D. s.
Now, my co-mates, and brothers ^note 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 the14Q0301 ^note penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as, the icy phang
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:
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: Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a stile.

D. s.
Come shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappl'd fools,—
Being native burghers of this desart city,—
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.

1. L.
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
Under an oak, whose antique root ^note peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the which place a poor sequester'd 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
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose

In piteous chace: and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extreamest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

D. s.
But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?

1. L.
O, yes, into a thousand similies.
First, for his weeping in the ^note needless stream;
Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sun of more
To that which had too much: Then, being alone, ^note
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends; ^note
'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, ^note city, court,
Yea, and of this our life: swearing, that we
Are meer usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and kill them up,
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

D. s.
And did you leave him in this contemplation?

Ami.
We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.

D. s.
Show me the place;
I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.

1. L.
I'll bring you to him straight. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. A Room in the Palace. Enter Duke junior, Lords, and other Attendants.

D. j.
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. L.
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. L.
My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia ^note, 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

D. j.
Send to his brother's, 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,
To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Before Oliver's House. Enter Orlando, and Adam, meeting.

Orl.
Who's there?

Ada.
What, my young master?—O my gentle master,
O my sweet master, 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 bonny priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind ^note of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctify'd and holy traitors to you:
O what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

Orl. ^note
Why, what's the matter?

Ada.
O unhappy youth,
Come not within these ^note doors; within this ^note 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 lye,
And you within it: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off:
I overheard him, and his practises.
This is no place, this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orl.
Why, whither, ^note Adam, would'st thou have me go?

Ada.
No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orl.
What, would'st thou have me go and beg my food?
Or, with a base and boist'rous 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, and bloody brother.

Ada.
But do not so: I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, ^note
Which I did store to be my softer nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lye 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 ^note 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.

Orl.
O 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: 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 settl'd low content.

Ada.
Master, go on; and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.—
From seventeen ^note 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. Enter Rosalind in Boy's Cloaths, Celia drest like a Shepherdess, and Clown.

Ros.

O Jupiter! how weary are ^note my spirits!

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 to 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 ^note further.

Clo.

For my part, I had rather bear with you, than bear you: 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.

Enter Corin, and Silvius, talking.

Ros.
Ay, Be so, good Touchstone:—Look you, Who comes here? [to Celia.
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 ^note 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
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 ^note 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:—O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! [Exit Silvius.

Ros.

Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound ^{note note}, 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 ^note to Jane Smile: and I remember the

kissing of her batlet ^note, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd: and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears,14Q0302 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 folly.

Ros.

Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.

Clo.

Nay, I shall ne'er be ware 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.
Hola; you, clown!

Ros.
Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

Cor.
Who calls?

Clo.
Your betters, sir.

Cor.
Else are they very wretched.

Ros.
Peace, I say:—
Good even to you, friend. ^note

Cor.
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

Ros.
I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love, or gold,
Can in this desart 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,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

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. The same. Enter Amiens, Jaques, and Others.
SONG. Ami.
Under the greenwood tree
who loves to lye with me,

  and tune ^note his merry note
  unto the sweet bird's throat,
come hither, come hither, come hither; Cho.
  here shall we see ^note
  no enemy,
but winter and rough weather.

Jaq.

More, more, I pr'ythee, more.

Ami.

It will make you melancholy, monsieur Jaques.

Jaq.

I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs: More, I pr'ythee, more.

Ami.

My voice is rugged ^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 stanzo; ^note Call you 'em stanzo's? ^note

Ami.
What you will, monsieur Jaques.

Jaq.

Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me ^note 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 drink14Q0303 under ^note 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.