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.
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
