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.
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].