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.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
