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As I remember, Adam, it was upon this
fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand
crowns, and, as thou sayst, charged my brother on
his blessing to breed me well. And there begins my
55sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and
report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he
keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more
properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you
that “keeping,” for a gentleman of my birth, that
1010differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are
bred better, for, besides that they are fair with their
feeding, they are taught their manage and, to that
end, riders dearly hired. But I, his brother, gain
nothing under him but growth, for the which his
1515animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him
as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives
me, the something that nature gave me his countenance
seems to take from me. He lets me feed with
his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as
2020much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my
education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me, and the
spirit of my father, which I think is within me,
begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no
longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy
2525how to avoid it.
Yonder comes my master, your brother.
Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he
will shake me up.
Now, sir, what make you here?
3030Nothing. I am not taught to make anything.
What mar you then, sir?
Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that
which God made, a poor unworthy brother of
yours, with idleness.
3535Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught
awhile.
Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with
them? What prodigal portion have I spent that I
should come to such penury?
4040Know you where you are, sir?
O, sir, very well: here in your orchard.
Know you before whom, sir?
Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I
know you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle
4545condition of blood you should so know me. The
courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you
are the first-born, but the same tradition takes not
away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt
us. I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit I
5050confess your coming before me is nearer to his
reverence.
What, boy!
Come,
come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
5555Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
I am no villain. I am the youngest son of Sir
Rowland de Boys. He was my father, and he is
thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains.
Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this
6060hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out
thy tongue for saying so. Thou hast railed on thyself.
Sweet masters, be patient. For
your father’s remembrance, be at accord.
Let me go, I say.
6565I will not till I please. You shall hear me. My
father charged you in his will to give me good
education. You have trained me like a peasant,
obscuring and hiding from me all gentlemanlike
qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in
7070me, and I will no longer endure it. Therefore allow
me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or
give me the poor allottery my father left me by
testament. With that I will go buy my fortunes.
And what wilt thou do—beg when that is
7575spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be
troubled with you. You shall have some part of your
will. I pray you leave me.
I will no further offend you than becomes
me for my good.
8080Get you with him, you old dog.
Is “old dog” my reward? Most true, I have lost
my teeth in your service. God be with my old
master. He would not have spoke such a word.
Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I
8585will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand
crowns neither.—Holla, Dennis!
Calls your Worship?
Was not Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, here to
speak with me?
9090So please you, he is here at the door and
importunes access to you.
Call him in. Dennis exits. ’Twill be a good
way, and tomorrow the wrestling is.
Good morrow to your Worship.
9595Good Monsieur Charles, what’s the new news
at the new court?
There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old
news. That is, the old duke is banished by his
younger brother the new duke, and three or four
100100loving lords have put themselves into voluntary
exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich
the new duke. Therefore he gives them good leave
to wander.
Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke’s daughter,
105105be banished with her father?
O, no, for the Duke’s daughter her cousin so
loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together,
that she would have followed her exile or have
died to stay behind her. She is at the court and no
110110less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter,
and never two ladies loved as they do.
Where will the old duke live?
They say he is already in the Forest of Arden,
and a many merry men with him; and there they
115115live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say
many young gentlemen flock to him every day and
fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden
world.
What, you wrestle tomorrow before the new
120120duke?
Marry, do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you
with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand
that your younger brother Orlando hath a
disposition to come in disguised against me to try a
125125fall. Tomorrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he
that escapes me without some broken limb shall
acquit him well. Your brother is but young and
tender, and for your love I would be loath to foil
him, as I must for my own honor if he come in.
130130Therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to
acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him
from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well
as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own
search and altogether against my will.
135135Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which
thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had
myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein, and
have by underhand means labored to dissuade him
from it; but he is resolute. I’ll tell thee, Charles, it is
140140the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of
ambition, an envious emulator of every man’s good
parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me
his natural brother. Therefore use thy discretion. I
had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger.
145145And thou wert best look to ’t, for if thou dost him
any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace
himself on thee, he will practice against thee by
poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device,
and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by
150150some indirect means or other. For I assure thee—
and almost with tears I speak it—there is not one so
young and so villainous this day living. I speak but
brotherly of him, but should I anatomize him to
thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must
155155look pale and wonder.
I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he
come tomorrow, I’ll give him his payment. If ever
he go alone again, I’ll never wrestle for prize more.
And so God keep your Worship.
160160Farewell, good Charles.Charles exits.
Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an
end of him, for my soul—yet I know not why—
hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle, never
schooled and yet learned, full of noble device, of all
165165sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much in
the heart of the world, and especially of my own
people, who best know him, that I am altogether
misprized. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler
shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the
170170boy thither, which now I’ll go about.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.
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 banished
5175father, you must not learn me how to remember
any extraordinary pleasure.
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,
10180so 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
tempered as mine is to thee.
Well, I will forget the condition of my estate
15185to rejoice in yours.
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
20190affection. By mine honor I will, and when I break
that oath, let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet
Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.
From henceforth I will, coz, and devise
sports. Let me see—what think you of falling in
25195love?
Marry, I prithee 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
mayst in honor come off again.
30200What shall be our sport, then?
Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune
from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be
bestowed equally.
I would we could do so, for her benefits are
35205mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman
doth most mistake in her gifts to women.
’Tis true, for those that she makes fair she scarce
makes honest, and those that she makes honest she
makes very ill-favoredly.
40210Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s office to
Nature’s. Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in
the lineaments of nature.
No? When Nature hath made a fair creature,
may she not by fortune fall into the fire?
Enter Touchstone.
45215Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune,
hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the
argument?
Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature,
when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the
50220cutter-off of Nature’s wit.
Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work neither,
but Nature’s, who perceiveth our natural wits too
dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent
this natural for our whetstone, for always the dullness
55225of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. To
Touchstone. How now, wit, whither wander you?
Mistress, you must come away to your
father.
Were you made the messenger?
60230No, by mine honor, but I was bid to come
for you.
Where learned you that oath, fool?
Of a certain knight that swore by his
honor they were good pancakes, and swore by his
65235honor 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.
How prove you that in the great heap of your
knowledge?
70240Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.
Stand you both forth now: stroke your
chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave.
By our beards (if we had them), thou art.
By my knavery (if I had it), then I were.
75245But if you swear by that that is not, you are not
forsworn. No more was this knight swearing by his
honor, for he never had any, or if he had, he had
sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or
that mustard.
80250Prithee, who is ’t that thou mean’st?
One that old Frederick, your father, loves.
My father’s love is enough to honor him.
Enough. Speak no more of him; you’ll be whipped
for taxation one of these days.
85255The more pity that fools may not speak
wisely what wise men do foolishly.
By my troth, thou sayest true. For, since the little
wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery
that wise men have makes a great show. Here
90260comes Monsieur Le Beau.
With his mouth full of news.
Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their
young.
Then shall we be news-crammed.
95265All the better. We shall be the more
marketable.—Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau. What’s
the news?
Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.
Sport? Of what color?
100270What color, madam? How shall I answer you?
As wit and fortune will.
Or as the destinies decrees.
Well said. That was laid on with a trowel.
Nay, if I keep not my rank—
105275Thou losest thy old smell.
You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of
good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.
Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
I will tell you the beginning, and if it please
110280your Ladyships, you may see the end, for the best is
yet to do, and here, where you are, they are coming
to perform it.
Well, the beginning that is dead and buried.
There comes an old man and his three sons—
115285I could match this beginning with an old tale.
Three proper young men of excellent growth
and presence.
With bills on their necks: “Be it known unto
all men by these presents.”
120290The 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 served the second,
and so the third. Yonder they lie, the poor old man
125295their father making such pitiful dole over them that
all the beholders take his part with weeping.
Alas!
But what is the sport, monsieur, that the
ladies have lost?
130300Why, this that I speak of.
Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is
the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was
sport for ladies.
Or I, I promise thee.
135305But is there any else longs to see this broken
music in his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon
rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?
You must if you stay here, for here is the place
appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to
140310perform it.
Yonder sure they are coming. Let us now stay
and see it.
Come on. Since the youth will not be
entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.
145315Is yonder the man?
Even he, madam.
Alas, he is too young. Yet he looks successfully.
How now, daughter and cousin? Are
you crept hither to see the wrestling?
150320Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.
You will take little delight in it, I can
tell you, there is such odds in the man. In pity of the
challenger’s youth, I would fain dissuade him, but
he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if
155325you can move him.
Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
Do so. I’ll not be by.
He steps aside.
Monsieur the challenger, the
Princess calls for you.
160330I attend them with all respect and duty.
Young man, have you challenged Charles the
wrestler?
No, fair princess. He is the general challenger.
I come but in as others do, to try with him the
165335strength of my youth.
Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for
your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man’s
strength. If you saw yourself with your eyes or knew
yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure
170340would counsel you to a more equal enterprise.
We pray you for your own sake to embrace your
own safety and give over this attempt.
Do, young sir. Your reputation shall not
therefore be misprized. We will make it our suit to
175345the Duke that the wrestling might not go forward.
I beseech you, punish me not with your hard
thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny
so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your
fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial,
180350wherein, if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that
was never gracious; if killed, 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
185355place which may be better supplied when I have
made it empty.
The little strength that I have, I would it
were with you.
And mine, to eke out hers.
190360Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceived in
you.
Your heart’s desires be with you.
Come, where is this young gallant that is so
desirous to lie with his mother Earth?
195365Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more
modest working.
You shall try but
one fall.
No, I warrant your Grace you shall not entreat
200370him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded
him from a first.
You mean to mock me after, you should not
have mocked me before. But come your ways.
Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!
205375I would I were invisible, to catch the strong
fellow by the leg.
O excellent young man!
If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who
should down.
210380No more, no more.
Yes, I beseech your Grace. I am not yet well
breathed.
How dost thou, Charles?
He cannot speak, my lord.
215385Bear him away.
Charles is carried off by Attendants.
What is thy name, young man?
Orlando, my liege, the youngest son of Sir
Rowland de Boys.
I would thou hadst been son to some man else.
220390The world esteemed thy father honorable,
But I did find him still mine enemy.
Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this
deed
Hadst thou descended from another house.
225395But fare thee well. Thou art a gallant youth.
I would thou hadst told me of another father.
Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son,
His youngest son, and would not change that calling
230400To be adopted heir to Frederick.
My father loved 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
235405Ere he should thus have ventured.
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 deserved.
240410If you do keep your promises in love
But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
Gentleman,
Wear this for me—one out of suits with Fortune,
245415That could give more but that her hand lacks
means.—
Shall we go, coz?
Ay.—Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Can I not say “I thank you”? My better parts
250420Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up
Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
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
255425More than your enemies.
Will you go, coz?
Have with you. To Orlando. Fare you well.
Rosalind and Celia exit.
What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.
260430O poor Orlando! Thou art overthrown.
Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.
Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you
To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved
High commendation, true applause, and love,
265435Yet such is now the Duke’s condition
That he misconsters all that you have done.
The Duke is humorous. What he is indeed
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
I thank you, sir, and pray you tell me this:
270440Which of the two was daughter of the duke
That here was at the wrestling?
Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners,
But yet indeed the smaller is his daughter.
The other is daughter to the banished duke,
275445And here detained 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,
280450Grounded 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.
285455Hereafter, in a better world than this,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
I rest much bounden to you. Fare you well.
Le Beau exits.
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother,
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother.
290460But heavenly Rosalind!
Why, cousin! Why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy,
not a word?
Not one to throw at a dog.
No, thy words are too precious to be cast away
5465upon curs. Throw some of them at me. Come, lame
me with reasons.
Then there were two cousins laid up, when
the one should be lamed with reasons, and the
other mad without any.
10470But is all this for your father?
No, some of it is for my child’s father. O,
how full of briers is this working-day world!
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in
holiday foolery. If we walk not in the trodden paths,
15475our very petticoats will catch them.
I could shake them off my coat. These burs
are in my heart.
Hem them away.
I would try, if I could cry “hem” and have
20480him.
Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
O, they take the part of a better wrestler
than myself.
O, a good wish upon you. You will try in time, in
25485despite of a fall. But turning these jests out of
service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible on
such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking
with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?
The Duke my father loved his father dearly.
30490Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his
son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him,
for my father hated his father dearly. Yet I hate not
Orlando.
No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
35495Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?
Let me love him for that, and do you love
him because I do.
Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.
Look, here comes the Duke.
With his eyes full of anger.
40500Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Me, uncle?
You, cousin.
Within these ten days if that thou beest found
45505So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.
I do beseech your Grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.
If with myself I hold intelligence
50510Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
If that I do not dream or be not frantic—
As I do trust I am not—then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your Highness.
55515Thus do all traitors.
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.
60520Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Thou art thy father’s daughter. There’s enough.
So was I when your Highness took his dukedom.
So was I when your Highness banished him.
Treason is not inherited, my lord,
65525Or if we did derive it from our friends,
What’s that to me? My father was no traitor.
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
To think my poverty is treacherous.
Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
70530Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake;
Else had she with her father ranged along.
I did not then entreat to have her stay.
It was your pleasure and your own remorse.
I was too young that time to value her,
75535But now I know her. If she be a traitor,
Why, so am I. We still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together,
And, wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans
Still we went coupled and inseparable.
80540She is too subtle for thee, and her smoothness,
Her very silence, and her patience
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name,
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more
85545virtuous
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips.
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have passed upon her. She is banished.
Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege.
90550I cannot live out of her company.
You are a fool.—You, niece, provide yourself.
If you outstay the time, upon mine honor
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?
95555Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
I have more cause.
Thou hast not, cousin.
Prithee, be cheerful. Know’st thou not the Duke
100560Hath banished me, his daughter?
That he hath not.
No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.
Shall we be sundered? Shall we part, sweet girl?
105565No, let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us,
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out.
110570For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee.
Why, whither shall we go?
To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.
Alas, what danger will it be to us,
115575Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face.
The like do you. So shall we pass along
120580And never stir assailants.
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtal-ax upon my thigh,
125585A boar-spear in my hand, and in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will,
We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside—
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.
130590What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page,
And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be called?
Something that hath a reference to my state:
135595No longer Celia, but Aliena.
But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal
The clownish fool out of your father’s court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me.
140600Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away
And get our jewels and our wealth together,
Devise the fittest time and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content
145605To liberty, and not to banishment.
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?
5610Here feel we not the penalty 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
10615“This is no flattery. These are counselors
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.
15620And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it. Happy is your Grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
20625Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should in their own confines with forkèd heads
25630Have their round haunches gored.
Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,
And in that kind swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banished you.
30635Today my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor sequestered stag
35640That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt
Did come to languish. And indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting, and the big round tears
40645Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase. And thus the hairy fool,
Much markèd of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on th’ extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
45650But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?
O yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping into the needless stream:
“Poor deer,” quoth he, “thou mak’st a testament
50655As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much.” Then, being there
alone,
Left and abandoned of his velvet friends:
“’Tis right,” quoth he. “Thus misery doth part
55660The 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
60665Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?”
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse,
65670To fright the animals and to kill them up
In their assigned and native dwelling place.
And did you leave him in this contemplation?
We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.
70675Show me the place.
I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he’s full of matter.
I’ll bring you to him straight.
They exit.
Can it be possible that no man saw them?
680It cannot be. Some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.
I cannot hear of any that did see her.
5The ladies her attendants of her chamber
Saw her abed, and in the morning early
685They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.
My lord, the roinish clown at whom so oft
Your Grace was wont to laugh is also missing.
10Hisperia, the Princess’ gentlewoman,
Confesses that she secretly o’erheard
690Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles,
15And she believes wherever they are gone
That youth is surely in their company.
695Send 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,
20And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways.
700Who’s there?
What, my young master, O my gentle master,
O my sweet master, O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?
5Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
705And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bonny prizer of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
10Know you not, master, to some kind of men
710Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this when what is comely
15Envenoms him that bears it!
715Why, what’s the matter?
O unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors. Within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives.
20Your brother—no, no brother—yet the son—
720Yet 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,
25And you within it. If he fail of that,
725He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him and his practices.
This is no place, this house is but a butchery.
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
30Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
730No matter whither, so you come not here.
What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food,
Or with a base and boist’rous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
35This I must do, or know not what to do;
735Yet this I will not do, do how I can.
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
40The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
740Which 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,
45Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
745Be 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
50Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
750Nor 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.
55I’ll do the service of a younger man
755In all your business and necessities.
O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed.
60Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
760Where none will sweat but for promotion,
And having that do choke their service up
Even with the having. It is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree
65That cannot so much as a blossom yield
765In 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.
70Master, go on, and I will follow thee
770To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here livèd I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years, many their fortunes seek,
75But at fourscore, it is too late a week.
775Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well, and not my master’s debtor.
O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!
I care not for my spirits, if my legs were
not weary.
780I could find in my heart to disgrace my
5man’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.
785I pray you bear with me. I cannot go no further.
10For 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.
790Well, this is the Forest of Arden.
15Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I.
When I was at home I was in a better place, but
travelers must be content.
Ay, be so, good Touchstone.
Enter Corin and Silvius.
795Look you who comes here, a young man and an old
20in solemn talk.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!
I partly guess, for I have loved ere now.
800No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
25Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow.
But if thy love were ever like to mine—
As sure I think did never man love so—
805How many actions most ridiculous
30Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
O, thou didst then never love so heartily.
If thou rememb’rest not the slightest folly
810That ever love did make thee run into,
35Thou hast not loved.
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise,
Thou hast not loved.
815Or if thou hast not broke from company
40Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not loved.
O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe!
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound,
820I have by hard adventure found mine own.
45And I mine. I remember when I was in
love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him
take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I
remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow’s
825dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked;
50and 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 “Wear these for
my sake.” We that are true lovers run into strange
830capers. But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature
55in love mortal in folly.
Thou speak’st wiser than thou art ware of.
Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own
wit till I break my shins against it.
835Jove, Jove, this shepherd’s passion
60Is much upon my fashion.
And mine, but it grows something stale
with me.
I pray you, one of you question yond man, if he
840for gold will give us any food. I faint almost to death.
65Holla, you clown!
Peace, fool. He’s not thy kinsman.
Who calls?
Your betters, sir.
845Else are they very wretched.
70Peace, I say. As Ganymede, to Corin. Good even to
you, friend.
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
850Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
75Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here’s a young maid with travel much oppressed,
And faints for succor.
Fair sir, I pity her
855And wish for her sake more than for mine own
80My fortunes were more able to relieve her.
But I am shepherd to another man
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.
My master is of churlish disposition
860And little recks to find the way to heaven
85By doing deeds of hospitality.
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
865That you will feed on. But what is, come see,
90And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
That little cares for buying anything.
870I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
95Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.
875Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
100Go 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.
880Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
5Come hither, come hither, come hither.
885Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
More, more, I prithee, more.
10It will make you melancholy, Monsieur
890Jaques.
I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck
melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs.
More, I prithee, more.
15My voice is ragged. I know I cannot please you.
895I do not desire you to please me. I do desire
you to sing. Come, more, another stanzo. Call you
’em “stanzos”?
What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
20Nay, I care not for their names. They owe me
900nothing. Will you sing?
More at your request than to please myself.
Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank
you. But that they call “compliment” is like th’
25encounter of two dog-apes. And when a man thanks
905me 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.
Well, I’ll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while;
30the Duke will drink under this tree.—He hath been
910all this day to look you.
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
35boast of them. Come, warble, come.
915Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ th’ sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets,
40Come hither, come hither, come hither.
920Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
I’ll give you a verse to this note that I made
45yesterday in despite of my invention.
925And I’ll sing it.
Thus it goes:
If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
50Leaving his wealth and ease
930A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame.
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
55An if he will come to me.
935What’s that “ducdame”?
’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a
circle. I’ll go sleep if I can. If I cannot, I’ll rail
against all the first-born of Egypt.
60And I’ll go seek the Duke. His banquet is
940prepared.
Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for
food. Here lie I down and measure out my grave.
Farewell, kind master.
Why, how now, Adam? No greater heart in
5945thee? Live a little, comfort a little, cheer thyself a
little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I
will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee.
Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my
sake, be comfortable. Hold death awhile at the
10950arm’s end. I will here be with thee presently, and if
I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee
leave to die. But if thou diest before I come, thou art
a mocker of my labor. Well said. Thou look’st
cheerly, and I’ll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest
15955in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some
shelter, and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if
there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good
Adam.
I think he be transformed into a beast,
960For I can nowhere find him like a man.
My lord, he is but even now gone hence.
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
5If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
965Go seek him. Tell him I would speak with him.
He saves my labor by his own approach.
Why, how now, monsieur? What a life is this
10That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily.
970A fool, a fool, I met a fool i’ th’ forest,
A motley fool. A miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool,
15Who laid him down and basked him in the sun
And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms,
975In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he,
“Call me not “fool” till heaven hath sent me
20fortune.”
And then he drew a dial from his poke
980And, looking on it with lack-luster eye,
Says very wisely “It is ten o’clock.
Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.
25’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more ’twill be eleven.
985And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
30The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer
990That fools should be so deep-contemplative,
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
35A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.
What fool is this?
995O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier,
And says “If ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it.” And in his brain,
40Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed
1000With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms. O, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
45Thou shalt have one.
It is my only suit,
1005Provided that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them
That I am wise. I must have liberty
50Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please, for so fools have.
1010And they that are most gallèd with my folly,
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
The “why” is plain as way to parish church:
55He that a fool doth very wisely hit
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
1015Not to seem senseless of the bob. If not,
The wise man’s folly is anatomized
Even by the squand’ring glances of the fool.
60Invest me in my motley. Give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
1020Cleanse the foul body of th’ infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
65What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Most mischievous foul sin in chiding sin;
1025For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself,
And all th’ embossèd sores and headed evils
70That thou with license of free foot hast caught
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
1030Why, who cries out on pride
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea
75Till that the weary very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name
1035When that I say the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in and say that I mean her,
80When such a one as she such is her neighbor?
Or what is he of basest function
1040That says his bravery is not on my cost,
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
85There then. How then, what then? Let me see
wherein
1045My tongue hath wronged him. If it do him right,
Then he hath wronged himself. If he be free,
Why then my taxing like a wild goose flies
90Unclaimed of any man.
Enter Orlando, brandishing a sword.
But who comes here?
1050Forbear, and eat no more.
Why, I have eat none yet.
Nor shalt not till necessity be served.
95Of what kind should this cock come of?
Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress,
1055Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem’st so empty?
You touched my vein at first. The thorny point
100Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show
Of smooth civility, yet am I inland bred
1060And know some nurture. But forbear, I say.
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answerèd.
105An you will not be answered with reason, I
must die.
1065What would you have? Your gentleness shall force
More than your force move us to gentleness.
I almost die for food, and let me have it.
110Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you.
1070I thought that all things had been savage here,
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are
115That in this desert inaccessible,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
1075Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time,
If ever you have looked on better days,
If ever been where bells have knolled to church,
120If ever sat at any good man’s feast,
If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear
1080And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be,
In the which hope I blush and hide my sword.
125True is it that we have seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knolled to church,
1085And sat at good men’s feasts and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered.
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
130And take upon command what help we have
That to your wanting may be ministered.
1090Then but forbear your food a little while
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn
And give it food. There is an old poor man
135Who after me hath many a weary step
Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed,
1095Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.
Go find him out,
140And we will nothing waste till you return.
I thank you; and be blessed for your good comfort.
1100Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy.
This wide and universal theater
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
145Wherein we play in.
All the world’s a stage,
1105And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
150His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
1110Then the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
155Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
1115Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
160Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
1120With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
165Into the lean and slippered pantaloon
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
1125His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
170And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
1130Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Enter Orlando, carrying Adam.
Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,
175And let him feed.
I thank you most for him.
1135So had you need.—
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Welcome. Fall to. I will not trouble you
180As yet to question you about your fortunes.—
Give us some music, and, good cousin, sing.
1140Blow, blow, thou winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude.
185Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
1145Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
190Then heigh-ho, the holly.
This life is most jolly.
1150Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot.
195Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
1155As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
200Then heigh-ho, the holly.
This life is most jolly.
1160If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,
As you have whispered faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
205Most truly limned and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither. I am the duke
1165That loved your father. The residue of your fortune
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.
210To Lords. Support him by the arm. To Orlando.
Give me your hand,
1170And let me all your fortunes understand.
Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be.
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:
51175Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is.
Seek him with candle. Bring him, dead or living,
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.
Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine,
101180Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth
Of what we think against thee.
O, that your Highness knew my heart in this:
I never loved my brother in my life.
151185More villain thou.—Well, push him out of doors,
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands.
Do this expediently, and turn him going.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love.
1190And thou, thrice-crownèd queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway.
5O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,
1195That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree
10The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master
1200Touchstone?
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a
good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it
15is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very
well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile
1205life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me
well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is
tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my
20humor well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it
goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy
1210in thee, shepherd?
No more but that I know the more one sickens,
the worse at ease he is, and that he that wants
25money, means, and content is without three good
friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire
1215to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that
a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he
that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may
30complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull
kindred.
1220Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast
ever in court, shepherd?
No, truly.
35Then thou art damned.
Nay, I hope.
1225Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted
egg, all on one side.
For not being at court? Your reason.
40Why, if thou never wast at court, thou
never saw’st good manners; if thou never saw’st
1230good manners, then thy manners must be wicked,
and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou
art in a parlous state, shepherd.
45Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good
manners at the court are as ridiculous in the
1235country as the behavior of the country is most
mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at
the court but you kiss your hands. That courtesy
50would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.
Instance, briefly. Come, instance.
1240Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their
fells, you know, are greasy.
Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat?
55And is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as
the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better
1245instance, I say. Come.
Besides, our hands are hard.
Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow
60again. A more sounder instance. Come.
And they are often tarred over with the surgery
1250of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The
courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.
Most shallow man. Thou worms’ meat in
65respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed. Learn of the
wise and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar,
1255the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance,
shepherd.
You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.
70Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee,
shallow man. God make incision in thee; thou art
1260raw.
Sir, I am a true laborer. I earn that I eat, get that
I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness,
75glad of other men’s good, content with my harm,
and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze
1265and my lambs suck.
That is another simple sin in you, to bring
the ewes and the rams together and to offer to get
80your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to
a bell-wether and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth
1270to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of
all reasonable match. If thou be’st not damned for
this, the devil himself will have no shepherds. I
85cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape.
Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new
1275mistress’s brother.
From the east to western Ind
No jewel is like Rosalind.
90Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
1280All the pictures fairest lined
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind
95But the fair of Rosalind.
I’ll rhyme you so eight years together,
1285dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted.
It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.
Out, fool.
100For a taste:
If a hart do lack a hind,
1290Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So be sure will Rosalind.
105Wintered garments must be lined;
So must slender Rosalind.
1295They that reap must sheaf and bind;
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind;
110Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find
1300Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you
infect yourself with them?
115Peace, you dull fool. I found
them on a tree.
1305Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
I’ll graft it with you, and
then I shall graft it with a medlar. Then it will be
120the earliest fruit i’ th’ country, for you’ll be rotten
ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of
1310the medlar.
You have said, but whether wisely or no,
let the forest judge.
125Peace. Here comes my sister
reading. Stand aside.
1315Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No.
Tongues I’ll hang on every tree
130That shall civil sayings show.
Some how brief the life of man
1320Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
135Some of violated vows
’Twixt the souls of friend and friend.
1325But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence’ end,
Will I “Rosalinda” write,
140Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
1330Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charged
That one body should be filled
145With all graces wide-enlarged.
Nature presently distilled
1335Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra’s majesty,
Atalanta’s better part,
150Sad Lucretia’s modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
1340By heavenly synod was devised
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts
To have the touches dearest prized.
155Heaven would that she these gifts should have
And I to live and die her slave.
1345O most gentle Jupiter, what
tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners
withal, and never cried “Have patience,
160good people!”
How now?—Back, friends. Shepherd,
1350go off a little.—Go with him, sirrah.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honorable
retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet
165with scrip and scrippage.
Didst thou hear these verses?
1355O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for
some of them had in them more feet than the verses
would bear.
170That’s no matter. The feet might bear the verses.
Ay, but the feet were lame and could not
1360bear themselves without the verse, and therefore
stood lamely in the verse.
But didst thou hear without wondering how thy
175name should be hanged and carved upon these
trees?
1365I was seven of the nine days out of the
wonder before you came, for look here what I
found on a palm tree. She shows the paper she
read. 180I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras’
time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly
1370remember.
Trow you who hath done this?
Is it a man?
185And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
Change you color?
1375I prithee, who?
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to
meet, but mountains may be removed with earthquakes
190and so encounter.
Nay, but who is it?
1380Is it possible?
Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.
195O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that
1385out of all whooping!
Good my complexion, dost thou think
though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a
200doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of
delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee,
1390tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would
thou couldst stammer, that thou might’st pour this
concealed man out of thy mouth as wine comes out
205of a narrow-mouthed bottle—either too much at
once, or none at all. I prithee take the cork out of
1395thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
So you may put a man in your belly.
Is he of God’s making? What manner of
210man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a
beard?
1400Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Why, God will send more, if the man will be
thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if
215thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s
1405heels and your heart both in an instant.
Nay, but the devil take mocking. Speak sad
brow and true maid.
220I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.
Orlando?
1410Orlando.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet
and hose? What did he when thou saw’st him? What
225said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What
makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains
1415he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou
see him again? Answer me in one word.
You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first.
230’Tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size.
To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to
1420answer in a catechism.
But doth he know that I am in this forest and
in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the
235day he wrestled?
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the
1425propositions of a lover. But take a taste of my
finding him, and relish it with good observance. I
found him under a tree like a dropped acorn.
240It may well be called Jove’s tree when it
drops forth such fruit.
1430Give me audience, good madam.
Proceed.
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded
245knight.
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
1435becomes the ground.
Cry “holla” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets
unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.
250O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.
I would sing my song without a burden. Thou
1440bring’st me out of tune.
Do you not know I am a woman? When I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
255You bring me out.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Soft, comes he not here?
1445’Tis he. Slink by, and note him.
Rosalind and Celia step aside.
I thank you for your company,
but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.
260And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I
thank you too for your society.
1450God be wi’ you. Let’s meet as little as we can.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
I pray you mar no more trees with writing love
265songs in their barks.
I pray you mar no more of my verses with
1455reading them ill-favoredly.
Rosalind is your love’s name?
Yes, just.
270I do not like her name.
There was no thought of pleasing you when
1460she was christened.
What stature is she of?
Just as high as my heart.
275You are full of pretty answers. Have you not
been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives and
1465conned them out of rings?
Not so. But I answer you right painted cloth,
from whence you have studied your questions.
280You have a nimble wit. I think ’twas made of
Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me? And we
1470two will rail against our mistress the world and all
our misery.
I will chide no breather in the world but
285myself, against whom I know most faults.
The worst fault you have is to be in love.
1475’Tis a fault I will not change for your best
virtue. I am weary of you.
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I
290found you.
He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and
1480you shall see him.
There I shall see mine own figure.
Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
295I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good
Signior Love.
1485I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good
Monsieur Melancholy.
I will speak to him like a
300saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave
with him. As Ganymede. Do you hear, forester?
1490Very well. What would you?
I pray you, what is ’t
o’clock?
305You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s
no clock in the forest.
1495Then there is no true lover
in the forest; else sighing every minute and
groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of
310time as well as a clock.
And why not the swift foot of time? Had not
1500that been as proper?
By no means, sir. Time
travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell
315you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal,
who time gallops withal, and who he stands still
1505withal.
I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
Marry, he trots hard with a
320young maid between the contract of her marriage
and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a
1510se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the
length of seven year.
Who ambles time withal?
325With a priest that lacks Latin
and a rich man that hath not the gout, for the one
1515sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other
lives merrily because he feels no pain—the one
lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning,
330the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious
penury. These time ambles withal.
1520Who doth he gallop withal?
With a thief to the gallows,
for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks
335himself too soon there.
Who stays it still withal?
1525With lawyers in the vacation,
for they sleep between term and term, and
then they perceive not how time moves.
340Where dwell you, pretty youth?
With this shepherdess, my
1530sister, here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe
upon a petticoat.
Are you native of this place?
345As the cony that you see
dwell where she is kindled.
1535Your accent is something finer than you
could purchase in so removed a dwelling.
I have been told so of many.
350But indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught
me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man,
1540one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in
love. I have heard him read many lectures against it,
and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched
355with so many giddy offenses as he hath generally
taxed their whole sex withal.
1545Can you remember any of the principal evils
that he laid to the charge of women?
There were none principal.
360They were all like one another as halfpence are,
every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow
1550fault came to match it.
I prithee recount some of them.
No, I will not cast away my
365physic but on those that are sick. There is a man
haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with
1555carving “Rosalind” on their barks, hangs odes upon
hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth,
deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet
370that fancy-monger, I would give him some good
counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love
1560upon him.
I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you tell
me your remedy.
375There is none of my uncle’s
marks upon you. He taught me how to know a man
1565in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are
not prisoner.
What were his marks?
380A lean cheek, which you
have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have
1570not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a
beard neglected, which you have not—but I pardon
you for that, for simply your having in beard is a
385younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should
be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve
1575unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything
about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But
you are no such man. You are rather point-device in
390your accouterments, as loving yourself than seeming
the lover of any other.
1580Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe
I love.
Me believe it? You may as
395soon make her that you love believe it, which I
warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does.
1585That is one of the points in the which women still
give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth,
are you he that hangs the verses on the trees
400wherein Rosalind is so admired?
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of
1590Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
But are you so much in love
as your rhymes speak?
405Neither rhyme nor reason can express how
much.
1595Love is merely a madness,
and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a
whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are
410not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so
ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I
1600profess curing it by counsel.
Did you ever cure any so?
Yes, one, and in this manner.
415He was to imagine me his love, his mistress,
and I set him every day to woo me; at which time
1605would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be
effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud,
fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears,
420full of smiles; for every passion something, and for
no passion truly anything, as boys and women are,
1610for the most part, cattle of this color; would now
like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then
forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him,
425that I drave my suitor from his mad humor of love
to a living humor of madness, which was to forswear
1615the full stream of the world and to live in a
nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and
this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as
430clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not
be one spot of love in ’t.
1620I would not be cured, youth.
I would cure you if you
would but call me Rosalind and come every day to
435my cote and woo me.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me
1625where it is.
Go with me to it, and I’ll
show it you; and by the way you shall tell me where
440in the forest you live. Will you go?
With all my heart, good youth.
1630Nay, you must call me
Rosalind.—Come, sister, will you go?
Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up
your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? Am I the
man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
1635Your features, Lord warrant us! What
5features?
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the
most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the
Goths.
1640O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than
10Jove in a thatched house.
When a man’s verses cannot be understood,
nor a man’s good wit seconded with the
forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more
1645dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I
15would the gods had made thee poetical.
I do not know what “poetical” is. Is it honest
in deed and word? Is it a true thing?
No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most
1650feigning, and lovers are given to poetry, and what
20they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do
feign.
Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me
poetical?
1655I do, truly, for thou swear’st to me thou
25art honest. Now if thou wert a poet, I might have
some hope thou didst feign.
Would you not have me honest?
No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favored;
1660for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a
30sauce to sugar.
A material fool.
Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the
gods make me honest.
1665Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a
35foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean
dish.
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am
foul.
1670Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness;
40sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may
be, I will marry thee; and to that end I have been
with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village,
who hath promised to meet me in this place of the
1675forest and to couple us.
45I would fain see this meeting.
Well, the gods give us joy.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful
heart, stagger in this attempt, for here we have no
1680temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts.
50But what though? Courage. As horns are odious,
they are necessary. It is said “Many a man knows no
end of his goods.” Right: many a man has good
horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the
1685dowry of his wife; ’tis none of his own getting.
55Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no. The
noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the
single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled town
is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of
1690a married man more honorable than the bare brow
60of a bachelor. And by how much defense is better
than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious
than to want.
Enter Sir Oliver Martext.
Here comes Sir Oliver.—Sir Oliver Martext, you are
1695well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree,
65or shall we go with you to your chapel?
Is there none here to give the
woman?
I will not take her on gift of any man.
1700Truly, she must be given, or the
70marriage is not lawful.
Proceed, proceed. I’ll give
her.
Good even, good Monsieur What-you-call-’t.
1705How do you, sir? You are very well met. God
75’ild you for your last company. I am very glad to see
you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay, pray be
covered.
Will you be married, motley?
1710As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his
80curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his
desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be
nibbling.
And will you, being a man of your breeding, be
1715married under a bush like a beggar? Get you to
85church, and have a good priest that can tell you
what marriage is. This fellow will but join you
together as they join wainscot. Then one of you will
prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp,
1720warp.
90I am not in the mind but I were better to
be married of him than of another, for he is not like
to marry me well, and not being well married, it
will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my
1725wife.
95Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married,
or we must live in bawdry.—Farewell, good
Master Oliver, not
1730O sweet Oliver,
100O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee,
But
Wind away,
1735Begone, I say,
105I will not to wedding with thee.
’Tis no matter. Ne’er a fantastical
knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.
Never talk to me. I will weep.
1740Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider
that tears do not become a man.
But have I not cause to weep?
5As good cause as one would desire. Therefore
weep.
1745His very hair is of the dissembling color.
Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his
kisses are Judas’s own children.
10I’ faith, his hair is of a good color.
An excellent color. Your chestnut was ever the
1750only color.
And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the
touch of holy bread.
15He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A
nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously.
1755The very ice of chastity is in them.
But why did he swear he would come this
morning, and comes not?
20Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Do you think so?
1760Yes, I think he is not a pickpurse nor a horse-stealer,
but for his verity in love, I do think him as
concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.
25Not true in love?
Yes, when he is in, but I think he is not in.
1765You have heard him swear downright he
was.
“Was” is not “is.” Besides, the oath of a lover is
30no stronger than the word of a tapster. They are
both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends
1770here in the forest on the Duke your father.
I met the Duke yesterday and had much
question with him. He asked me of what parentage
35I was. I told him, of as good as he. So he laughed
and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when
1775there is such a man as Orlando?
O, that’s a brave man. He writes brave verses,
speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks
40them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of
his lover, as a puny tilter that spurs his horse but on
1780one side breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all’s
brave that youth mounts and folly guides.
Enter Corin.
Who comes here?
45Mistress and master, you have oft inquired
After the shepherd that complained of love,
1785Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
50Well, and what of him?
If you will see a pageant truly played
1790Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you
55If you will mark it.
O come, let us remove.
1795The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
As Ganymede, to Corin. Bring us to this sight, and
you shall say
60I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.
1800Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes
5hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
1805But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
I would not be thy executioner.
10I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye.
1810’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable
That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
15Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,
1815And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
20Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
1820Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it. Lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
25Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
1825Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.
O dear Phoebe,
30If ever—as that ever may be near—
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
1830Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love’s keen arrows make.
But till that time
35Come not thou near me. And when that time
comes,
1835Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
40That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no
1840beauty—
As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed—
45Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
1845I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work.—’Od’s my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes, too.—
50No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it.
’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
1850Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream
That can entame my spirits to your worship.—
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
55Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
1855Than she a woman. ’Tis such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favored children.
’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her,
60And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.—
1860But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love,
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
65Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer.
1865Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.—
So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together.
70I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
He’s fall’n in love with your
1870foulness. (To Silvius.) And she’ll fall in love with
my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with
frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. (To
Phoebe.) 75Why look you so upon me?
For no ill will I bear you.
1875I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
80’Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by.—
Will you go, sister?—Shepherd, ply her hard.—
1880Come, sister.—Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.—
85Come, to our flock.
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
1885“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
Sweet Phoebe—
Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
90Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
1890Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
95Were both extermined.
Thou hast my love. Is not that neighborly?
1895I would have you.
Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;
100And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
1900Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure, and I’ll employ thee too.
But do not look for further recompense
105Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
So holy and so perfect is my love,
1905And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
110That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
1910Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Not very well, but I have met him oft,
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
115That the old carlot once was master of.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
1915’Tis but a peevish boy—yet he talks well—
But what care I for words? Yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
120It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—
But sure he’s proud—and yet his pride becomes
1920him.
He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
125Did make offense, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall—yet for his years he’s tall.
1925His leg is but so-so—and yet ’tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
130Than that mixed in his cheek: ’twas just the
difference
1930Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked
him
135In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but for my part
1935I love him not nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him.
For what had he to do to chide at me?
140He said mine eyes were black and my hair black,
And now I am remembered, scorned at me.
1940I marvel why I answered not again.
But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance.
I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,
145And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
Phoebe, with all my heart.
1945I’ll write it straight.
The matter’s in my head and in my heart.
I will be bitter with him and passing short.
150Go with me, Silvius.
I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better
1950acquainted with thee.
They say you are a melancholy
fellow.
5I am so. I do love it better than laughing.
Those that are in extremity
1955of either are abominable fellows and betray
themselves to every modern censure worse than
drunkards.
10Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
Why then, ’tis good to be a
1960post.
I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which
is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical;
15nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the
soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s,
1965which is politic; 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
20from many objects, and indeed the sundry
contemplation of my travels, in which my often
1970rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
A traveller. By my faith, you
have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold
25your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have
seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes
1975and poor hands.
Yes, I have gained my experience.
And your experience makes
30you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry
than experience to make me sad—and to travel for
1980it too.
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind.
Nay then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank
35verse.
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller.
1985Look 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
40that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you
have swam in a gondola.
Jaques exits.
1990Why, 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.
45My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of
my promise.
1995Break an hour’s promise in
love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand
parts and break but a part of the thousand part of a
50minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him
that Cupid hath clapped him o’ th’ shoulder, but I’ll
2000warrant him heart-whole.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Nay, an you be so tardy,
55come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of
a snail.
2005Of a snail?
Ay, of a snail, for though he
comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a
60better jointure, I think, than you make a woman.
Besides, he brings his destiny with him.
2010What’s that?
Why, horns, which such as
you are fain to be beholding to your wives for. But
65he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the
slander of his wife.
2015Virtue is no hornmaker, and my Rosalind is
virtuous.
And I am your Rosalind.
70It pleases him to call you so, but he
hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
2020Come, woo me,
woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like
enough to consent. What would you say to me now
75an I were your very, very Rosalind?
I would kiss before I spoke.
2025Nay, you were better speak
first, and when you were gravelled for lack of
matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good
80orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for
lovers lacking—God warn us—matter, the cleanliest
2030shift is to kiss.
How if the kiss be denied?
Then she puts you to entreaty,
85and there begins new matter.
Who could be out, being before his beloved
2035mistress?
Marry, that should you if I
were your mistress, or I should think my honesty
90ranker than my wit.
What, of my suit?
2040Not out of your apparel, and
yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
I take some joy to say you are because I
95would be talking of her.
Well, in her person I say I
2045will not have you.
Then, in mine own person I die.
No, faith, die by attorney.
100The poor world is almost six thousand years old,
and in all this time there was not any man died in
2050his own person, videlicet, in a love cause. Troilus
had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club, yet
he did what he could to die before, and he is one of
105the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived
many a fair year though Hero had turned nun, if it
2055had 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
110drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age
found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies.
2060Men have died from time to time and worms have
eaten them, but not for love.
I would not have my right Rosalind of this
115mind, for I protest her frown might kill me.
By this hand, it will not kill a
2065fly. But come; now I will be your Rosalind in a more
coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I
will grant it.
120Then love me, Rosalind.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and
2070Saturdays and all.
And wilt thou have me?
Ay, and twenty such.
125What sayest thou?
Are you not good?
2075I hope so.
Why then, can one desire
too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you shall
130be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand,
Orlando.—What do you say, sister?
2080Pray thee marry us.
I cannot say the words.
You must begin “Will you,
135Orlando—”
Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to
2085wife this Rosalind?
I will.
Ay, but when?
140Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
Then you must say “I take
2090thee, Rosalind, for wife.”
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
I might ask you for your
145commission, but I do take thee, Orlando, for my
husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and
2095certainly a woman’s thought runs before her
actions.
So do all thoughts. They are winged.
150Now tell me how long you
would have her after you have possessed her?
2100Forever and a day.
Say “a day” without the
“ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when they
155woo, December when they wed. Maids are May
when they are maids, but the sky changes when
2105they 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 newfangled than
160an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I
will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain,
2110and I will do that when you are disposed to be
merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou
art inclined to sleep.
165But will my Rosalind do so?
By my life, she will do as I
2115do.
O, but she is wise.
Or else she could not have
170the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make
the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the
2120casement. Shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole.
Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the
chimney.
175A man that had a wife with such a wit, he
might say “Wit, whither wilt?”
2125Nay, you might keep that
check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to
your neighbor’s bed.
180And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
Marry, to say she came to
2130seek you there. You shall never take her without her
answer unless you take her without her tongue. O,
that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s
185occasion, let her never nurse her child
herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
2135For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave
thee.
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack
190thee two hours.
I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two
2140o’clock I will be with thee again.
Ay, go your ways, go your
ways. I knew what you would prove. My friends told
195me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering
tongue of yours won me. ’Tis but one cast away, and
2145so, come, death. Two o’clock is your hour?
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
By my troth, and in good
200earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty
oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of
2150your promise or come one minute behind your
hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise,
and the most hollow lover, and the most
205unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be
chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful.
2155Therefore beware my censure, and keep your
promise.
With no less religion than if thou wert indeed
210my Rosalind. So, adieu.
Well, time is the old justice
2160that examines all such offenders, and let time try.
Adieu.
You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate.
215We must have your doublet and hose plucked
over your head and show the world what the bird
2165hath done to her own nest.
O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou
didst know how many fathom deep I am in love. But
220it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an
unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
2170Or rather bottomless, that as fast as you pour
affection in, it runs out.
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that
225was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born
of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses
2175everyone’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 the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a
230shadow and sigh till he come.
And I’ll sleep.
They exit.2180Which is he that killed the deer?
Sir, it was I.
Let’s present him to the
Duke like a Roman conqueror. And it would do well
5to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of
2185victory.—Have you no song, forester, for this
purpose?
Yes, sir.
Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it
10make noise enough.
2190What shall he have that killed the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Then sing him home.
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn.
15It was a crest ere thou wast born.
2195Thy father’s father wore it,
And thy father bore it.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock?
2200And here much Orlando.
I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain
he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth
5to sleep.
Enter Silvius.
Look who comes here.
2205My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.
He gives Rosalind a paper.
I know not the contents, but as I guess
10By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
2210It bears an angry tenor. Pardon me.
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
Patience herself would startle at this letter
15And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all.
She says I am not fair, that I lack manners.
2215She calls me proud, and that she could not love me
Were man as rare as phoenix. ’Od’s my will,
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.
20Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.
2220No, I protest. I know not the contents.
Phoebe did write it.
Come, come, you are a
25fool,
And turned into the extremity of love.
2225I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand,
A freestone-colored hand. I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands.
30She has a huswife’s hand—but that’s no matter.
I say she never did invent this letter.
2230This is a man’s invention, and his hand.
Sure it is hers.
Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style,
35A style for challengers. Why, she defies me
Like Turk to Christian. Women’s gentle brain
2235Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?
40So please you, for I never heard it yet,
Yet heard too much of Phoebe’s cruelty.
2240She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.
(Read.)
Art thou god to shepherd turned,
That a maiden’s heart hath burned?
45Can a woman rail thus?
Call you this railing?
(Read.)
2245Why, thy godhead laid apart,
Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart?
Did you ever hear such railing?
50Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.
2250Meaning me a beast.
If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
55Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect?
2255Whiles you chid me, I did love.
How then might your prayers move?
He that brings this love to thee
60Little knows this love in me,
And by him seal up thy mind
2260Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make,
65Or else by him my love deny,
And then I’ll study how to die.
2265Call you this chiding?
Alas, poor shepherd.
Do you pity him? No, he
70deserves no pity.—Wilt thou love such a woman?
What, to make thee an instrument and play false
2270strains upon thee? Not to be endured. Well, go your
way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame
snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I
75charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never
have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true
2275lover, hence, and not a word, for here comes more
company.
Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know,
80Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheepcote fenced about with olive trees?
2280West of this place, down in the neighbor bottom;
The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream
Left on your right hand brings you to the place.
85But at this hour the house doth keep itself.
There’s none within.
2285If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description—
Such garments, and such years. “The boy is fair,
90Of female favor, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister; the woman low
2290And browner than her brother.” Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
It is no boast, being asked, to say we are.
95Orlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
2295He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
I am. What must we understand by this?
Some of my shame, if you will know of me
100What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkercher was stained.
2300I pray you tell it.
When last the young Orlando parted from you,
He left a promise to return again
105Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
2305Lo, what befell. He threw his eye aside—
And mark what object did present itself:
Under an old oak, whose boughs were mossed with
110age
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
2310A wretched, ragged man, o’ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back. About his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,
115Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached
The opening of his mouth. But suddenly,
2315Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself
And, with indented glides, did slip away
Into a bush, under which bush’s shade
120A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch
2320When that the sleeping man should stir—for ’tis
The royal disposition of that beast
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.
125This seen, Orlando did approach the man
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
2325O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived amongst men.
130And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
2330But to Orlando: did he leave him there,
Food to the sucked and hungry lioness?
Twice did he turn his back and purposed so,
135But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
2335Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling,
From miserable slumber I awaked.
140Are you his brother?
Was ’t you he rescued?
2340Was ’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
’Twas I, but ’tis not I. I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
145So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
But for the bloody napkin?
2345By and by.
When from the first to last betwixt us two
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed—
150As how I came into that desert place—
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
2350Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother’s love;
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
155There stripped himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
2355Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And cried in fainting upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recovered him, bound up his wound,
160And after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
2360To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin
Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth
165That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede?
2365Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
There is more in it.—Cousin Ganymede.
Look, he recovers.
170I would I were at home.
We’ll lead you thither.—I pray you,
2370will you take him by the arm?
Be of good cheer,
youth. You a man? You lack a man’s heart.
175I do so, I confess it. Ah,
sirrah, a body would think this was well-counterfeited.
2375I pray you tell your brother how well I
counterfeited. Heigh-ho.
This was not counterfeit. There is too great
180testimony in your complexion that it was a passion
of earnest.
2380Counterfeit, I assure you.
Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to
be a man.
185So I do; but, i’ faith, I should
have been a woman by right.
2385Come, you look paler and paler. Pray
you draw homewards.—Good sir, go with us.
That will I, for I must bear answer back
190How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
I shall devise something.
2390But I pray you commend my counterfeiting to him.
Will you go?
We shall find a time, Audrey. Patience,
gentle Audrey.
Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the
2395old gentleman’s saying.
5A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most
vile Martext. But Audrey, there is a youth here in
the forest lays claim to you.
Ay, I know who ’tis. He hath no interest in me
2400in the world.
Enter William.
10Here comes the man you mean.
It is meat and drink to me to see a clown.
By my troth, we that have good wits have much to
answer for. We shall be flouting. We cannot hold.
2405Good ev’n, Audrey.
15God gi’ good ev’n, William.
And good ev’n to you, sir.
Good ev’n, gentle friend. Cover thy head,
cover thy head. Nay, prithee, be covered. How old
2410are you, friend?
20Five-and-twenty, sir.
A ripe age. Is thy name William?
William, sir.
A fair name. Wast born i’ th’ forest here?
2415Ay, sir, I thank God.
25“Thank God.” A good answer. Art rich?
’Faith sir, so-so.
“So-so” is good, very good, very excellent
good. And yet it is not: it is but so-so. Art thou wise?
2420Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
30Why, thou sayst well. I do now remember
a saying: “The fool doth think he is wise, but the
wise man knows himself to be a fool.” The heathen
philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape,
2425would open his lips when he put it into his mouth,
35meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and
lips to open. You do love this maid?
I do, sir.
Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
2430No, sir.
40Then learn this of me: to have is to have.
For it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured
out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth
empty the other. For all your writers do consent
2435that ipse is “he.” Now, you are not ipse, for I am he.
45Which he, sir?
He, sir, that must marry this woman.
Therefore, you clown, abandon—which is in the
vulgar “leave”—the society—which in the boorish
2440is “company”—of this female—which in the common
50is “woman”; which together is, abandon the
society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or,
to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill
thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death,
2445thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with
55thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy with
thee in faction. I will o’errun thee with policy. I
will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways. Therefore
tremble and depart.
2450Do, good William.
60God rest you merry, sir.
He exits.Enter Corin.
Our master and mistress seeks you. Come away,
away.
Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey.—I attend, I
2455attend.
Is ’t possible that on so little acquaintance
you should like her? That, but seeing, you should
love her? And loving, woo? And wooing, she should
grant? And will you persever to enjoy her?
52460Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the
poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden
wooing, nor her sudden consenting, but say with
me “I love Aliena”; say with her that she loves me;
consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It
102465shall be to your good, for my father’s house and all
the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I estate
upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.
You have my consent. Let your wedding be
tomorrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all ’s
152470contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena,
for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
God save you,
brother.
And you, fair sister.He exits.
202475O my dear Orlando, how it
grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf.
It is my arm.
I thought thy heart had been
wounded with the claws of a lion.
252480Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
Did your brother tell you
how I counterfeited to swoon when he showed me
your handkercher?
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
302485O, I know where you are.
Nay, ’tis true. There was never anything so sudden
but the fight of two rams, and Caesar’s thrasonical
brag of “I came, saw, and overcame.” For your
brother and my sister no sooner met but they
352490looked, no sooner looked but they loved, no sooner
loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they
asked one another the reason, no sooner knew the
reason but they sought the remedy; and in these
degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage,
402495which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent
before marriage. They are in the very wrath
of love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part
them.
They shall be married tomorrow, and I will
452500bid the Duke to the nuptial. But O, how bitter a
thing it is to look into happiness through another
man’s eyes. By so much the more shall I tomorrow
be at the height of heart-heaviness by how much I
shall think my brother happy in having what he
502505wishes for.
Why, then, tomorrow I cannot
serve your turn for Rosalind?
I can live no longer by thinking.
I will weary you then no
552510longer with idle talking. Know of me then—for
now I speak to some purpose—that I know you are
a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that
you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge,
insomuch I say I know you are. Neither do I labor
602515for a greater esteem than may in some little measure
draw a belief from you to do yourself good, and
not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I
can do strange things. I have, since I was three year
old, conversed with a magician, most profound in
652520his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind
so near the heart as your gesture cries it out,
when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry
her. I know into what straits of fortune she is
driven, and it is not impossible to me, if it appear
702525not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes
tomorrow, human as she is, and without any
danger.
Speak’st thou in sober meanings?
By my life I do, which I
752530tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore
put you in your best array, bid your friends; for
if you will be married tomorrow, you shall, and to
Rosalind, if you will.
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of
802535hers.
Youth, you have done me much ungentleness
To show the letter that I writ to you.
I care not if I have. It is my study
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.
852540You are there followed by a faithful shepherd.
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.
It is to be all made of sighs and tears,
And so am I for Phoebe.
902545And I for Ganymede.
And I for Rosalind.
And I for no woman.
It is to be all made of faith and service,
And so am I for Phoebe.
952550And I for Ganymede.
And I for Rosalind.
And I for no woman.
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion and all made of wishes,
1002555All adoration, duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance,
And so am I for Phoebe.
And so am I for Ganymede.
1052560And so am I for Rosalind.
And so am I for no
woman.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
1102565If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
Why do you speak too,
“Why blame you me to love you?”
To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.
Pray you, no more of this.
1152570’Tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the
moon. (To Silvius.) I will help you if I can. (To
Phoebe.) I would love you if I could.—Tomorrow
meet me all together. (To Phoebe.) I will marry
you if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married
1202575tomorrow. (To Orlando.) I will satisfy you if ever I
satisfy man, and you shall be married tomorrow.
(To Silvius.) I will content you, if what pleases you
contents you, and you shall be married tomorrow.
(To Orlando.) As you love Rosalind, meet. (To
Silvius.) 1252580As you love Phoebe, meet.—And as I love
no woman, I’ll meet. So fare you well. I have left
you commands.
I’ll not fail, if I live.
Nor I.
1302585Nor I.
They exit.
Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey. Tomorrow
will we be married.
I do desire it with all my heart, and I hope it is
no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the
52590world.
Enter two Pages.
Here come two of the banished duke’s pages.
Well met, honest gentleman.
By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and
a song.
102595We are for you. Sit i’ th’ middle.
They sit.
Shall we clap into ’t roundly, without
hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which
are the only prologues to a bad voice?
I’ faith, i’ faith, and both in a tune like
152600two gypsies on a horse.
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no,
That o’er the green cornfield did pass
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
202605When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no,
These pretty country folks would lie
252610In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no,
302615How that a life was but a flower
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
352620With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no,
For love is crownèd with the prime,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
402625Truly, young gentlemen, though there
was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was
very untunable.
You are deceived, sir. We kept time. We lost
not our time.
452630By my troth, yes. I count it but time lost
to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you, and
God mend your voices.—Come, Audrey.
Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promisèd?
2635I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not,
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
5Patience once more whiles our compact is urged.
To Duke. You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
2640That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
And you say you will have her when I bring her?
10That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
You say you’ll marry me if I be willing?
That will I, should I die the hour after.
2645But if you do refuse to marry me,
You’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?
15So is the bargain.
You say that you’ll have Phoebe if she will?
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
2650I have promised to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your
20daughter,—
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter.—
Keep you your word, Phoebe, that you’ll marry me,
2655Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd.—
Keep your word, Silvius, that you’ll marry her
25If she refuse me. And from hence I go
To make these doubts all even.
I do remember in this shepherd boy
2660Some lively touches of my daughter’s favor.
My lord, the first time that I ever saw him
30Methought he was a brother to your daughter.
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born
And hath been tutored in the rudiments
2665Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician
35Obscurèd in the circle of this forest.
There is sure another flood toward, and these
couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of
2670very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called
fools.
40Salutation and greeting to you all.
Good my lord, bid him welcome.
This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so
2675often met in the forest. He hath been a courtier, he
swears.
45If any man doubt that, let him put me to
my purgation. I have trod a measure. I have flattered
a lady. I have been politic with my friend,
2680smooth with mine enemy. I have undone three
tailors. I have had four quarrels, and like to have
50fought one.
And how was that ta’en up?
Faith, we met and found the quarrel was
2685upon the seventh cause.
How “seventh cause”?—Good my lord, like
55this fellow.
I like him very well.
God ’ild you, sir. I desire you of the like. I
2690press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country
copulatives, to swear and to forswear, according as
60marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir,
an ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own. A poor
humor of mine, sir, to take that that no man else
2695will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor
house, as your pearl in your foul oyster.
65By my faith, he is very swift and
sententious.
According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such
2700dulcet diseases.
But for the seventh cause. How did you find the
70quarrel on the seventh cause?
Upon a lie seven times removed.—Bear
your body more seeming, Audrey.—As thus, sir: I
2705did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard. He
sent me word if I said his beard was not cut well, he
75was in the mind it was. This is called “the retort
courteous.” If I sent him word again it was not well
cut, he would send me word he cut it to please
2710himself. This is called “the quip modest.” If again it
was not well cut, he disabled my judgment. This is
80called “the reply churlish.” If again it was not well
cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is called
“the reproof valiant.” If again it was not well cut, he
2715would say I lie. This is called “the countercheck
quarrelsome,” and so to “the lie circumstantial,”
85and “the lie direct.”
And how oft did you say his beard was not well
cut?
2720I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial,
nor he durst not give me the lie direct, and
90so we measured swords and parted.
Can you nominate in order now the degrees of
the lie?
2725O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book, as
you have books for good manners. I will name you
95the degrees: the first, “the retort courteous”; the
second, “the quip modest”; the third, “the reply
churlish”; the fourth, “the reproof valiant”; the
2730fifth, “the countercheck quarrelsome”; the sixth,
“the lie with circumstance”; the seventh, “the lie
100direct.” All these you may avoid but the lie direct,
and you may avoid that too with an “if.” I knew
when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but
2735when the parties were met themselves, one of them
thought but of an “if,” as: “If you said so, then I said
105so.” And they shook hands and swore brothers.
Your “if” is the only peacemaker: much virtue in
“if.”
2740Is not this a rare fellow, my lord?
He’s as good at anything and yet a fool.
110He uses his folly like a stalking-horse,
and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
Then is there mirth in heaven
2745When earthly things made even
Atone together.
115Good duke, receive thy daughter.
Hymen from heaven brought her,
Yea, brought her hither,
2750That thou mightst join her hand with his,
Whose heart within his bosom is.
120To you I give myself, for I am yours.
To Orlando. To you I give myself, for I am yours.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
2755If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
If sight and shape be true,
125Why then, my love adieu.
I’ll have no father, if you be not he.
To Orlando. I’ll have no husband, if you be not he,
2760To Phoebe. Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not
she.
130Peace, ho! I bar confusion.
’Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events.
2765Here’s eight that must take hands
To join in Hymen’s bands,
135If truth holds true contents.
To Rosalind and Orlando.
You and you no cross shall part.
To Celia and Oliver.
You and you are heart in heart.
To Phoebe.
2770You to his love must accord
Or have a woman to your lord.
To Audrey and Touchstone.
140You and you are sure together
As the winter to foul weather.
To All.
Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing,
2775Feed yourselves with questioning,
That reason wonder may diminish
145How thus we met, and these things finish.
Wedding is great Juno’s crown,
O blessèd bond of board and bed.
2780’Tis Hymen peoples every town.
High wedlock then be honorèd.
150Honor, high honor, and renown
To Hymen, god of every town.
O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me,
2785Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.
I will not eat my word. Now thou art mine,
155Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
Let me have audience for a word or two.
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
2790That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day
160Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Addressed a mighty power, which were on foot
In his own conduct, purposely to take
2795His brother here and put him to the sword;
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came,
165Where, meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise and from the world,
2800His crown bequeathing to his banished brother,
And all their lands restored to them again
170That were with him exiled. This to be true
I do engage my life.
Welcome, young man.
2805Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding:
To one his lands withheld, and to the other
175A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.—
First, in this forest let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot,
2810And, after, every of this happy number
That have endured shrewd days and nights with us
180Shall share the good of our returnèd fortune
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,
2815And fall into our rustic revelry.—
Play, music.—And you brides and bridegrooms all,
185With measure heaped in joy to th’ measures fall.
Sir, by your patience: if I heard you rightly,
The Duke hath put on a religious life
2820And thrown into neglect the pompous court.
He hath.
190To him will I. Out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learned.
To Duke. You to your former honor I bequeath;
2825Your patience and your virtue well deserves it.
To Orlando. You to a love that your true faith doth
195merit.
To Oliver. You to your land, and love, and great
allies.
2830To Silvius. You to a long and well-deservèd bed.
To Touchstone. And you to wrangling, for thy
200loving voyage
Is but for two months victualled.—So to your
pleasures.
2835I am for other than for dancing measures.
Stay, Jaques, stay.
205To see no pastime, I. What you would have
I’ll stay to know at your abandoned cave.
Proceed, proceed. We’ll begin these rites,
2840As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.
It is not the fashion to see the lady the
epilogue, but it is no more unhandsome than to see
the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine
needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no
52845epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes,
and good plays prove the better by the help of good
epilogues. What a case am I in then that am neither
a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in
the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a
102850beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My
way is to conjure you, and I’ll begin with the
women. I charge you, O women, for the love you
bear to men, to like as much of this play as please
you. And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear
152855to women—as I perceive by your simpering, none
of you hates them—that between you and the
women the play may please. If I were a woman, I
would kiss as many of you as had beards that
pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths
202860that I defied not. And I am sure as many as have
good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths will for
my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.