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.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].