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 penalty^{4 note} of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even 'till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,—
This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head^{5 note}

And this our life, exempt from publick haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Ami.
I would not change it^{6 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 city^{7 note}

9Q0356,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads^{8 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,

Did steal behind him, as he lay along^{9 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 tears^{1 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 much^{2 note}

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 him^{3 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,

Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.

2 Lord.
My lord, the roynish clown^{4 note}

Duke.
Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither;
If he be absent, bring his brother to me,
I'll make him find him: do this suddenly;
And let not search and inquisition quail^{5 note}


To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt.

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}

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 place^{8 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 blood^{9 note}, and bloody brother.

Adam.
But do not so: I have five hundred crowns,

The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown;
Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
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 having^{1 note}: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry:
But come thy ways, we'll go along together;
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.

Adam.
Master, go on; and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.—
From seventeen years 'till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore, it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better,
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. [Exeunt. 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 spirits^{2 note}!

Clo.

I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

Ros.

I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and cry like a woman: but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena.

Cel.

I pray you, bear with me; I can go no further.

Clo.

For my part, I had rather bear with you, than bear you^{3 note}
: ^{4 note}yet 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.

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.

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 folly^{4 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,

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 batlet^{6 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 two^{7 note}