SCENE VII.
Enter Duke Sen. and Lords.
[A Table set out.
Duke Sen.
I think, he is transform'd into a beast,
For I can no where find him like a man.
1 Lord.
My Lord, he is but even now gone hence.
Here was he merry, hearing of a Song.
Duke Sen.
If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres:
Go, seek him; tell him, I would speak with him.
Enter Jaques.
1 Lord
He saves my labour by his own approach.
Duke Sen.
Why, how now, Monsieur, what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What! you look merrily.
-- 324 --
Jaq.
A fool, a fool;—I met a fool i' th' forest,
3 note
A motley fool; a miserable varlet!
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.
&plquo;Good-morrow, fool, quoth I: No, Sir, quoth he,
&plquo;Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune;
&plquo;And then he drew a dial from his poak,
&plquo;And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
&plquo;Says, very wisely, it is ten a clock:
&plquo;Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags:
&plquo;'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
&plquo;And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
&plquo;And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
&plquo;And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,
&plquo;And thereby hangs a tale.&prquo; 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 wear.
Duke Sen.
What fool is this?
&wlquo;Jaq.
&wlquo;O worthy fool! one that hath been a Courtier,
&wlquo;And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
&wlquo;They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,
&wlquo;Which is as dry as the remainder bisket
&wlquo;After a voyage, he hath strange places cram'd
-- 325 --
&wlquo;With observation, the which he vents
&wlquo;In mangled forms.&wrquo; O that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke Sen.
Thou shalt have one.
Jaq.
It is my only suit;
Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion, that grows rank in them,
That I am wise. &wlquo;I must have liberty
&wlquo;Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
&wlquo;To blow on whom I please; for so fools have;
&wlquo;And they that are most gauled with my folly,
&wlquo;They most must laugh: and, why, Sir, must they so?
&wlquo;The why is plain, as way to parish church;
&wlquo;He, whom a fool doth very wisely hit,
&wlquo;Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
&wlquo;4 note
Not to seem senseless of the bob. If not,
&wlquo;The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
&wlquo;Even by the squandring glances of a fool.&wrquo;
Invest me in my motley, give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke Sen.
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
Jaq.
What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Duke Sen.
Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all th' embossed sores and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Would'st thou disgorge into the general world.
&wlquo;Jaq.
&wlquo;Why, who cries out on pride,
&wlquo;That can therein tax any private party?
&wlquo;Doth it not flow as hugely as the Sea,
-- 326 --
&wlquo;'Till that the very very means do ebb?
&wlquo;What woman in the city do I name,
&wlquo;When that I say, the city-woman bears
&wlquo;The cost of Princes on unworthy shoulders?
&wlquo;Who can come in, and say, that I mean her;
&wlquo;When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
&wlquo;Or what is he of basest function,
&wlquo;That says, his bravery is not on my cost;
&wlquo;Thinking, that I mean him; but therein sutes
&wlquo;His folly to the metal of my speech?
&wlquo;There then; how then? what then? let me see wherein
&wlquo;My tongue hath wrong'd him; if it do him right,
&wlquo;Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
&wlquo;Why, then my taxing, like a wild goose, flies
&wlquo;Unclaim'd of any man.&wrquo; But who comes here?
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
