie direct.
Jaq.
And how oft did you say his beard was not
well cut?
Touch.
I durst not go 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 book, as
you have books for good manners; I will name you
the degrees. The first, the retort courteous; 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, you said so, then I said so; and they
-- 145 --
shook hands, and swore brothers. Your If is the only
peace-maker. Much virtue in If.* note
Jaq.
Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? He's good
at any thing, and yet a fool.
Duke Sen.
He uses his folly like a stalking-horse,
and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit:
but let us think no more of him, and drown his remembrance,
in a song.
SONG.
Then is there mirth in heav'n,
When earthly things made even
Atone together.
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 his bosom is.
Enter Rosalind in Woman's Cloaths, and Celia.
Ros.
To you I give myself; for I am yours.
[To the D.
To you I give myself, for I am yours.
[To Orlando.
Duke Sen.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
Orla.
If there be truth in sight, 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;
I'll have no husband, if you be not he;
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.
Duke Sen.
O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me,
Even daughter—welcome, in no less degree.
Enter Jacques de Bois.
Jaq. de B.
Let me have audience for a word or two:
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
-- 146 --
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
Duke Frederick 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 enterprise 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 exil'd. This to be true,
I do engage my life.
Duke Sen.
Welcome, young man:
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brother's 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 shrew'd days and nights with us,
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Mean time, forget this new-fall'n dignity,
And fall into our rustic revelry;
Play, musick, and you brides and bridegrooms all.
With measure heap'd in joy, to th'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 the Duke.
Your patience and your virtue well deserve it.
You to a love that your true faith doth merit.
[To Orla.
You to your land and love, and great allies;
[To Oli.
You to a long and well deserved bed:
[To Silv.
-- 147 --
And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
[To Touch.
Is but for two months victual'd; so to your pleasures:
[Exeunt Touch. and Audrey.
I am for other than for dancing measures.
Duke Sen.
Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq.
To see no pastime, I: what you would have,
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave.
[Exit.
Duke Sen.
Proceed, proceed; we will begin these rites,
As we do trust they'll end, in true delights.
[Epilogue]
Ros.* note
If it be true, that good wine needs no bush,
'tis true, that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to
good wine they do use bushes; and good plays prove
the better by the help of good epilogues. What a
case am I in, then, that am neither a good epilogue,
nor can insinuate with you in the behalf of a good
play? I am not furnish'd like a beggar; 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 pleases you: and I charge you, O men,
for the love you bear to women, (as I perceive by your
simpering, none of you hate them) that between you
and the women, the play may please. If I were
among you, I would kiss as many of you as had beards
that pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths
that I defy'd not: and 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.‡ note
[Exeunt omnes.
End of the Fifth Act.
