SCENE II.
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 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 pry'thee, 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,
-- 272 --
tune, from her wheel1 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-favour'dly.
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 the 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
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?
-- 273 --
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.
Pr'ythee, who is't that thou mean'st?
Clo.
2 note
One that old Frederick, your father, loves.
Cel.
My father's love is enough to honour him:
Enough! speak no more of him; you'll be whip'd
for taxation, one of these days.
Clo
The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely
what wise men do foolishly.
-- 274 --
Cel.
By my troth, thou say'st true: for since the
little wit, that fools have, was silenc'd3 note, the little foolery,
that wise men have, makes a great show. Here
comes Monsieur Le Beau.
Enter Le Beau.
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-cramm'd.
Cel.
All the better; we shall be the more marketable.
Bon jour, Monsieur le Beau; what's the news?
Le Beau.
Fair princess, you have lost much good
sport.
Cel.
Sport? of what colour?
Le Beau.
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 trowel4 note
.
Clo.
Nay, if I keep not my rank,—
Ros.
Thou losest thy old smell.
Le Beau.
You amaze me, ladies5 note: I would have
told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the
sight of.
Ros.
Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
-- 275 --
Le Beau.
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 Beau.
There comes an old man and his three
sons,—
Cel.
I could match this beginning with an old tale.
Le Beau.
Three proper young men, of excellent
growth and presence;—
Ros.
With bills on their necks,—Be it known unto
all men by these presents6 note
,—
-- 276 --
Le Beau.
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!
Clo.
But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies
have lost?
Le Beau.
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 7 note
is there any else longs to see this broken
-- 277 --
musick in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon
rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?
Le Beau.
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.
Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and attendants.
Duke.
Come on: since the youth will not be entreated,
his own peril on his forwardness.
Ros.
Is yonder the man?
Le Beau.
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 the8 note men: In pity of the
challenger's youth, I would fain dissuade him, but he
will not be entreated: Speak to him, ladies; see if you
can move him.
Cel.
Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
Duke.
Do so; I'll not be by.
[Duke goes apart.
Le Beau.
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?9Q0355
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
-- 278 --
your years: You have seen cruel proof of this man's
strength: if you saw yourself with your eyes,9 note
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.
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.
1 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 heaven I be deceiv'd in
you!
-- 279 --
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!
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 Beau.
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.
-- 280 --
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 given 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:
If you do keep your promises in love,
But justly as you have exceeded all promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
Ros.
Gentleman,
[Giving him a chain from her neck.
Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune2 note;
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.
Shall we go, coz?
Cel.
Ay:—Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orla.
Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts
Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up,
Is but a quintaine3 note
, a mere lifeless block.
-- 281 --
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 you 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.
Enter Le Beau.
O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown;
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.
Le Beau.
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 condition4 note,
That he misconstrues all that you have done.
-- 282 --
The duke is humourous; what he is, indeed,
More suits you to conceive, than me to speak of.
Orla.
I thank you, sir: and, pray you, tell me this;
Which of the two was daughter of the duke
That here was at the wrestling?
Le Beau.
Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;
But yet, indeed, the shorter5 note is his daughter:
The other is 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 you well;
Hereafter, in a better world than this,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
[Exit.
Orla.
I rest much bounden to you: fare you well!
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
From tyrant duke, unto a tyrant brother:—
But heavenly Rosalind!
[Exit.
SCENE III.
An apartment in the palace.
Enter Celia, and Rosalind.
Cel.
Why, cousin; why, Rosalind;—Cupid have
mercy!—Not a word?
-- 283 --
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 child's father6 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.
Cel.
Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love
his son dearly? By this kind of chase7 note, I should hate
-- 284 --
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 not? doth he not deserve well?
Enter Duke, with lords.
Ros.
Let me love him for that; and do you love
him, because I do:—Look, here comes the duke.
Cel.
With his eyes full of anger.
Duke.
Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Ros.
Me, uncle?
Duke.
You, cousin:
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our 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.
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 you 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:
-- 285 --
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 stay'd 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 virtuous8 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.
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.
-- 286 --
Cel.
O my poor Rosalind! whither 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
Hath banish'd me his daughter?
Ros.
That he hath not.
Cel.
No? hath not? 9 note
Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:
Shall we be sunder'd? 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 change1 note
upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
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;
-- 287 --
The like do you; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.
Ros.
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-ax2 note upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will)
We'll have a 3 note
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 assay'd 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.
-- 288 --
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The forest of Arden.
Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and two or three lords like foresters.
Duke Sen.
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 penalty4 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 head5 note
:
-- 289 --
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.
Ami.
I would not change it6 note: Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a stile.
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 city7 note
9Q0356,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads8 note
Have their round haunches gor'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,
-- 290 --
Did steal behind him, as he lay along9 note
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 tears1 note
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extreamest 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 much2 note
: Then, being alone,
-- 291 --
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
'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 mere 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 him3 note in these sullen fits.
For then he's full of matter.
2 Lord.
I'll bring you to him straight.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Palace.
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,
-- 292 --
Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
2 Lord.
My lord, the roynish clown4 note
, 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, wherever 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 quail5 note
To bring again these foolish runaways.
[Exeunt.
-- 293 --
SCENE III.
Oliver's House.
Enter Orlando and Adam.
Orla.
Who's there?
Adam.
What! my young master?—Oh, my gentle master,
Oh, my sweet master, 6 note
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 bony7 note
priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
-- 294 --
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!
Orla.
Why, what's the matter?
Adam.
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 place8 note, 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 blood9 note, and bloody brother.
Adam.
But do not so: I have five hundred crowns,
-- 295 --
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown;
Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
All this I give you: Let me be your servant;
Though 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 not 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 choak their service up
Even with the having1 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.
-- 296 --
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore, it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better,
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
The forest of Arden.
Enter Rosalind in boy's cloaths for Ganimed; Celia drest like a shepherdess for Aliena, and Touchstone the Clown.
Ros.
O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits2 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 you3 note
: 4 noteyet I should bear no cross, if I did bear
you; for, I think you have no money in your purse.
Ros.
Well, this is the forest of Arden.
-- 297 --
Clo.
Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool I;
when I was at home, I was in a better place; but
travellers must be content.
Ros.
Ay, be so, good Touchstone:—Look you,
who comes here; a young man, and an old, in solemn
talk.
Enter Corin and Silvius,
Cor.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
Sil.
O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!
Cor.
I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil.
No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess;
Though 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 folly4 note
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd:
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not lov'd;
Or if thou hast not broke from company,
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
-- 298 --
Thou hast not lov'd:—Oh Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!
[Exit Silvius.
Ros.
Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine 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 o'nights to Jane Smile: and I remember
the kissing of her batlet6 note, and the cow's dugs that
her pretty chop'd hands had milk'd: and I remember
the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom
I took two7 note
cods, and, giving her them again, said
with weeping tears8 note, 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 folly9 note.
-- 299 --
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 yon 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,
And do not sheer the fleeces that I graze;
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heaven
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 you will feed on; but what is, come see,
-- 300 --
And in my voice most welcome shall you be1 note.
Ros.
What is he, that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor.
That young swain, that you 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.
Ami.
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall be see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
Jaq.
More, more, I pr'ythee, more.
Ami.
It will make you melancholy, monsieur
Jaques.
-- 301 --
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 rugged2 note; I know, I cannot please
you.
Jaq.
I do not desire you to please me, I do desire
you to sing: Come, more; another stanza; Call you
'em stanzas?
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 compliment, 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 drink 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 heaven thanks, and
make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.
SONG.
Who doth ambition shun,
[all together here]
And loves to live3 note
i' the fun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
-- 302 --
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 despight 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,
Duc ad me, duc ad me, duc ad me4 note
;
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.
Ami.
What's that, duc ad me?
Jaq.
'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a
-- 303 --
circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail
against all the first-born of Egypt5 note.
Ami.
And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is
prepar'd.
[Exeunt severally.
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 thee quickly. Yet thou
liest in the bleak air: Come, I will bear thee to some
shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner,
if there live any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good
Adam!
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Another part of the forest.
Enter Duke Senior 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.
-- 304 --
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 jars6 note
, 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.
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' the forest,
A motley fool,—a miserable world7 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:
-- 305 --
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!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear8 note
.
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.
-- 306 --
Jaq.
It is my only suit9 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:
1 note
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not2 note,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandring glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
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:
-- 307 --
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself3 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 9Q0359 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 suits
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?
Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.
Orla.
Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq.
Why, I have eat none yet.
-- 308 --
Orla.
Nor shalt not, 'till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq.
Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke Sen.
Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress;
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty?
Orla.
You touch'd my vein at first; the thorny point4 note
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the shew
Of smooth civility: yet am I in-land bred,
And know some nurture5 note
: But forbear, I say;
He dies, that touches any of this fruit,
'Till I and my affairs are answered.
Jaq.
An 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,
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;
-- 309 --
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church;
If ever sat at any good man's feast;
If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke Sen.
True is it, that we have seen better days;
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have6 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.
Duke Sen.
Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in7 note
.
Jaq.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
-- 310 --
They have their exits, and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages8 note. 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,9Q0361
Full of wise saws and modern instances9 note
,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts1 note
-- 311 --
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.
Duke Sen.
Welcome: Set down your venerable burden2 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 9Q0362
As man's ingratitude;
-- 312 --
Thy tooth is not so keen3 note
,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
-- 313 --
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
4 note
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! sing, &c.
Duke Sen.
If that you were the good sir Rowland's son,—
-- 314 --
As you have whispered faithfully, you were;
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd, and living in your face,—
Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke,
That lov'd your father: The residue of your fortune,
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,
Thou art right welcome, as thy master is:—
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 argument5 note
Of my revenge, thou 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.
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;
-- 315 --
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands6 note
:
Do this expediently7 note, and turn him going.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Forest.
Enter Orlando.
Orla.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
And, thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey8 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 she9 note
.
[Exit.
Enter Corin, and Clown.
Cor.
And how like you this shepherd's life, master
Touchstone?
-- 316 --
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 money, means, and content, is without three
good friends:—That the property of rain is to wet,
and fire to burn: That good pasture makes fat sheep;
and that a great cause of the night, is the lack of
the sun: That he, that hath learned no wit by nature
nor art1 note
, may complain of good breeding, or comes
of a very dull kindred.
Clo.
Such a one is a natural philosopher2 note
. Wast
ever in court, shepherd?
-- 317 --
Cor.
No, truly.
Clo.
Then thou art damn'd.
Cor.
Nay, I hope,—
Clo.
Truly, thou art damn'd; like an ill-roasted
egg3 note
, all on one side.
Cor.
For not being at court? Your reason.
Clo.
4 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 fells you know are greasy.
Clo.
Why, do not your courtiers' hands sweat?
-- 318 --
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.
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 tar?
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 tar; 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 thee5 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.
-- 319 --
Clo.
That is another simple sin in you; to bring
the ewes and rams together, and to offer to get your
living by the copulation of cattle: to be bawd to a
bell-weather6 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.
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 fair of Rosalind7 note
.
Clo.
I'll rhime you so, eight years together; dinners,
-- 320 --
and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is
the right butter-woman's rate to market8 note
9Q0364.
Ros.
Out, fool!
Clo.
For a taste:—
If a hart do 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?
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'the
country; for you'll 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.
Enter Celia, with a writing.
Ros.
Peace!
Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
-- 321 --
Cel.
Why should this desert silent9 note
be?
For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show1 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.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd2 note
That one body should be fill'd
-- 322 --
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty;
Atalanta's better part3 note
note mean her virtue or virgin chastity,
with which nature had graced Rosalind, together with Helen's
beauty without her heart or lewdness, with Cleopatra's dignity
of behaviour, and with Lucretia's modesty, that scorned to
survive the loss of honour? Pliny's Nat. Hist. b. xxxv. c. 3.
mentions the portraits of Atalanta and Helen, utraque excellentissima
forma, sed altera ut virgo. That is, “both of them for
beauty, incomparable, and yet a man may discerne the one [Atalanta]
of them to be a maiden, for her modest and chaste countenance,”
as Dr. P. Holland translated the passage, of which probably
our poet had taken notice, for surely he had judgment in
painting.
Tollet.
I suppose Atalanta's better part is her wit, i. e. the swiftness of
her mind.
Farmer.
Shakespeare might have taken part of this enumeration of distinguished
females from John Grange's Golden Aphroditis, 1577.
“—who seemest in my sight faire Helen of Troy, Polixene,
Calliope, yea Atlanta hir selfe in beauty to surpasse, Pandora in
qualities, Penelope and Lucretia in chastenesse to deface.”
Again, ibid:
“Polixene fayre, Caliop, and
“Penelop may give place;
“Atlanta, and dame Lucres fayre
“She doth them both deface.”
Again, ibid: “Atlanta who sometyme bore the bell of beauties
price in that hyr native soyle.”
Johnson.
;
4 noteSad Lucretia's modesty.
-- 323 --
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd;
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches5 note dearest priz'd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.
Ros.
O most gentle Jupiter!—what tedious homily
of love have you wearied your parishioners withal,
and never cry'd, Have patience, good people!
Cel.
How now! back-friends?—Shepherd, go off
a little:—Go with him, sirrah.
Clo.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
retreat: though not with bag and baggage, yet with
scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt Corin, and Clown.
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: 6 note
I was never so be-rhimed since Pythagoras'
-- 324 --
time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can
hardly remember.
Cel.
Trow you, who hath done this?
Ros.
Is it a man?
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 meet7 note
; but mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes,
and so encounter. 9Q0366
Ros.
Nay, but who is it?
Cel.
Is it possible?
Ros.
Nay, I pry'thee 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.
8 note
Good my complexion! dost thou think,
-- 325 --
though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet
and hose in my disposition? 9 note
One inch of delay more
is a South-sea off 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
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
-- 326 --
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's 1 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 atomies, as to resolve the
propositions of a lover:—but take a taste of my finding
-- 327 --
him, and relish it with good observance. I found
him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn2 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.
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground.
Cel.
Cry, holla! to thy tongue 9Q0367, I pr'thee; 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.
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 be with you; let's meet as little as we can.
Orla.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
-- 328 --
Jaq.
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing
love-songs in their barks.
Orla.
I pray you, mar 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: 3 note
but I answer you right painted
cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
-- 329 --
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 myself,
against whom I know most faults.
Jaq.
The worst fault you have is, to be in love.
Orla.
'Tis a fault I would 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.
Orla.
Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher.
-- 330 --
Jaq.
I'll tarry no longer with you: farewel, good
signior love.
[Exit.
Orla.
I am glad of your departure: adieu, good
monsieur melancholy.
[Cel. and Ros. come forward.
Ros.
I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and
under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you
hear, forester?
Orla.
Very well; What would you?
Ros.
I pray you, what is't a clock?
Orla.
You should ask me, what time o'day; there's
no clock in the forest.
Ros.
Then there is no true lover in the forest; else
sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would
detect the lazy foot of time, as well as a clock.
Orla.
And why not the swift foot of time? had
not that been as proper?
Ros.
By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces
with divers persons: I'll tell you who time ambles
withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops
withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orla.
I pr'ythee, whom doth he trot withal?
Ros.
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between
the contract of her marriage and the day it is
solemniz'd: if the interim be but a se'nnight, 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 as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too
soon there.
Orla.
Who stays it still withal?
-- 331 --
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 a native of this place?
Ros.
As the coney, that you see dwell where she is
kindled.9Q0369
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 4 notein-land man; one that knew
courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have
heard him read many lectures against it; and 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.
Orla.
I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you,
tell me your remedy.
-- 332 --
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 sunken5 note; which you have not: an unquestionable
spirit6 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'd7 note
, your
bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe
untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a
careless desolation. But you are no such man; you
are rather point-device8 note
in your accoutrements; as
loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.
-- 333 --
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,
deserves as well a dark house and a whip, as madmen
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 woo 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 madness9 note;
which was, to forswear the full stream of the
-- 334 --
world, and to live in a nook merely 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 woo
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,
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 III.
Enter Clown and Audrey, Jaques watching them.
Clo.
Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up
your goats, Audrey: And how, Audrey? am I the
man yet? doth my simple feature content you2 note
?
-- 335 --
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 room3 note: Truly, I would the gods
had made thee poetical.
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
-- 336 --
they swear in poetry4 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 sauce
to sugar.
Jaq. [aside.]
A material fool5 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 foul6 note
.
Cla.
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.
Aud.
Well, the gods give us joy!
Clo.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful
-- 337 --
heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no
temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts.
But what though7 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 batchelor: 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-text8 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.
-- 338 --
Clo.
Good even, good master What ye call't: How
do you, sir? You are very well met: God'ild you9 note
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 bow1 note, sir, the horse his
curb, and the faulcon her bells, so man hath his desires;
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.
Farewell, good master Oliver!
Not—2 note
note See B. Jonson's
Underwood, vol. VI. p. 407:
“All the mad Rolands and sweet Olivers.”
And, in Every Man in his Humour, p. 88, is the same allusion:
“Do not stink, sweet Oliver.
Tyrwhitt.
This observation may be supported by the following passage in
Decker's Honest Whore, 1635:
“&lblank; This sweet Oliver will eat mutton till he be ready to burst.”
Again, in Nash's Lenten-Stuff, &c. 1599:
“&lblank; if you be boni socii, and sweet Olivers, &c.”
In the books of the Stationers' Company, Aug. 6, 1584, was entered
by Richard Jones the ballad of,
“O sweete Olyver
“Leave me not behinde thee.”
Again, “The answere of O sweete Olyver.”
Again, in 1586: “O sweet Oliver altered to the Scriptures.”
Steevens.
I often find a part of this song applied to Cromwell. In a paper
called, A Man in the Moon, discovering a World of Knavery
under the Sun, “the juncto will go near to give us the bagge, if
O brave Oliver come not suddenly to relieve them.” The same
allusion is met with in Cleaveland. Wind away, and wind off are
still used provincially: and I believe, nothing but the provincial
pronunciation is wanting to join the parts together. I read:
“Not—O sweet Oliver!
“O brave Oliver!
“Leave me not behi' thee &lblank;
“But—wind away,
“Begone, I say,
“I will not to wedding wi' thee.”
Farmer.
Wind is used for wend in Cæsar and Pompey, 1607:
“Winde we then, Anthony, with this royal queen.”
Steevens.O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee;
-- 339 --
But—Wind away,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.
-- 340 --
Sir Oli.
'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave
of them all shall flout me out of my calling.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
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's2 note
: marry, his
kisses are Judas's own children.
-- 341 --
Ros.
I'faith, his hair is of a good colour3 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 beard4 note.
Cel.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana:
a nun of winter's sisterhood5 note
kisses not more religiously;
the very ice of chastity is in them.
-- 342 --
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 goblet6 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
question7 note 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 traverse, athwart8 note
the heart of
-- 343 --
his lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on
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,
-- 344 --
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.
O, come, let us remove;
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:—
Bring us but to this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
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 the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon; Will you sterner be9 note
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
-- 345 --
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phe.
I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
-- 346 --
Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye;
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes,—that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,—
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now 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 impressure1 note
Thy palm some moment 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 fancy2 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 mother3 note,
-- 347 --
That you insult, exult, and all at once4 note
,
Over the wretched? What though you have beauty5 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-work6 note:—Od's, my little life!
I think, she means to tangle mine eyes too:—
No, 'faith proud mistress, hope not after it;
-- 348 --
'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 worship7 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 flatters 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 heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,—
Sell when you can; you are not for all markets:
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer8 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 foulness9 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
-- 349 --
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 see1 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? 9Q0371
Sil.
Sweet Phebe!
Phe.
Hah! what say'st thou, Silvius?
Sil.
Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil.
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:
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,
-- 350 --
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps: loose 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, though 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 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
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;
-- 351 --
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.
The Forest.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.
Jaq
I pr'ythee, 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.
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, in 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 men's; then, to have seen much, and to
have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
Jaq.
Yes, I have gain'd my experience.
-- 352 --
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 be wi' 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
gondola3 note
.—Why, how now, Orlando! where have
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' the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.
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?
-- 353 --
Ros.
Ay, of a snail; for though 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 you4 note
.
Ros.
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a
holiday 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, 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;
-- 354 --
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, though
Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot
midsummer night: for, good youth, he went but
forth to wash him 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,
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.
-- 355 --
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 possess'd her?
Orla.
For ever, and a day.
Ros.
Say a day, without the ever: No, no, Orlando;
men are April when they woo, December
when they wed: maids are May when they are maids,
but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be
more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over
his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain;
more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my
desires than a monkey; I will weep for nothing, like
Diana in the fountain,9Q0373 and I will do that when you
-- 356 --
are dispos'd to be merry; 6 note
I will laugh like a hyen,
and that when thou art inclin'd to sleep7 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 the8 note
doors 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 wilt9 note
?
-- 357 --
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 answer1 note
, unless
you take her without her tongue. O that woman
that cannot make her fault her husband's occasion2 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.
-- 358 --
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'the 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-promise2 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 Orlando.
Cel.
You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate:
we must have your doublet and hose pluck'd
over your head, and shew the world what the bird
hath done to her own nest3 note.
Ros.
O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that
thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love!
-- 359 --
But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown
bottom, like the bay of Portugal.
Cel.
Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour
affection in, it runs out.
Ros.
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that
was begot of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, and born
of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every
one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge,
how deep I am in love:—I'll tell thee, Aliena, I
cannot be out of sight of Orlando: I'll go find a shadow,
and sigh 'till he come.
Cel.
And I'll sleep.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
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.
1.
What shall he have, that kill'd the deer?
2.
His leather skin, and horns to wear4 note.
-- 360 --
1.
Then sing him home:
The rest shall bear this burden.
Take thou no scorn5 note
The rest shall bear this burden.
To wear the horn, the lusty horn;
The rest shall bear this burden.
It was a crest ere thou wast born.
The rest shall bear this burden.
1.
Thy father's father wore it;
2.
And thy father bore it:
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
[Exeunt.
6 note SCENE III.
Enter Rosalind, and Celia.
Ros.
How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock?
and here's much Orlando7 note
!
Cel.
I warrant you, with pure love, and troubled
-- 361 --
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: 'Od's my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:
Why writes she so to me?—Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.
Sil.
No, I protest, I know not the contents;
Phebe did write it.
Ros.
Come, come, you are a fool,
And turn'd into the extremity of love.
I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,
A freestone-coloured hand; I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;
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
-- 362 --
Than in their countenance:—Will you hear the letter?
Sil.
So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.
Ros.
She Phebe's me: Mark how the tyrant
writes.
[Reads.]
Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?—
Can a woman rail thus?
Sil.
Call you this railing?
Ros. [Reads.]
Why, thy godhead laid apart,
War'st thou with a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing?—
Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance8 note to me.—
Meaning me a beast.—
If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect?
Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How then might your prayers move?
He, that brings this love to thee,
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind9 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.
-- 363 --
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)9Q0374 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.
Enter Oliver.
Oli.
Good-morrow, fair ones: Pray you, if you know
Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands
A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive-trees?
Cel.
West of this place, down in the 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 napkin1 note
; Are you he?
-- 364 --
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
2 note
Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel! he threw his eye aside,
And, mark, what object did present itself!
Under an oak3 note, whose boughs were moss'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'er-grown with hair,
-- 365 --
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush: under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry4 note
,
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 elder brother.
Cel.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;
And he did render him the most unnatural
That liv'd 'mongst men,
Oli.
And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
Ros.
But, to Orlando;—Did he leave him there,
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?
Oli.
Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so:
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling5 note
From miserable slumber I awak'd.
-- 366 --
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
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—Ganymed6 note!
-- 367 --
Oli.
Look, he recovers.
Ros.
I 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
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.
Clo.
We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle
Audrey.
Aud.
'Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the
old gentleman's saying.
-- 368 --
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 even, Audrey.
Aud.
God ye good even, William.
Will.
And good even to you, sir.
Clo.
Good even, 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.
Clo.
A fair name: Wast born i'the forest here?
Will.
Ay, sir, I thank God.
Clo.
Thank God;—a good answer: Art rich?
Will.
'Faith, sir, so, so.
Clo.
So, so; 'Tis 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. 7 note
The heathen philosopher,
-- 369 --
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 bondage: 8 note
I 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.
-- 370 --
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 possible9 note, 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 persever to enjoy her?
Oli.
Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the
poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden
wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with
me, I love Aliena; say with her, that she loves me;
consent with both, that we may enjoy each other: it
shall be to your good; for my father's house, and
all the revenue that was old sir Rowland's, will I
estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.
Enter Rosalind.
Orla.
You have my consent. Let your wedding
be to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke, and
all his contented followers: Go you, and prepare
Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
Ros.
God save you, brother.
-- 371 --
Oli.
And you, fair sister1 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 fight
of two rams, 9Q0375 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 them2 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
think my brother happy, in having what he wishes
for.
Ros.
Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn
for Rosalind?
-- 372 --
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
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, convers'd with a
magician, most profound in his art, and yet not
damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart
as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries
Aliena, you shall marry her: I know into what
straights 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
is3 note, and without any danger.
Orla.
Speak'st thou in sober meanings?
Ros.
By my life, I do; which I tender dearly,
though I say I am a magician4 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.
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,
-- 373 --
To seem despightful and ungentle to you:
You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.9Q0376
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 all made 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.
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 moon5 note
.—I will help you,
-- 374 --
if I can: [To Silvius.]—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 III.
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 world6 note. 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'the middle.
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.
-- 375 --
SONG7 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 rank time8 note
,
When birds do 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 carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that 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 gentlemen, though there was
-- 376 --
no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very
untuneable9 note
.
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 be with you; and God
mend your voices.—Come, Audrey.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
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 fear1 note
.
-- 377 --
Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.
Ros.
Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd;—
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
[To the Duke.
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
Duke Sen.
That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
Ros.
And you say, you will have her, when I bring her?
[To Orlando.
Orla.
That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
Ros.
You say, you'll marry me, if I be willing?
[To Phebe.
Phe.
That will I, should I die the hour after.
Ros.
But, if you do refuse to marry me,
You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?
Phe.
So is the bargain.
Ros.
You say, that you'll have Phebe, if she will?
[To Silvius.
Sil.
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
Ros.
I have 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 Rosalind, 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,
-- 378 --
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 cirle of this forest.
Enter Clown, and Audrey.
Jaq.
There is, sure, another flood toward, and
these couples are coming to the ark! 2 note
Here comes
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 cause3 note.
Jaq.
How seventh cause?—Good my lord, like
this fellow.
Duke Sen.
I like him very well.
-- 379 --
Clo.
God'ild you, sir4 note
; I desire you of the like5 note
. I
press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country
copulatives, to swear, and to forswear; according as
marriage binds, and blood breaks6 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.
-- 380 --
Clo.
According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such
dulcet diseases7 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 beard8 note
; he sent me
word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in
the mind it was: This is called the Retort courteous.
If I sent him word again, it was not well cut, he
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 called the Countercheck quarrelsome;
and so to the Lye circumstantial, and the Lye direct.
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.
-- 381 --
Jaq.
Can you nominate in order now the degrees
of the lye?
Clo.
9 noteO sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as
you have books for good manners1 note: I will name you
the degrees. The first, the Retort courteous; the
second, the Quip modest; the third, the Reply churlish;
the fourth, the Reproof valiant; the fifth, the
-- 382 --
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-horse2 note,
and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
3 noteEnter Hymen, Rosalind in woman's cloaths, and Celia.
Still Musick.
Hym.
Then is there mirth in heaven,
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.
Duke Sen.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
-- 383 --
Orla.
If there be truth in sight4 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, ho! 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 contents5 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 met, and these things finish.
-- 384 --
SONG.
Wedding is great Juno's crown6 note
;
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;
Even 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.
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 Frederick7 note, 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:
-- 385 --
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,
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.
Meantime, 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 the 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 deserves it:—
You to a love, that your true faith doth merit:—
To Orlando.
You to your land, and love, and great allies:—
[To Oliver.
You to a long and well deserved bed;—
[To Silvius.
And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
[To the Clown.
-- 386 --
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.
8 note
To see no pastime, I:—what you would have
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave.
[Exit.
Duke Sen.
Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,
As we do trust they'll end, in true delights.
EPILOGUE.
Ros.
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 bush9 note
, 'tis true, that a good play needs no epilogue:
Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good
-- 387 --
plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues.
What a case am I in then1 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 beggar2 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 women3 note
, for the love you bear to men, to
like as much of this play as pleases them; and I
charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women,
(as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hate
them) that between you and the women, the play
may please. If I were a woman4 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:
-- 388 --
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 omnes9.
