SCENE II.
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 ye here?
Orla.
Nothing: I am not taught to make any
thing.
Oli.
What mar ye then, Sir?
Orla.
Marry, Sir, I am helping you to mar That
which God made; a poor unworthy brother of yours,
with idleness.
Oli.
Marry, Sir, be better employ'd, and be nought
a while.4 note
-- 6 --
Orla.
Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with
them? what Prodigal's portion have I spent, that I
should come to such penury?
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
reverence.5 note
Oli.
What, boy!
[menacing with his hand.
Orla.
Come, come, elder brother, you are too young
in this.
[collaring him.
Oli.
Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
Orla.
I am no villain:6 note I am the youngest son of
Sir Rowland de Boys; he was my father, and he is
-- 7 --
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 pulled out
thy tongue for saying so; thou hast rail'd on thyself.
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
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.
Oli.
Get you with him, you old dog.
Adam.
Is old dog my reward? most true, I have
lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old
master, he would not have spoke such a word.
[Exe. Orlando and Adam.
SCENE III.
Oli.
Is it even so?—Begin you to grow upon me?
—I will physick your rankness, and yet give no thousand
crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!
Enter Dennis.
Den.
Calls your Worship?
-- 8 --
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—[Exit Dennis.] 'Twill be a
good way; and to morrow the wrestling is.
Enter Charles.
Cha.
Good morrow to your Worship.
Oli.
Good monsieur Charles, what's the new news
at the new Court?
Cha.
There's no news at the Court, Sir, but the
old news; that is, the old Duke is 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, note the old Duke's
daughter, be banish'd with her father?
Cha.
O, no; for the new Duke's daughter her cousin
so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred
together, that she would have followed her exile, or
have died to stay behind her. She is at the Court,
and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter;
and never two ladies loved, as they do.
Oli.
Where will the old Duke live?
Cha.
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?
-- 9 --
Cha.
Marry, do I, Sir; and I came to acquaint you
with a matter. I am given, Sir, secretly to understand,
that your younger brother Orlando hath a disposition
to come in disguis'd against me to try a Fall.
To morrow, Sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he, that
escapes me without some broken limb, shall acquit him
well. Your brother is but young and tender, and for
your love I would be loth to foil him; as I must for
mine own honour, if he come in. Therefore out of
my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal;
that either you might stay him from his intendment,
or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into; in
that it is a thing of his own search, and altogether
against my will.
Oli.
Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which
thou shalt find, I will most kindly requite. I had myself
notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have
by under-hand means laboured 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 villainous contriver against me his natural brother.
Therefore use thy discretion; I had as lief thou
didst break his neck, as his finger. And thou wert
best look to't; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace,
or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will
practise against thee by poison; entrap thee by some
treacherous device; and never leave thee, 'till he hath
ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for I
assure thee, (and almost with tears I speak it) there is
not one so young and so 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
must look pale and wonder.
Cha.
I am heartily glad, I came hither to you. If
he come to-morrow, I'll give him his payment; if
ever he go alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize
more. And so, God keep your Worship.
[Exit.
-- 10 --
Oli.
Farewel, good Charles. Now will I stir this
gamester: 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 beloved;
and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world,
and especially of my own people who best know him,
that I am altogether misprised. But it shall not be so
long—this wrestler shall clear all. Nothing remains,
but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I'll go
about.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
Changes to an Open Walk, before the Duke's Palace.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Cel.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.
Ros.
Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am
mistress of; and would you yet I were 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 banished
father, had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father,
so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught
my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou,
if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd,
as mine is to thee.
Ros.
Well, I will forget the condition of my estate,
to rejoice in yours.
Cel.
You know, my father hath no child but I, nor
none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies, thou
shalt be his heir; for what he hath taken away from
thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection;
by mine Honour, I will—and when I break
-- 11 --
that oath, let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet
Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.
Ros.
From henceforth I will, coz, and devise Sports.
Let me see—What think you of falling in love?
Cel.
Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal;
but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in
sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thou
may'st in honour come off again.
Ros.
What shall be our Sport then?
Cel.
Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune
from her wheel,8 note that her gifts may henceforth be
bestowed equally.
Ros.
I would, we could do so; for her benefits are
mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman
doth most mistake in her gifts to women.
Cel.
'Tis true; for those, that she makes fair, she
scarce makes honest; and those, that she makes honest,
she makes very ill-favoured.
Ros.
Nay, now thou goest from fortune's office to
nature's: fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in
the lineaments of nature.
Enter Touchstone, a Clown.
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?
Ros.
Indeed, there is fortune too hard for nature;
when fortune makes nature's Natural the cutter off of
nature's Wit.
Cel.
Peradventure, this is not fortune's work, neither,
but nature's; who, perceiving our natural wits
too dull to reason of such Goddesses, hath sent this
-- 12 --
Natural for our whetstone: for always the dulness of
the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, Wit,
whither wander you?
Clo.
Mistress, you must come away to your father.
Cel.
Were you made the messenger?
Clo.
No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come
for you.
Ros.
Where learned you that oath, fool?
Clo.
Of a certain Knight, that swore by his honour
they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the
mustard was naught. Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes
were naught, and the mustard was good, and
yet was not the Knight forsworn.
Cel.
How prove you that in the great heap of your
knowledge?
Ros.
Ay, marry; now unmuzzle your wisdom.
Clo.
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.
Clo.
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.
Cel.
Pry'thee, who is that thou mean'st?
Clo.
9 note
One, that old Frederick your father loves.
Cel.
My father's love is enough to honour him:
-- 13 --
—enough! speak no more of him, you'll be whipt for
taxation one of these days.
Clo.
The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely
what wise men do foolishly.
Cel.
By my troth, thou say'st true; for since the little
wit that fools have was silenc'd,1 note the little foolery
that wise men have makes a great Show: here comes
Monsieur Le Beu.
SCENE V.
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 Princess, you have lost much good
Sport.
Cel.
Sport; of what colour?
Le Beu.
What colour, Madam? How shall I answer
you?
Ros.
As wit and fortune will.
Clo.
Or as the destinies decree.
Cel.
Well said; that was laid on with a trowel.2 note
Clo.
Nay, if I keep not my rank,—
Ros.
Thou losest thy old smell.
Le Beu.
You amaze me, ladies.3 note I would have
-- 14 --
told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the
sight of.
Ros.
Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
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 necks: Be it known unto
all men by these presents,4 note
—
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!
-- 15 --
Clo.
But what is the Sport, Monsieur, that the ladies
have lost?
Le Beu.
Why this, that I speak of.
Clo.
Thus men may 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 5 note
is there any else longs to see this broken
musick 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.
SCENE VI.
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?
-- 16 --
Le Beu.
Even he, Madam.
Cel.
Alas, he is 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 is such odds in the* note men: in pity of the
challenger's youth, I would feign 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.
[Duke goes apart.
Le Beu.
Monsieur the Challenger, the Princesses call
for you.
Orla.
I attend them with all respect and duty.
Ros.
Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the
wrestler?
Orla.
No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger:
I come but in, as others do, to try with him the
strength of my youth.
Cel.
Young Gentleman, your spirits are too bold for
your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's
strength. If you saw yourself with your own eyes,6 note
e would counsel
or knew yourself with your 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.
-- 17 --
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.
Orla.
7 noteI 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 my 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 made it
empty.
Ros.
The little strength that I have, I would it were
with you.
Cel.
And mine to eke out hers.
Ros.
Fare you well. Pray heav'n, I be deceiv'd in
you.
Cel.
Your heart's desires be with you!
Cha.
Come, where is this young Gallant, that is so
desirous to lie with his mother earth?
Orla.
Ready, Sir. But his Will hath in it a more
modest working.
Duke.
You shall try but one Fall.
Cha.
No—I warrant your Grace; you shall not entreat
him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded
him from a first.
Orla.
You mean to mock me after; you should not
have mocked me before; but come your ways.
Ros.
Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!
Cel.
I would I were invisible, to catch the strong
fellow by the leg!
[they wrestle.
Ros.
O excellent young man!
-- 18 --
Cel.
If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell
who should down.
[shout.
Duke.
No more, no more.
[Charles is thrown.
Orla.
Yes, I beseech your Grace. I am not yet
well breathed.
Duke.
How dost thou, Charles?
Le Beu.
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 Boys.
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:
Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed,
Hadst thou descended from another House.
But fare thee well, thou art a gallant youth;
—I would thou hadst told me of another father.
[Exit Duke, with his train.
SCENE VII.
Manent Celia, Rosalind, Orlando.
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 giv'n him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventur'd.
Cel.
Gentle Cousin,
Let us go thank him and encourage him;
My father's rough and envious disposition
Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd:
-- 19 --
If you do keep your promises in love,
But justly as you have exceeded all promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
Ros.
Gentleman,
Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune,8 note
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.
—Shall we go, coz?
[Giving him a Chain from her Neck.
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 quintaine,9 note
a meer lifeless block.
Ros.
He calls us back—my pride fell with my fortunes.
I'll ask him what he would.—Did you call, Sir?—
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.
Cel.
Will you go, coz?
Ros.
Have with you—Fare you well.
[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.
Orla.
What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
I cannot speak to her; yet she urg'd conference.
-- 20 --
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,1 note
That he misconstrues all that you have done.
The Duke is humorous; 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.
The other's daughter to the banish'd Duke,
And here detain'd by her usurping Uncle
To keep his daughter company; whose loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
But I can tell you, that of late this Duke
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle Niece;
Grounded upon no other argument,
But that the people praise her for her virtues,
And pity her for her good father's sake;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
Will suddenly break forth.—Sir, fare ye 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 ye well!
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant Brother:
But, heav'nly Rosalind!—
[Exit.
-- 21 --
SCENE VIII.
Changes to an Apartment in the Palace.
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; come, lame
me with reasons.
Ros.
Then there were two Cousins laid up; when
the one should be lam'd with Reasons, and the other
mad without any.
Cel.
But is all this for your father?
Ros.
No, some of it is for my father's child.2 note Oh,
how full of briars is this working-day world!
Cel.
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee
in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths,
our very petticoats will catch them.
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 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.
-- 22 --
Cel.
Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love
his son dearly? by this kind of chase,3 note I should hate
him; for my father hated his father dearly; yet I
hate not Orlando.
Ros.
No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Cel.
Why should I? doth he not deserve well?
SCENE IX.
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 fastest haste,
And get you from our Court.
Me, Uncle!
Duke.
You, Cousin.
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our publick Court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.
Ros.
I do beseech your Grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
If with myself I hold intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with my own desires;
If that I do not dream, or be not frantick,
As I do trust, I am not, then, dear Uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your Highness.
Duke.
Thus do all traitors;
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.
Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.
-- 23 --
Ros.
Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor;
Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke.
Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough.
Ros.
So was I, when your Highness took his Dukedom;
So was I, when your Highness banish'd him.
Treason is not inherited, my lord,
Or if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor.
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much,
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 entreat 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.
Duke.
She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,
Her very silence and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool; she robs thee of thy name,
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous,4 note
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:
Firm and irrevocable is my doom,
Which I have past upon her. She is banish'd.
-- 24 --
Cel.
Pronounce that sentence then on me, my Liege;
I cannot live out of her company.
Duke.
You are a fool—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.
SCENE X.
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;
Pr'ythee, be cheerful; know'st thou not, the Duke
Has banish'd me his daughter?
Ros.
That he hath not.
Cel.
No? hath not?5 note
Rosalind lacks then the love,
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.
Shall we be sundred? shall we part, sweet Girl?
No, let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me, how we may fly;
Whither to go, and what to bear with us;
And do not seek to take your change6 note upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out:
For by this heav'n, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
-- 25 --
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,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
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 Curtle-ax7 note upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand, and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will)
I'll have8 note 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, you call me Ganimed.
But what will you be call'd?
Cel.
Something that hath a reference to my state:
No longer Celia, but Aliena.
Ros.
But, Cousin, what if we assaid 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.
[Exeunt.
-- 26 --
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Arden FOREST.
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords like Foresters.
Duke senior.
Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
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 penalty9 note of Adam,
The Seasons' difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even 'till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,
This is no Flattery: these are Counsellors,
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of Adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head:1 note
And this our life, exempt from publick haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
-- 27 --
Ami.
I would not change it.* note Happy is your Grace,
That can translate 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 haunches goar'd.
1 Lord.
Indeed, my Lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And in that kind swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother, that hath banish'd you.
To day my Lord of Amiens, and myself,
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor sequestred stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched Animal heav'd forth such groans
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke Sen.
But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?
1 Lord.
O yes, into a thousand similies.
First, for his weeping in the needless stream;
Poor Deer, quoth he, 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'd of his velvet friends:
-- 28 --
'Tis right, quoth he, thus misery doth part
The flux of company. Anon a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him: Ay, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens,
'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the Country, City, Court,
Yea, and of this our life; swearing, that we
Are meer usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up
In their assign'd and native dwelling place.
Duke Sen.
And did you leave him in this contemplation?
2 Lord.
We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.
Duke Sen.
Show me the place;
I love to cope him2 note in these sullen fits.
For then he's full of matter.
2 Lord.
I'll bring you to him straight.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Changes to the Palace again.
Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.
Duke.
Can it be possible, that no man saw them?
It cannot be. Some villains of my Court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.
1 Lord.
I cannot hear of any that did see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed, and in the morning early
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
-- 29 --
2 Lord.
My lord, the roynish Clown, at whom so oft
Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the Princess' Gentlewoman,
Confesses, that she secretly o'er-heard
Your Daughter and her Cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the Wrestler,
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
And she believes, where ever they are gone,
That Youth is surely in their company.
Duke.
Send to his brother: Fetch that Gallant hither;
If he be absent, bring his brother to me,
I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly;
And let not Search and Inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Changes to Oliver's House.
Enter Orlando and Adam.
Orla.
Who's there?
Adam.
What! my young master? oh, my gentle master,
Oh, my sweet master, O 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 bony3 note
Priser of the humorous 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?
-- 30 --
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.
O unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives:
Your brother—no; no brother—yet the son,—
Yet not the son—I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father,
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it. If he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off;
I overheard him, and his practices:
This is no place, this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orla.
Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
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,4 note and bloody brother.
Adam.
But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my foster nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take That: and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
-- 31 --
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.
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!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat, but for promotion;
And, having That, do cloak their service up
Even with the Having.5 note It is not so with thee.
But poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we'll go along together;
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low Content.
Adam.
Master, go on; and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen 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.
-- 32 --
SCENE VI.
Changes to the Forest of Arden.
Enter Rosalind in Boys cloaths for Ganimed, Celia
drest like a Shepherdess for Aliena, and Touchstone the Clown.
Ros.
O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits?6 note
Clo.
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 show
itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good
Aliena.
Cel.
I pray you bear with me; I can go no further.
Clo.
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 mony in your purse.
Ros.
Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Clo.
Ay; now I am in Arden, the more fool I; when
I was at home, I was in a better place; but travellers
must be content.
Ros.
Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who
comes here; a young man and an old in solemn talk.
Enter Corin and Silvius.
Cor.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
-- 33 --
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, did never man love so,
How many Actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Cor.
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil.
O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily.
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly,7 note
That ever love did make thee run into;
Thou hast not lov'd.—
Or if thou hast not sate as I do now,
Wearying the 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.—
[Exit Sil.
O Phebe! Phebe! Phebe!
Ros.
Alas, poor Shepherd! searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found my own.
Clo.
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,8 note and the cow's dugs that her
pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the
wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took
-- 34 --
two* note 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 as all is mortal
in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.9 note
Ros.
Thou speak'st wiser, than thou art 'ware of.
Clo.
Nay, I shall ne'er be aware of mine own wit,
'till I break my shins against it.
Ros.
Jove! Jove! this Shepherd's passion is much
upon my fashion.
Clo.
And mine; but it grows something stale with me.
Cel.
I pray you, one of you question yond man,
If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.
Clo.
Holla; you, Clown!
Ros.
Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.
Cor.
Who calls?
Clo.
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,
-- 35 --
And do not sheer the fleeces that I graze;
My Master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heav'n
By doing deeds of hospitality:
Besides, his Cote, 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 ye will feed on; but what is, come see;
And in my voice most welcome shall ye be.1 note
Ros.
What is he, that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor.
That young swain, that ye saw here but erewhile,
That little cares for buying any thing.
Ros.
I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
Cel.
And we will mend thy wages.
—I like this place, and willingly could waste
My time in it.
Cor.
Assuredly, the thing is to be sold;
Go with me. If you like, upon report,
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be;
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others.
SONG.
Under the green-wood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
-- 36 --
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.
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 weazel sucks eggs:
more, I pr'ythee, more.
Ami.
My voice is rugged* note; I know, I cannot please
you.
Jaq.
I do not desire you to please me, I do desire
you to sing; come, come, another stanzo; call you
'em stanzo's?
Ami.
What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
Jaq.
Nay, I care not for their names, they owe me
nothing.—Will you sing?
Ami.
More at your request, than to please myself.
Jaq.
Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll
thank you; but That, they call Compliments, is like
the encounter of two dog-apes. And when a man
thanks me heartily, methinks, I have given him a
penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks.—
Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your
tongues.—
Ami.
Well, I'll end the song. Sirs cover the while;
—the Duke will dine under this tree; he hath been all
this day to look you.
Jaq.
And I have been all this day to avoid him.
He is too disputable for my company: I think of as
many matters as he, but I give heav'n thanks, and
make no boast of them.—Come, warble, come.
-- 37 --
SONG.
Why doth ambition shun,
And loves to lie* note i'th' Sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets;
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
Jaq.
I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made
yesterday in despite of my invention.
Ami.
And I'll sing it.
Jaq.
Thus it goes.
If it do come to pass,
That any man turn ass;
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;† note
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An' if he will come to me.
Ami.
What's that's ducdame?
Jaq.
'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a
circle.—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, severally.
-- 38 --
SCENE VI.
Enter Orlando and Adam.
Adam.
Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die
for food! here lie I down, and measure out my grave.
—Farewel, kind master.
Orla.
Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in
thee?—live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a
little. If this uncouth Forest yield any thing savage,
I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee.
Thy conceit is nearer death, than thy powers. For
my sake be comfortable, hold death a while at the
arm's end: I will be here with thee presently, and
if I bring thee not something to eat, I'll give thee
leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, thou
art a mocker of my labour.—Well said—thou look'st
cheerly; and I'll be with you quickly. Yet thou
liest in the bleak air; come, I will bear thee to some
shelter, and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if
there live any thing in this Desert. Cheerly, good
Adam.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Another part of the Forest.
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.
1 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.
1 Lord.
He saves my labour by his own approach.
-- 39 --
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,
A motley fool—a miserable world—2 note
As I do live by food, I met a fool,
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms—and yet a motley fool.
Good morrow, fool, quoth I—No, Sir, quoth he,
Call me not fool, 'till heaven hath sent me fortune;
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, it is ten a-clock:
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot.
And thereby hangs a tale; when I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative:
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial. O noble fool,
-- 40 --
A worthy fool—motley's the only wear.
Duke Sen.
What fool is this?
Jaq.
O worthy fool! one that hath been a Courtier,
And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder bisket
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke Sen.
Thou shalt have one.
Jaq.
It is my only suit;3 note
Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion, that grows rank in them,
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal; as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have;
And they that are most gauled with my folly,
They most must laugh: and why, Sir, must they so?
The why is plain, as way to parish church;
4 note
He, whom a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob. If not,* note
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandring glances of a fool.
-- 41 --
Invest me in my motley, give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke Sen.
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
Jaq.
What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Duke Sen.
Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;5 note
And all the embossed sores and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
Jaq.
Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the Sea,
'Till that the very very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say the city-woman bears
The cost of Princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say, that I mean her;
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says, his bravery is not on my cost;
Thinking, that I mean him; but therein sutes
His folly to the metal of my speech?
There then; how then? what then? let me see wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him; if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why, then my taxing, like a wild goose, flies
Unclaim'd of any man—But who comes here?
-- 42 --
SCENE VIII.
Enter Orlando, with Sword drawn.
Orla.
Forbear, and eat no more.—
Jaq.
Why, I have eat none yet.
Orla.
Nor shalt thou, 'till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq.
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 point6 note
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.
Jaq.
If you will not
Be answered with reason, I must die.
Duke Sen.
What would you have? Your gentleness shall force,
More than your force move us to gentleness.
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,
-- 43 --
That in this desert inaccessible,
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 sate at any good man's feast;
If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,
And known what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.
In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.
[Sheathing his sword.
Duke Sen.
True is it, that we have seen better days;
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church;
And sate 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,7 note
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,
Oppress'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.
Orla.
I thank ye; and be bless'd for your good comfort!
[Exit.
SCENE IX.
Duke Sen.
Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and universal Theatre
-- 44 --
Presents more woful pageants, than the scene
Wherein we play in.
Jaq.
All the world's a Stage,
And all the men and women meerly Players;
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 woful 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 and modern instances,8 note
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts9 note
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
-- 45 --
And whistles in his sound. Last Scene of all,
That ends this strange evenful History,
Is second childishness, and meer oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
SCENE X.
Enter Orlando, with Adam.
Duke Sen.
Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,1 note
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 to: I will not trouble you,
As yet to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some musick; and, good cousin, sing.
Amiens sings.
SONG.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,2 note
Because thou art not seen,
Altho' thy breath be rude.
-- 46 --
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning; most loving meer folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
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.
Heigh ho! sing, &c.
-- 47 --
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 limn'd, and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither. I'm the Duke,
That lov'd your Father. The residue of your fortune
Go to my cave and tell me. Good old Man,
Thou art right welcome, as thy master is.
—Support him by the arm; give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
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 argument3 note
Of my revenge, thee present: but look to it;
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is;
Seek him with candle; 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.
-- 48 --
Oli.
Oh, that your highness knew my heart in this:
I never lov'd my brother in my life.
Duke.
More villain thou. Well—Push him out of doors;
And let my offices of such a nature
Make an Extent upon his house and lands:
Do this expediently,4 note and turn him going.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Changes to the Forest.
Enter Orlando.
Orla.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;
And thou thrice-crowned Queen of night survey,5 note
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 Forest looks,
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando, carve, on every tree,
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive She.6 note
[Exit.
SCENE III.
Enter Corin and Clown.
Cor.
And how like you this shepherd's life, Mr.
Touchstone?
-- 49 --
Clo.
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a
good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it
is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very
well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile
life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me
well; but in respect it is not in the Court, it is tedious.
As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well;
but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much
against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee,
shepherd?
Cor.
No more, but that I know, the more one
sickens, the worse at ease he is: and that he, that
wants mony, means, and content, is without three
good friends. That the property of rain is to wet,
and fire to burn: that good pasture makes fat sheep;
and that a great cause of the night, is lack of the Sun:
that he, that hath learned no wit by nature nor art,7 note
may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very
dull kindred.
Clo.
Such a one is a natural philosopher.8 note Wast ever
in Court, shepherd?
-- 50 --
Cor.
No, truly.
Clo.
Then thou art damn'd.
Cor.
Nay, I hope—
Clo.
Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-rosted egg,9 note
all on one side.
Cor.
For not being at Court? your reason.
Clo.
1 noteWhy, if thou never wast at Court, thou never
saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners,
then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness
is sin, and sin is damnation: thou art in a parlous
state, shepherd.
Cor.
Not a whit, Touchstone: those, that are good
manners at the Court, are as ridiculous in the Country,
as the behaviour of the Country is most mockable at
the Court. You told me, you salute not at the Court,
but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly,
if Courtiers were shepherds.
Clo.
Instance, briefly; come, instance.
Cor.
Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their
fels, you know, are greasy.
Clo.
Why, do not your Courtiers' hands sweat? and
is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat
of a man? shallow, shallow?—a better instance, I
say: come.
Cor.
Besides, our hands are hard.
-- 51 --
Clo.
Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow
again:—a more sounder instance, come.
Cor.
And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery
of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tarr? the
Courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.
Clo.
Most shallow man!—thou worms-meat, in respect
of a good piece of flesh—indeed!—learn of the
wise, and perpend. Civet is of a baser birth than tarr;
the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance,
shepherd.
Cor.
You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.
Clo.
Wilt thou rest damn'd; God help thee, shallow
man; God make incision in thee,2 note
thou art raw.
Cor.
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.
Clo.
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;3 note and to betray a she-lamb of a twelve-month
to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all
reasonable match. If thou be'st not damn'd for this,
the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see
else how thou shouldst 'scape.
Cor.
Here comes young Mr. Ganimed, my new
mistress's brother.
-- 52 --
SCENE IV.
Enter Rosalind, with a paper.
Ros.
From the east to 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.
Clo.
I'll rhime you so, eight years together; dinners,
and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is
the right butter-woman's rate to market.4 note
Ros.
Out, fool!
Clo.
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.
Winter-garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind.
They, that reap, must sheaf and bind;
Then to Cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sowrest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find,
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you
infect yourself with them?
-- 53 --
Ros.
Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.
Clo.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Ros.
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it
with a medler; then it will be the earliest fruit i'th'
country; for you will be rotten ere you be half ripe,
and that's the right virtue of the medler.
Clo.
You have said; but whether wisely or no, let
the Forest judge.
SCENE V.
Enter Celia, with a writing.
Ros.
Peace, here comes my Sister reading; stand
aside.
Cel.
Why should this a Desert be,
For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show.5 note
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage;
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
Some of violated vows,
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence end,
Will I Rosalinda write;
Teaching all, that read, to know,
This Quintessence of every Sprite
Heaven would in little show.
-- 54 --
Therefore heaven nature charg'd,6 note
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;7 note
8 noteSad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heav'nly synod was devis'd;
Of many faces, eyes and hearts,
To have the Touches9 note dearest priz'd.
Heav'n would that she these gifts should have,
And I should live and die her slave.
Ros.
O most gentle Jupiter!1 note
—what tedious homily
of love have you wearied your Parishioners withall,
and never cry'd, Have patience good people?
-- 55 --
Cel.
How now? back-friends!—shepherd, go off
a little—go with him, sirrah.
Clo.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
retreat; tho' not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip
and scrippage.
[Exeunt Corin and Clown.
SCENE VI.
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.
That's no matter; the feet might bear the
verses.
Ros.
Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not
bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood
lamely in the verse.
Cel.
But didst thou hear, without wondring 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; 2 note
I was never so be-rhimed since Pythagoras's
time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly
remember.
Cel.
Trow you, who hath done this?
Ros.
Is it a man?
-- 56 --
Cel.
And a chain, that you once wore, about his
neck: Change you colour?
Ros.
I pr'ythee, who?
Cel.
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends
to meet; but mountains may be remov'd 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 wonderful
wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that
out of all whooping—
Ros.
3 noteGood my complexion! dost thou think,
though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet
and hose in my disposition? 4 note
One inch of delay more
is a South-sea of discovery. I pr'ythee, tell me, who
is it; quickly, and speak apace; I would thou couldst
stammer, that thou might'st pour this concealed man
out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd
bottle; either too much at once, or none at
-- 57 --
all. I pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that
I may drink thy tidings.
Cel.
So you may put a man in your belly.
Ros.
Is he of God's making? what manner of
man? is his head worth a hat? or his chin worth a
beard?
Cel.
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Ros.
Why, God will send more, if the man will
be thankful; let me stay the growth of his beard, if
thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
Cel.
It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's
heels and your heart both in an instant.
Ros.
Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak, sad
brow, and true maid.
Cel.
I'faith, coz, 'tis he.
Ros.
Orlando!
Cel.
Orlando.
Ros.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet
and hose? what did he, when thou saw'st him? what
said he? how look'd he? wherein went 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 me in one word.
Cel.
You must borrow me Garagantua's5 note 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 this Forest, and
in man's apparel? looks he as freshly as he did the
day he wrestled?
Cel.
It is as easy to count atoms, as to resolve the
propositions of a lover: but take a taste of my finding
-- 58 --
him, and relish it with good observance. I found
him under a tree like a dropp'd acorn.6 note
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.
Ros.
Tho' it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes
the ground.
Cel.
Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets
unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter.
Ros.
Oh, 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 I am a woman? when I
think, I must speak—Sweet, say on.
SCENE VII.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Cel.
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
Ros.
'Tis he; slink by, and note him.
[Celia and Rosalind retire.
Jaq.
I thank you for your company; but, good
faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.
Orla.
And so had I; but yet for fashion sake, I
thank you too for your society.
Jaq.
God b'w' you, let's meet as little as we can.
Orla.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
-- 59 --
Jaq.
I pray you marr no more trees with writing
love-songs in 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?
Orla.
Not so: 7 note
but I answer you right painted
cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
Jaq.
You have a nimble wit; I think, it was made
of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me, and
we two will rail against our mistress, the world, and
all our misery.
Orla.
I will chide no breather in the world but my
self, against whom I know most 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 I shall see mine own figure.
-- 60 --
Orla.
Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher.
Jaq.
I'll stay no longer with you; farewel, good
Signior love!
[Exit.
SCENE VIII.
Orla.
I am glad of your departure; adieu, good
Monsieur melancholy!
[Cel. and Ros. come forward.
Ros.
I will speak to him like a sawcy 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; I'll tell you whom time ambles
withal, whom time trots withal, whom time gallops
withal, and whom 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
solemniz'd: 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: the one lacking the burden
of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no
burden of heavy tedious penury. These time ambles
withal.
Orla.
Whom doth he gallop withal?
Ros.
With a thief to the gallows: for though he go
-- 61 --
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
between term and term, and then they perceive not
how time moves.
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.
Are you native of this place?
Ros.
As the cony, that you see dwell where she is
kindled.
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 * notein-land man, one that knew courtship
too well; for there he fell in love. I have heard
him read many lectures against it; I thank God, I am
not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences
as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.
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, as half-pence are; 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 physick, but on
those that are sick. There is a man haunts the Forest,
that abuses our young Plants with carving Rosalind on
their barks; hangs Odes upon hawthorns, and Elegies
on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind.
If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would
give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the
Quotidian of love upon him.
-- 62 --
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?
Ros.
A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye
and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable
spirit,8 note which you have not; a beard neglected, which
you have not;—but I pardon you for that, for simply
your Having in beard is a younger Brother's revenue;
—then your hose should be ungarter'd, your
bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe
untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a
careless desolation. But you are no such man, you are
rather point-de-vice 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 admired?
Orla.
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of
Rosalind, I am That he, that unfortunate he.
Ros.
But are you so much in love, as your rhimes
speak?
Orla.
Neither rhime nor reason can express how
much.
Ros.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you,
-- 63 --
deserves as well a dark house and a whip, as mad men
do: and the reason why they are not so punish'd and
cured, 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 woe me. At which time would I, being but
a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,
longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow,
inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for
every passion something, and for no passion truly any
thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle
of this colour; would now like him, now loath him;
then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for
him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from
his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness;9 note
which was, to forswear the full stream of the
world, and to live in a nook meerly monastick; and
thus I cur'd 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.
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 wooe me.
Orla.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell
me where it is.
Ros.
Go with me to it, and I will shew it you; and,
-- 64 --
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.
SCENE IX.
Enter Clown, Audrey and Jaques watching them.
Clo.
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?
Clo.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most
capricious poet honest Ovid was among the Goths.
Jaq. [aside]
O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than
Jove in a thatch'd house!
Clo.
When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor
a man's good Wit seconded with the forward child,
Understanding; it strikes a man more dead than a great
reckoning in a little room;1 note truly, I would the Gods
had made thee poetical.
-- 65 --
Aud.
I do not know what poetical is; is it honest
in deed and word? is it a true thing?
Clo.
No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most
feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what
they swear in poetry,* note may be said, as lovers, they do
feign.
Aud.
Do you wish then, that the Gods had made
me poetical?
Clo.
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?
Clo.
No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for
honesty coupled to beauty, is, to have honey a sawce
to sugar.
Jaq. [aside]
A material fool!2 note
Aud.
Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the
Gods make me honest!
Clo.
Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul
slut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish.
Aud.
I am not a slut, though I thank the Gods I
am foul.† note
Clo.
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 promis'd to meet me in this place of
the forest, and to couple us.
Jaq. [aside]
I would fain see this meeting.
-- 66 --
Aud.
Well, the Gods give us joy!
Clo.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful
heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no
temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts.
But what tho?3 note courage. As horns are odious, they
are necessary. It is said, many a man knows no end
of his goods: right: many a man has good horns,
and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry
of his wife, 'tis none of his own getting; horns? even
so—poor men alone?—no, no, the noblest deer
hath them as huge as the rascal: is the single man
therefore blessed? no. As a wall'd town is more worthier
than a village, so is the forehead of a married
man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor;
and by how much defence is better than no
skill, so much is a horn more precious than to want.
Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.
Here comes Sir Oliver—Sir Oliver Mar-text,4 note you are
well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree,
or shall we go with you to your Chapel?
Sir Oli.
Is there none here to give the woman?
Clo.
I will not take her on gift of any man.
Sir Oli.
Truly, she must be given, or the marriage
is not lawful.
Jaq. [discovering himself]
Proceed, proceed! I'll
give her.
Clo.
Good even, good master what ye call: how do
you, Sir? you are very well met: God'ild you for
your last company! I am very glad to see you—even
a toy in hand here, Sir—nay; pray, be covered.
Jaq.
Will you be married, Motley?
Clo.
As the ox hath his bow, Sir, the horse his
-- 67 --
curb, and the faulcon his bells, so man hath his desire;
and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibling.
Jaq.
And will you being a man of your breeding,
be married under a bush like a beggar? get you to
church, and have a good priest that can tell you what
marriage is; this fellow will but join you together as
they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk
pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.
Clo.
I am not in the mind, but I were better to be
married of him than of another; for he is not like to
marry me well; and not being well married, it will be
a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.
Jaq.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Clo.
Come, sweet Audrey, we must be married, or
we must live in bawdry. Farewel, good Sir Oliver;
not5 note
O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, leave me not behind
thee, but wind away, begone, I say, I will not
to wedding with thee.
Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave
of them all shall flout me out of my Calling.
[Exeunt.
-- 68 --
SCENE X.
Changes to a Cottage in the Forest.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Ros.
Never talk to me—I will weep.
Cel.
Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the
grace to consider, that tears do not become a man.
Ros.
But have I not cause to weep?
Cel.
As good cause as one would desire, therefore
weep.
Ros.
His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Cel.
Something browner than Judas's: marry his
kisses are Judas's own children.
Ros.
I'faith, his hair is of a good colour.6 note
Cel.
An excellent colour: your chesnut was ever the
only colour.
Ros.
And his kissing is as full of sanctity, as the
touch of holy Beard.7 note
Cel.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana;
a nun of Winter's sisterhood8 note
kisses not more religiously;
the very ice of chastity is in them.
-- 69 --
Ros.
But why did he swear he would come this
morning, and comes not?
Cel.
Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Ros.
Do you think so?
Cel.
Yes. I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer;
but for his verity in love, I do think him as
concave as a cover'd goblet,9 note or a worm-eaten nut.
Ros.
Not true in love?
Cel.
Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in.
Ros.
You have heard him swear downright, he was.
Cel.
Was, is not is; besides, the oath of a lover is
no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both
the confirmers of false reckonings. He attends here
in the Forest on the Duke your Father.
Ros.
I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question
with him: he asked 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, quite travers, athwart1 note
the heart of his
-- 70 --
lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but one
side, breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all's
brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes
here?
Enter Corin.
Cor.
Mistress and master, you have oft enquired
After the shepherd that complain'd of love;
Whom you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
Cel.
Well, and what of him?
Cor.
If you will see a pageant truly play'd,
Between the pale complexion of true love,
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain;
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.
Ros.
Come, let us remove;
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:
-- 71 --
Bring us but to this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy Actor in their Play.
[Exeunt.
SCENE XI.
Changes to another part of the Forest.
Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me—do not, Phebe—
Say, that you love me not; but say not so
In bitterness; the common executioner,
Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon: will you sterner be2 note
Than he that dies and lives 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,
-- 72 --
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!—
Now do I frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou can'st not, oh, for shame, for shame,
Lye not to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now shew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure3 note
Thy Palm some moments keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.
Sil.
O dear Phebe,
If ever (as that ever may be near)
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,4 note
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
Phe.
But 'till that time,
Come not thou near me; and when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As, 'till that time, I shall not pity thee.
Ros.
And why, I pray you?—Who might be your mother,5 note
That you insult, exult, and all at once6 note
-- 73 --
Over the wretched? what though you have beauty,7 note
(As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,)
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature's sale-work:8 note odds, my little life!
I think, she means to angle 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.9 note
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy South, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatter her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank 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.
-- 74 --
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer:1 note
So take her to thee, shepherd—fare you well.
Phe.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.
Ros. [aside]
He's fallen in love with her foulness,2 note
and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as
fast as she answers thee, with frowning looks, I'll sauce
her with bitter words.—Why look you so upon me?
Phe.
For no ill will I bear you.
Ros.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me;
For I am falser than vows made in wine;
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
'Tis at the tuft of Olives, here hard by.
Will you go, Sister?—Shepherd, ply her hard—
Come, sister—shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,3 note
None could be so abus'd in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.
[Exeunt Ros. Cel. and Corin.
Phe.
Dead shepherd, now I find thy Saw of might;
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
Sil.
Sweet Phebe!
Phe.
Hah: what say'st thou, Silvia?
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil.
Where-ever sorrow is, relief would be;
-- 75 --
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.
Phe.
Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?
Sil.
I would have you.
Phe.
Why, that were Covetousness.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;
And yet it is not, that I bear thee love;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil.
So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps: lose now and then
A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.
Phe.
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, tho' I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy—yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? yet words do well,
When he that speaks them, pleases those that hear:
It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—
But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him;
He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him
Is his Complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:
He is not very tall, yet for his years he's tall;
His leg is but so, and yet 'tis well;
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper, and more lusty red
Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
-- 76 --
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
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?
He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black:
And, now I am remembred, scorn'd at me;
I marvel, why I answer'd not again;
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius?
Sil.
Phebe, with all my heart.
Phe.
I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head, and in my heart,
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:
Go with me, Silvius.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Continues in the FOREST.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.
Jaques.
I pry'thee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted
with thee.
Ros.
They say, you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaq.
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
Ros.
Those, that are in extremity of either, are
abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every
modern censure, worse than drunkards.
Jaq.
Why, 'tis good to be sad, and say nothing.
-- 77 --
Ros.
Why then, 'tis good to be a post.
Jaq.
I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which
is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical;
nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's,
which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick;
nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's,
which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own,
compounded of many simples, extracted from many
objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my
travels, on which my often rumination wraps me in a
most humorous sadness.
Ros.
A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason
to be sad: I fear, you have sold your own lands,
to see other mens; then, to have seen much, and to
have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
Jaq.
Yes, I have gain'd me experience.
Enter Orlando.
Ros.
And your experience makes you sad: I had
rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience
to make me sad, and to travel for it too.
Orla.
Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Jaq.
Nay then—God b'w'y you, an you talk in
blank verse.
[Exit.
Ros.
Farewel, monsieur traveller; look, you lisp,
and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your
own Country; be out of love with your nativity, and
almost chide God for making you that countenance
you are; or I will scarce think, you have swam in a
Gondola.4 note
—Why, how now, Orlando, where have
-- 78 --
you been all this while? You a lover?—an you serve
me such another 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 the 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.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my
sight. I had as lief be woo'd of a snail.
Orla.
Of a snail?
Ros.
Ay, of a snail; for tho' he comes slowly, he
carries his house on his head: a better jointure, I think,
than you can make a woman. Besides, he brings his
destiny with him.
Orla.
What's that?
Ros.
Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be
beholden to your wives for; but he comes armed in his
fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.
Orla.
Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is
virtuous.
Ros.
And I am your Rosalind.
Cel.
It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind
of a better leer than you.
Ros.
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a
holyday 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 occasion
to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out,
-- 79 --
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.
Orla.
Who could be out, being before his beloved
mistress?
Ros.
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress;
or I should think my honesty ranker than my
wit.
Orla.
What, of my suit?
Ros.
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your
suit. 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 with the cramp, was
drown'd; and the foolish chroniclers of that age5 note found
it was,—Hero of Sestos. But these are all lyes; men
have died from time to time, and worms have eaten
them, but not for love.
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;
-- 80 --
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.
Ros.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good
thing? 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.
I might ask you for your commission, but I do
take thee Orlando for my husband: there's a girl goes
before the priest, and certainly a woman's thought runs
before her actions.
Orla.
So do all thoughts; they are wing'd.
Ros.
Now tell me, how long would you have her,
after you have possest 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
-- 81 --
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 dispos'd
to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that
when you are inclin'd to sleep.6 note
Orla.
But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros.
By my life, she will do as I do.
Orla.
O, but she is wise.
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, whither wilt?7 note
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 occasion,8 note let her
never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like
a fool!
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.
-- 82 --
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 God
mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous,
if you break one jot of your promise, or come
one minute behind your hour, I will think you the
most pathetical break-promise,9 note
and the most hollow
lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind,
that may be chosen out of the gross band of the
unfaithful; therefore beware my censure, and keep your
promise.
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:
we must have your doublet and hose pluck'd
over your head, and shew the world what the bird hath
done to her own nest.
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
-- 83 --
one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge,
how deep I am in love; I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot
be out of the sight of Orlando; I'll go find a shadow,
and sigh 'till he come.
Cel.
And I'll sleep.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters.
Jaq.
Which is he that kill'd the deer?
Lord.
Sir, it was I.
Jaq.
Let's present him to the Duke, like a Roman
Conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer's horns
upon his head, for a branch of Victory; have you no
Song, Forester, for this purpose?
For.
Yes, Sir.
Jaq.
Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it
make noise enough.
Musick, Song.
What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear;
Then sing him home:—take thou no Scorn3 note
The rest shall bear this Burden.
To wear the horn, the horn, the horn:
The rest shall bear this Burden.
It was a crest, ere thou wast born.
The rest shall bear this Burden.
Thy father's father wore it,
And thy father bore it,
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
[Exeunt.
-- 84 --
4 noteSCENE V.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Ros.
How say you now, is it not past two o'clock?
I wonder much, Orlando is not here.
Cel.
I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain,
he hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth to
sleep: look, who comes here.
Enter Silvius.
Sil.
My errand is to you fair youth,
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:
[Giving a letter.]
I know not the contents; but, as I guess,
By the stern brow, and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenour. Pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
Ros. [reading.]
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.
-- 85 --
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 saw her hand, she has a leathern hand,
A free-stone-colour'd hand; I verily did think,
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hand;
She has a huswife's hand, but that's no matter—
I say, she never did invent this letter—
This is a man's invention, and his hand.
Sil.
Sure, it is hers.
Ros.
Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel 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,
Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing?
While the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance* note to me.
Meaning me a beast.
-- 86 --
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 Kind5 note
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 endured!—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 Silvius.
SCENE VI.
Enter Oliver.
Oli.
Good-morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know
Where, in the purlews of this forest, stands
A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive-trees?
-- 87 --
Cel.
West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom,
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right-hand, brings you to the place;
But at this hour the house doth keep itself,
There's none within.
Oli.
If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description,
Such garments, and such years: “the boy is fair,
“Of female 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
* noteWithin 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,
And high top bald with dry antiquity;
A wretched ragged man, o'er-grown 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
-- 88 --
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:
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 battel to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awak'd.
Cel.
Are you his brother?
Ros.
Was it you he rescu'd?
Cel.
Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
Oli.
'Twas I; but 'tis not I; I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Ros.
But, for the bloody napkin?—
Oli.
By, and by.
When from the first to last, betwixt us two,
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,
As how I came into that desert 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 unto his cave,
There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
-- 89 --
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.
Cel.
Why, how now? Ganymed!—Sweet!—Ganymed!
Rosalind faints.
Oli.
Many will swoon, when they do look on blood.
Cel.
There is more in it:—cousin—Ganymed!* 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. Ah, Sir, a body would
think, this was well counterfeited. I pray you, tell
your brother how well I counterfeited: heigh ho!—
Oli.
This was not counterfeit, there is too great testimony
in your complexion, that it was a passion of
earnest.
Ros.
Counterfeit, I assure you.
Oli.
Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit
to be a man.
Ros.
So I do: but, i'faith, I should have been a
woman by right.
Cel.
Come, you look paler and paler; pray you,
draw homewards—good Sir, go with us.
Oli.
That will I; for I must bear answer back,
-- 90 --
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
Ros.
I shall devise something. But, I pray you,
commend my counterfeiting to him.—Will you go?
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The FOREST.
Enter Clown and Audrey.
Clown.
We shall find a time, Audrey—patience, gentle
Audrey
Aud.
Faith, the Priest was good enough, for all the
old gentleman's saying.
Clo.
A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey; a most vile
Mar-text—but Audrey, there is a youth here in the
Forest lays claim to you.
Aud.
Ay, I know who 'tis, he hath no interest in
me in the world; here comes the man you mean.
Enter William.
Clo.
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 give ye good ev'n, William.
Will.
And good ev'n to you, Sir.
Clo.
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.
Clo.
A ripe age: is thy name William?
Will.
William, Sir.
-- 91 --
Clo.
A fair name. Wast born i'th'forest here?
Will.
Ay, Sir, I thank God.
Clo.
Thank God—a good answer: art rich?
Will.
'Faith, Sir, so, so.
Clo.
So, so, is good, very good, very excellent
good; and yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou
wise?
Will.
Ay, Sir, I have a pretty wit.
Clo.
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. 6 noteThe 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.
Clo.
Give me your hand: art thou learned?
Will.
No, Sir.
Clo.
Then learn this of me; to have, is to have.
For it is a figure in rhetorick, that drink being poured
out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty
the other. For all your writers do consent, that
ipse is he: now you are not ipse; for I am he.
Will.
Which he, Sir?
Clo.
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, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make
thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into
-- 92 --
bondage; 7 noteI will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado,
or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction;
I will over-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a
hundred and fifty ways; therefore tremble and depart.
Aud.
Do, good William.
Will.
God rest you merry, Sir.
[Exit.
Enter Corin.
Cor.
Our master and mistress seek you; come away,
away.
Clo.
Trip, Audrey; trip, Audrey; I attend, I attend.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
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
-- 93 --
to morrow; thither will I invite the Duke, and all his
contented followers: go you, and prepare Aliena; for,
look you, here comes my Rosalind.
Ros.
God save you, brother.
Oli.
And you, fair sister.8 note
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 shewed me your handkerchief?
Orla.
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
Ros.
O, I know where you are—Nay, 'tis true—
There was never any thing so sudden, but the sight 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 look'd; no sooner look'd, but
they lov'd; no sooner lov'd, but they sigh'd; no
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.9 note
Orla.
They shall be married to morrow; and I will
bid the Duke to the Nuptial. But, O, how bitter a
thing it is to look into happiness through another man's
eyes! by so much the more shall I to morrow be at
the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall
-- 94 --
think my brother happy, in having what he wishes
for.
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, for now I speak to some purpose,
that I know, you are a gentleman of good conceit.
I speak not this, that you should bear a good
opinion of my knowledge; insomuch, I say, I know
what you are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem
than may in some little measure draw a belief from you
to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe
then, if you please, that I can do strange things; I
have, since I was three years old, converst 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,1 note and without any
danger.
Orla.
Speak'st thou in sober meaning?
Ros.
By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, tho'
I say, I am a magician:2 note 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.
-- 95 --
SCENE III.
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 despightful and ungentle to you.
You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
Phe.
Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.
Sil.
It is to be made all of sighs and tears,
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe.
And I for Ganymed.
Orla.
And I for Rosalind.
Ros.
And I for no woman.
Sil.
It is to be made all of faith and service;
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe.
And I for Ganymed.
Orla.
And I for Rosalind.
Ros.
And I for no woman.
Sil.
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes,
All adoration, duty and observance,
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance;
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe.
And so am I for Ganymed.
Orla.
And so am I for Rosalind.
Ros.
And so am I for no woman.
Phe.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
[To Ros.
Sil.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
[To Phe.
-- 96 --
Orla.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
Ros.
Who do you speak to, why blame you me to love you?
Orla.
To her that is not here, nor doth not hear?
Ros.
Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling
of Irish wolves against the moon—I will help you
if I can; [To Orlando.]—I would love you, if I
could; [To Phebe.]—to morrow meet me all together
—I will marry you, [To Phebe.] if ever I marry
woman, and I'll be married to morrow—I will satisfy
you, [To Orlando.] if ever I satisfy'd man, and you
shall be married to morrow—I will content you, [To
Silvius.] if, what pleases you, contents you; and you
shall be married to morrow—As you love Rosalind,
meet [To Orlando.]—as you love Phebe, meet [To
Silvius.]—and as I love no woman, I'll meet—So
fare you well; I have left you commands.
Sil.
I'll not fail, if I live.
Phe.
Nor I.
Orla.
Nor I.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter Clown and Audrey.
Clo.
To morrow is the joyful day, Audrey—to morrow
will we be married.
Aud.
I do desire it with all my heart; and, I hope,
it is no dishonest desire, to desire to be a woman of
the world. Here come two of the banish'd Duke's
pages.
Enter two pages.
1 Page.
Well met, honest gentleman.
Clo.
By my troth, well met: come, sit, sit, and a
Song.
2 Page.
We are for you, Sit i'th' middle.
-- 97 --
1 Page.
Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking,
or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the
only prologues to a bad voice?
2 Page.
I'faith, i'faith, and both in a tune, like two
Gypsies on a horse.
SONG.3 note
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass,
In the spring time; the pretty spring time,
When birds did sing, hey ding a ding, ding,
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country-folks would lie,
In the spring time, &c.
The Carrol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower,
In the spring time, &c.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crowned with the prime,
In the spring time, &c.
Clo.
Truly, young gentleman, though there was no
great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untunable.4 note
-- 98 --
1 Page.
You are deceiv'd, Sir, we kept time, we
lost not our time.
Clo.
By my troth, yes: I count it but time lost to
hear such a foolish Song. God b'w'you, and God
mend your voices. Come, Audrey.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Changes to another Part of the Forest.
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia.
Duke Sen.
Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised?
Orla.
I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;
As those that fear, they hope, and know they fear.5 note
Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.
Ros.
Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd:
-- 99 --
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 bargain.
Ros.
You say, that you will 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,
If she refuse me; and from hence I go
To make these doubts all even.
[Exeunt 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 that I ever saw him,
Methought, he was a brother to your daughter;
But, my good Lord, this boy is forest-born,
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle;
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
-- 100 --
SCENE VI.
Enter Clown and Audrey.
Jaq.
There is, sure, another flood toward, and
these couples are coming to the Ark. 6 note
Here come a
pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are
call'd fools.
Clo.
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.
Clo.
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 politick 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?
Clo.
'Faith, we met; and found, the quarrel was
upon the seventh cause.7 note
Jaq.
How the seventh cause?—Good my lord, like
this fellow.
Duke Sen.
I like him very well.
Clo.
God'ild you, Sir, I desire you of the like:8 note I
press in here, Sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives,
to swear, and to forswear, according as
-- 101 --
marriage binds, and blood breaks9 note
—a poor virgin,
Sir, an ill-favour'd thing, Sir, but mine own—
a poor humour of mine, Sir, to take That that no
man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir,
in a poor house; as your pearl, in your foul oyster.
Duke Sen.
By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
Clo.
According to the fool's bolt, Sir, and such dulcet
diseases.* note
Jaq.
But, for the seventh cause; how did you find
the quarrel on the seventh cause?
Clo.
Upon a lye seven times removed; (bear your
body more seeming, Audrey) as thus, Sir; I did dislike
the cut of a certain Courtier's beard;1 note
he sent me
word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in
the mind it was. This is call'd the Retort courteous.
If I sent him word again, it was not well cut, he
would send me word, he cut it to please himself. This
is call'd the Quip modest. If again, it was not well cut,
he disabled my judgment. This is call'd the Reply
churlish. If again, it was not well cut, he would answer,
I spake not true. This is call'd the Reproof
valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he would say,
I lye. This is call'd the Countercheck quarrelsome; and
so, the Lye circumstantial, and the Lye direct.
-- 102 --
Jaq.
And how oft did you say, his beard was not
well cut?
Clo.
I durst go no further than the Lye circumstantial;
nor he durst not give me the Lye direct, and so
we measur'd swords and parted.
Jaq.
Can you nominate in order now the degrees of
the Lye?
Clo.
2 noteO Sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as
you have books for good manners. I will name you
-- 103 --
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 Lye with
circumstance; the seventh, the Lye direct. All these
you may avoid, but the Lye direct; and you may
avoid that too, with an If. I knew, when seven Justices
could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties
were met themselves, one of them thought but
of an If; as, if you said so; then I said so; and they
shook hands, and swore brothers. Your If is the only
peace-maker; much virtue in If.
Jaq.
Is not this a rare fellow, my Lord? he's 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.
SCENE VII.
3 noteEnter Hymen, Rosalind in woman's cloaths, and Celia.
Still Musick.
Hym.
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.
Ros.
To you I give myself; for I am yours.
[To the Duke.
To you I give myself; for I am yours.
[To Orlando.
-- 104 --
Duke Sen.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
Orla.
If there be truth in sight,* note you are my Rosalind.
Phe.
If sight and shape be true,
Why, then my love adieu!
Ros.
I'll have no father, if you be not he.
[To the Duke.
I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
[To Orlando.
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.
[To Phebe.
Hym.
Peace, hoa! I bar confusion:
'Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events:
Here's eight that must take hands,
To join in Hymen's bands,
If truth holds true contents.4 note
You and you no Cross shall part;
[To Orlando and Rosalind.
You and you are heart in heart;
[To Oliver and Celia.
You to his love must accord,
Or have a woman to your lord.
[To Phebe.
You and you are sure together,
As the winter to foul weather:
[To the Clown and Audrey.
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning:
That reason wonder may diminish,
How thus we meet, and these things finish.
-- 105 --
SONG.
Wedding is great Juno's Crown,
O blessed bond of board and bed!
'Tis Hymen peoples every town,
High wedlock then be honoured:
Honour, high honour and renown
To Hymen, God of every town!
Duke Sen.
O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me,
Ev'n daughter-welcome, in no less degree.
Phe.
I will not eat my word—now thou art mine,
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
SCENE VIII.
Enter Jaques de Boys.
Jaq. de B.
Let me have audience for a word or two—
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
Duke 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 enterprize, and from the world;
His Crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,
And all their lands restor'd to them again,
That were with him 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,
-- 106 --
A land itself at large, a potent Dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
That here were well begun, and well begot:
And, after, every of this happy number,
That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us,
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Mean time, forget this new-fall'n dignity,
And fall into our rustick 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.
And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
[To the Clown.
Is but for two months victual'd—so to your pleasures:
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.
-- 107 --
EPILOGUE.
Ros.
It is not the fashion to see the lady the Epilogue;
but it is no more unhandsome, than to see the
lord the Prologue. If it be true, that good wine needs
no bush, 'tis true, that a good Play needs no Epilogue.
Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good
Plays prove the better by the help of good Epilogues.
What a case am I in then,5 note 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;6 note
therefore to beg will not become me. My way is to
conjure you, and I'll begin with the women. I charge
you, O women,7 note
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 simpring, none of you hate them)
-- 108 --
that between you and the women, the Play may please.
If I were a woman,8 note 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 farewel.
[Exeunt omnes.9 note
