As you like it; a pleasant comedy

I

m
m

1

v

WILL H.LOW

Ay, now am I in Arden ; the more fool L"

YOVLIRE

IT

APLEASANTCOMEDY

BY WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE

Copyright, J899

BY

DODD,MEAD
& COMPANY

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS

FRANK J. HECKER, ESQ.

*

A book of Shakespeare's time was not
complete without an inscription to a
noble patron of the arts and letters.
This little book has slight resemblance
to the ponderous folios of the Eliza-
bethan period, but it still remains a
pleasant custom of the book-maker to
place the name of a friend on a dedica-
tory page. Following this good custom
permit me to place your name here and
inscribe to you my work in this book.
October, 1899 "WlLL H. LOW

DRAMATIS PERSONAL

DUKE, living in banishment.
FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his do-
minions.

j^^ } lords attending on the banished Duke.

LE BEAU, a courtier attending upon Frederick.
CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick.

OLIVER, ")

JAQUES, f sons of Sir Rowland de Boys.

ORLANDO,)

TOUCHSTONE, a down.

SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar.

shepherds.

SYLVIUS,

WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Audrey.
A person representing Hymen.
ROSALIND, daughter to the banished Duke.
CELIA, daughter to Frederick.
PHEBE, a shepherdess.
AUDREY, a country wench.

Lords, pages, and attendants, &c.

SCENE: Oliver's house; Duke Frederick's court;
and the Forest of Arden.

SCENE /—ORCHARD OF OLIVER'S HOUSE

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.

Orlando. As I remember, Adam, it was
upon this fashion : bequeathed me by will
but a poor thousand crowns, and, as thou
sayest, charged my brother, on his blessing,
to breed me well: and there begins my
sadness* My brother Jaques he keeps at
school, and report speaks golderily of his
profit: for my part, he keeps me rusti-
cally at home, or, to speak more prop-
erly, stays me here at home unkept ; for call
you that keeping for a gentleman of my
birth, that differs 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 animals on his dunghills are
as much bound to him as L Besides this
nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the
something that nature gave me his counte-
nance seems to take from me: he lets me
feed with his hinds, bars me the place of
a brother, and, as much 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 how to avoid it.
Adam. Yonder comes my master, your
brother.

Orlando. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt
hear how he will shake me up.
Enter OLIVER.

Other. Now, sir! what make you here?
Orlando. Nothing: I am not taught to
make any thing.

Oliver. What mar you then, sir ?
Orlando. Marry, sir, I am helping you to
mar that which God made, a poor un-
worthy brother of yours, with idleness.
Oliver. Marry, sir, be better employed,
and be naught awhile.
Orlando. Shall I keep your hogs and eat
husks with them ? What prodigal portion

have I spent, that I should come to such
penury ?

Oliver. Know you where you are, sir ?
Orlando. O, sir, very well ; here in your
orchard,

Oliver. Know you before whom, sir?
Orlando. Ay, better than him I am before
knows me, I know you are my eldest
brother; and, in the gentle condition of
blood, you should so know me. The
courtsey 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 confess, your coming before
me is nearer to his reverence.
Oliver. What, boy!

Orlando. Come, come, elder brother, you
are too young in this.

Oliver. Wilt thou lay hands on me,
villain?

Orlando. 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 vil-
lains* Wert thou not my brother, I would
not take this hand from thy throat till
this other had pulled out thy tongue for
saying so: thou has railed on thysetf.
Adam. Sweet masters, be patient: for
your father's remembrance, be at accord.
Oliver. Let me go, I say.

3

Orlando.. I 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 gentleman-like qualities*
The spirit of my father grows strong in
me, and I will no longer endure it : there-
fore allow me such exercises as may be-
come a gentleman, or give me the poor
allottery my father left me by testament;
with that I will go buy my fortunes.
Other. And what wilt thou do? beg,
when that is spent ? 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.

Orlando. I will no further offend you than
becomes me for my good
Oliver. Get you with him, you old
dog.

Adam. 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.

Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM.
Oliver. Is it even so ? begin you to grow
upon me? I will physic your rankness,
and yet give no thousand crowns neither.
Holla, Dennis!
Enter DENNIS.
Dennis. Calls your worship ?
Oliver. Was not Charles, the Duke's
wrestler, here to speak with me ?

Dennis. So please you, he is here at the
door and importunes access to you.
Oliver. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS.]
'Twill be a good way; and to-morrow
the wrestling is.
Enter CHARLES.

Charles. Good morrow to your worship.
Other. Good Monsieur Charles, what's
the new news at the new court ?
Charles. 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 loving 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.

Oliver. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's
daughter, be banished with her father ?
Charles. 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 less beloved of her uncle than his own
daughter; and never two ladies loved as
they do.

Oliver. Where will the old Duke live ?
Charles. They say he is already in the
forest of Arden, and a many merry men
with him ; and there they live 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.

Oliver. What, you wrestle to-morrow be-
fore the new Duke ?

Charles. 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 fall. To-
morrow, 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 honour, if he come in :
therefore, 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.
Oliver. Charles, 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 un-
derhand means laboured to dissuade him
from it, but he is resolute. I '11 tell thee,
Charles : — it is the stubbornest young fel-
low of France ; full of ambition, an envious
emulator of every man's good parts, a
secret and villanous contriver against me
his natural brother : therefore use thy dis-
cretion ; I had as lief thou didst break his

6

Hi!

mm.

neck as his finger. And thou wert best
look to 't ; for if thou dost him any slight
disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace him-
self on thee, he will practise against thee
by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous
device, and never leave thee till he hath
ta'en thy life by some indirect means or
other ; for, I assure thee, and almost with
tears I speak it, there is not one so young
and so villanous this day living* I speak
but brotherly of him ; but should I anato-
mize him to thee as he is, I must blush and
weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
Charles. I am heartily glad I came hither
to you. If he come to-morrow, 111 give
him his payment: if ever he go alone
again, I'll never wrestle for prize more:
and so, God keep your worship !
Oliver. Farewell, good Charles.

ExH CHARLES.

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
sorts enchantingly beloved; and indeed so
much in the heart of the world, and espe-
cially of my own people, who best know
him, that I am altogether misprised: but
it shall not be so long ; this wrestler shall
clear all : nothing remains but that I kindle
the boy thither ; which now 1 11 go about.

Exit

7

mm.

•Vvvi r : -j

SCENE //-LAWN BEFORE THE DUKE'S PALACE

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Celia. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my
coz, be merry.

Rosalind. 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 father, you must
not learn me how to remember any ex-
traordinary pleasure.

Celia. Herein I see thou lovest me not
with the full weight that I love thee. If my
uncle, thy banished father, had banished
thy uncle, the Duke my father, so 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.

Rosalind. Well, I will forget the condition
of my estate, to rejoice in yours.
Celia. 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 affec-
tion ; by mine honour, I will ; and when I
break that oath, let me turn monster:
therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose,
be merry.

8

Rosalind. From henceforth I will, coz,
and devise sports. Let me see ; what think
you of falling in love ?
Celia. 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 honour
come off again.

Rosalind. What shall be our sport, then ?
Celia. Let us sit and mock the good house-
wife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts
may henceforth be bestowed equally.
Rosalind. I would we could do so; for
her benefits are mightily misplaced ; and the
bountiful blind woman doth most mistake
in her gifts to women.
Celia. T is true ; for those that she makes
fair she scarce makes honest; and those
that she makes honest she makes very ill-
favouredly.

Rosalind. Nay, now thou goest from
Fortune's office to Nature's: Fortune
reigns in gifts of the world, not in the
lineaments of Nature.
Enter TOUCHSTONE.
Celia. No? when Nature hath made
a fair creature, may she not by Fortune
fall into the fire? Though Nature hath
given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath
not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the
argument ?

Rosalind. Indeed, there is Fortune too
hard for Nature, when Fortune makes

Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's
wit.

Celia. Peradventure this is not Fortune's
work neither, but Nature's ; who perceiv-
eth our natural wits too dull to reason of
such goddesses, and hath sent this natural
for our whetstone ; for always the dulness
of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
How now, wit ! whither wander you ?
Touchstone. Mistress, you must come
away to your father*
Celia. Were you made the messenger ?
Touchstone. No, by mine honour, but I
was bid to come for you.
Rosalind. Where learned you that oath,
fool?

Touchstone. Of a certain knight that
swore by his honour they were good pan-
cakes, and swore by his honour the mustard
was naught ; now 1 11 stand to it, the pan-
cakes were naught and the mustard was
good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.
Celia. How prove you that, in the great
heap of your knowledge ?
Rosalind. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle
your wisdom.

Touchstone. Stand you both forth now :
stroke your chins, and swear by your beards
that I am a knave.

Celia. By our beards, if we had them,
thou art.

Touchstone. By my knavery, if I had it,

then I were ; but if you swear by that that

10

is not, you are not forsworn : no more was
this knight, swearing by his honour, for he
never had any ; or if he had, he had sworn
it away before ever he saw those pancakes
or that mustard

Celia. Prithee, who is't that thou mean-
est?

Touchstone. One that old Frederick, your
father, loves.

Celia. My father's love is enough to
honour him : enough I speak no more of
him; you 11 be whipped for taxation one
of these days.

Touchstone. The more pity, that fools
may not speak wisely what wise men do
foolishly.

Celia. 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 comes
Monsieur Le Beau.

Rosalind. With his mouth full of news.
Celia. Which he will put on us, as pigeons
feed their young.

Rosalind. Then shall we be news-
crammed.

Celia. All the better; we shall be the
more marketable.
Enter LE BEAU.

Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau ; what *s the
news?
Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost

much good sport.

n

v»' " HK

Hti&E

Celia. Sport ! of what colour ?

Le Beau. What colour, madam ! how

shall I answer you ?

Rosalind. As wit and fortune will.

Touchstone. Or as the Destinies decrees.

Celia. Well said: that was kid on with

a trowel.

Touchstone. Nay, if I keep not my rank, —

Rosalind. Thou losest thy old smell.

Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies : I would

have told you of good wrestling, which

you have lost the sight of.

Rosalind. Yet tell us the manner of the

wrestling.

Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning ;

and, if it please your ladyships, you may

see the end ; for the best is yet to do ; and

here, where you are, they are coming to

perform it.

Celia. Well, the beginning, that is dead

and buried.

Le Beau. There comes an old man and

his three sons, —

Celia. I could match this beginning with
an old tale.

Le Beau. Three proper young men, of
excellent growth and presence.
Rosalind. With bills on their necks, 'Be
it known unto all men by these presents/
Le Beau. The 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

J2

r

life in him : so he served the second, and
so the third Yonder they lie; the poor
old man, their father, making such pitiful
dole over them that all the beholders take
his part with weeping.
Rosalind. Alas I

Touchstone. But what is the sport, mon-
sieur, that the ladies have lost ?
Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of.
Touchstone. Thus men may grow wiser
every day: it is the first time that ever
I heard breaking of ribs was sport for
ladies.

Celia. Or I, I promise thee.
Rosalind. But 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 ?
Le Beau. You must, if you stay here ; for
here is the place appointed for the wrest-
ling, and they are ready to perform it.
Celia. Yonder, sure, they are coming : let
us now stay and see it.
Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK,

LORDS, ORLANDO, CHARLES, and AT-
TENDANTS.

Duke Frederick. Come on : since the youth

will not be entreated, his own peril on his

forwardness.

Rosalind. Is yonder the man ?

Le Beau. Even he, madam.

Celia. Alas, he is too young ! yet he looks

successfully.

13

Duke Frederick. How now, daughter and
cousin! are you crept hither to see the
wrestling ?

Rosalind. Ay, my liege, so please you
give us leave.

Duke Frederick. 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
you can move him.

Celia. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le
Beau.

Duke Frederick. Do so : I '11 not be by.
Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the
princess calls for you.
Orlando. I attend them with all respect
and duty.

Rosalind. Young man, have you chal-
lenged Charles the wrestler ?
Orlando. No, fair princess; he is the
general challenger: I come but in, as
others do, to try with him the strength of
my youth.

Celia. 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 judgement, the fear of
your adventure would counsel you to a
more equal enterprise. We pray you, for
your own sake, to embrace your own
safety, and give over this attempt.

14

Rosalind. Do, young sir ; your reputation
shall not therefore be misprised: we will
make it our suit to the Duke that the
wrestling might not go forward.
Orlando. I beseech you, punish me not
with your hard thoughts ; wherein I confess
me much guilty, to deny so fair and excel-
lent ladies any thing. But let your fair
eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my
trial: wherein 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 place, which may be better sup-
plied when I have made it empty.
Rosalind. The little strength that I have,
I would it were with you.
Celia. And mine, to eke out hers.
Rosalind. Fare you well : pray heaven I
be deceived in you!

Celia. Your heart's desires be with you !
Charles. Come, where is this young gallant
that is so desirous to lie with his mother
earth?

Orlando. Ready, sir ; but his will hath in
it a more modest working.
Duke Frederick. You shall try but one
fall.

Charles. No, I warrant your Grace, you
shall not entreat him to a second, that have
so mightily persuaded him from a first.

15

mm

Orlando. You mean to mock me after;

you should not have mocked me before:

but come your ways*

Rosalind. Now Hercules be thy speed,

young man !

Celia. I would I were invisible, to catch

the strong fellow by the leg.

They wrestle.

Rosalind. O excellent young man 1
Celia. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye,
I can tell who should down.

Shout CHARLES is thrown.
Duke Frederick. No more, no more.
Orlando. Yes, I beseech your Grace: I
am not yet well breathed.
Duke Frederick. How dost thou, Charles ?
Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord*
Duke Frederick. Bear him away. What
is thy name, young man ?
Orlando. Orlando, my liege; the youngest
son of Sir Rowland de Boys.
Duke Frederick. I would thou hadst been

son to some man else:
The world esteemed thy father honourable,
But I did find him still mine enemy :
Thou shouldst have better pleased me with

this deed,

Hadst thou descended from another house.
But fare thee well; thou art a gallant

youth:

I would thou hadst told me of another father.
Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK, TRAIN, and
LE BEAU*

Celia. Were I my father, cos, would I do

this?
Orlando. I am more proud to be Sir

Rowland's son,
His youngest son ; and would not change

that calling,

To be adopted heir to Frederick,
Rosalind. 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,

1 should have given him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventured.

Celia. 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 :

If you do keep your promises in love
But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
Rosalind. Gentleman,

[Giving him a chain from her neck.']
Wear this for me, one out of suits with

fortune,
That could give more, but that her hand

lacks means.
Shall we go, coz ?
Celia. Ay. Fare you well, fair

gentleman.
Orlando. Can I not say, I thank you?

My better parts

2 17

Are all thrown down, and that which here

stands up

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
Rosalind. He calls us back : my pride fell

with my fortunes ;
I '11 ask him what he would. Did you call,

sir?

Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown
More than your enemies.
Celia. Will you go, coz ?

Rosalind. Have with you. Fare you well.
Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.
Orlando. What passion hangs these

weights upon my tongue ?
I cannot speak to her, yet she urged

conference.

O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown I
Or Charles or something weaker masters

thee.

Re-enter LE BEAU.

Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship

counsel you
To leave this place. Albeit you have

deserved
High commendation, true applause, and

love,

Yet such is now the Duke's condition,
That he misconstrues all that you have

done.

The Duke is humorous : what he is, indeed,
More suits you to conceive than I to speak

of.

18

"Sir, you have wrestled well, and
overthrown more than your enemies."

Orlando. I thank you, sir : and, pray you,

tell me this ;
Which of the two was daughter of the

Duke,

That here was at the wrestling ?
Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we

judge by manners ;

But yet, indeed, the taller is his daughter :
The other is daughter to the banish'd Duke,
And 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,

Grounded 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:

Hereafter, in a better world than this,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of

you.
Orlando. I rest much bounden to you :

fare you well.

Exit LE BEAU.

Thus must I from the smoke into the

smother ;

From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother :
But heavenly Rosalind I Exit

J9

Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.

Celia. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind!
Cupid have mercy ! not a word ?
Rosalind. Not one to throw at a dog.
Celia. No, thy words are too precious to
be cast away upon curs; throw some of
them at me; come, lame me with reasons.
Rosalind. Then there were two cousins
laid up ; when the one should be lamed with
reasons and the other mad without any*
Celia. But is all this for your father ?
Rosalind. No, some of it is for my child's
father. O, how full of briers is this work-
ing-day world !

Celia. They are but burs, cousin, thrown
upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk
not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats
will catch them.

Rosalind. I could shake them off my coat :
these burs are in my heart.
Celia. Hem them away.
Rosalind. I would try, if I could cry hem
and have him.

Celia. Come, come, wrestle with thy
affections.

Rosalind. O, they take the part of a better
wrestler than myself !

Celia. O, a good wish upon you! you

will try in time, in despite of a fall. But,

20

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?

Rosalind. The Duke my father loved his

father dearly.

Celia. Doth 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.

Rosalind. No, faith, hate him not, for my

sake*

Celia. Why should I not? doth he not

deserve well ?

Rosalind. Let me love him for that, and

do you love him because I do. Look, here

comes the Duke.

Celia. With his eyes full of anger.

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS.

Duke Frederick. Mistress, dispatch you

with your safest haste
And get you from our court.
Rosalind. Me, Uncle ?

Duke Frederick. You, cousin :

Within these ten days if that thou be'st

found

So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for ft*

Rosalind. I do beseech your Grace,

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear

wfth me:

2J

If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or 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*
Duke Frederick. Thus 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.
Rosalind. Yet your mistrust cannot make

me a traitor :

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke Frederick. Thou art thy father's

daughter; there 's enough.
Rosalind. So was I when your Highness

took his dukedom ;
So was I when your Highness banish'd

him:

Treason is not inherited, my lord ;
Or, 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

mucn

To think my poverty is treacherous.
Celia. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke Frederick. Ay, Celia ; we stay'd her

for your sake,

Else had she with her father ranged along.
Celia. 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 ;
But now I know her, if she be a traitor,
Why so am I ; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat

together,
And wheresoever we went, like Juno's

swans,

Still we went coupled and inseparable*
Duke Frederick. She 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 virtuous
When she is gone. Then open not thy

lips:

Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her; she is

banish'd.
Celia. Pronounce that sentence then on

me, my liege :

I cannot live out of her company.
Duke Frederick. You are a fool. You,

niece, provide yourself :
If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.

Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK and LORDS.

Celia. O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt

thou go ?
Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee

mine.

23

I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than

I am.

Rosalind. I have more cause.
Celia. Thou hast not, cousin ;

Prithee, be cheerful : knoVst thou not, the

Duke

Hath banished me, his daughter ?
Rosalind. That he hath not.

Celia. No, hath not ? Rosalind lacks then

the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am

one:
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part,

sweet girl ?

No : 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;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows

pale,
Say what thou canst, 1 11 go along with

thee.

Rosalind. Why, whither shall we go ?
Celia. To seek my uncle in the forest of

Arden.
Rosalind. Alas, what danger will it be to

us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far !
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than
gold.

24

' - v

Celia. 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
And never stir assailants.
Rosalind. Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man ?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and — in my

heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there

will —

We '11 have a swashing and a martial out-
side,

As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.
Celia. What shall I call thee when thou

art a man ?
Rosalind. I '11 have no worse a name than

Jove's own page ;

And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd ?
Celia. Something that hath a reference to

my state :

No longer Celia, but Aliena.
Rosalind. But, cousin, what if we assa/d

to steal
The clownish fool out of your father's

court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel ?
Celia. He '11 go along o'er the wide world

with me ;

25

"""•• *v» *V£?

mm

Leave 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
To liberty and not to banishment. Exeunt

•

SCENE /-THE FOREST OF ARDEN

Enter DUKE senior, AMIENS, and two or
three LORDS, like foresters.

Duke Senior. Now, my co-mates and

brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more

sweet
Than that of painted pop ? Are not these

woods

More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but 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,

29

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
This is no flattery : these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am/
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head :
And this our life exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running

brooks,

Sermons in stones and good in every thing.
I would not change it.
Amiens. Happy is your Grace,

Than can translate the stubbornness of

fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
Duke Senior. 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 forked

heads

Have their round haunches gored.
First Lord. Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,
And, in that kind, swears you do more

usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd

you.

To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this

wood:

30 *

m

To the which place a poor sequestered stag,
That 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
Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift

brook,

Augmenting it with tears.
Duke Senior. But what said Jaques ?

Did he not moralise this spectacle ?
First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes*
First, for his weeping into the needless

stream ;
'Poor deer/ quoth he, 'thou makest a

testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much : ' then, being

there alone,

Left and abandoned of his velvet friends ;
4 'T is right/ quoth he ; ' thus misery doth

part
The flux of company:' anon a careless

herd,

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him
And never stays to greet him ; ' Ay/ quoth

Jaques,

3J

' Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ;
'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you

look

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? '
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life ; swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants and what 's

worse,

To fright the animals and to kill them up
In their assigned and native dwelling-place.
Duke Senior. And did you leave him in

this contemplation ?
Second Lord. We did, my lord, weeping

and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.
Duke Senior. Show me the place :

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he 's full of matter.
First Lord. I '11 bring you to him straight.

Exeunt.

A ROOM IN THE PALACE

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, <wttfi LORDS.

Duke Frederick. Can it be possible that

no man saw them ?

It cannot be : some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.
First Lord. I cannot hear of any that did

see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

32

Saw her a-bed, and in the morning early
They found the bed untreasured of their

mistress.
Second Lord. My lord, the roynish clown,

at whom so oft
Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also

missing.

Hisperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses that she secretly o'erheard
Your daughter and her cousin much

commend

The parts and graces of the wrestler
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles ;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.
Duke Frederick. Send to his brother ; fetch

that gallant hither ;

If he be absent, bring his brother to me ;
I '11 make him find him : do this suddenly,
And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways.

Exeunt.

SCENE ///-BEFORE OLIVER'S HOUSE

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.

Orlando. Who 's there ?

Adam. What, my young master ? O my

gentle master !

O my sweet master 1 O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland ! why, what make you

here?

3 33

Why are you virtuous? why do people

love you ?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong and

valiant?

Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bonny priser of the humorous Duke ?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before

you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of

men

Their 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

Envenoms him that bears it 1
Orlando. Why, what 's the matter ?
Adam. O unhappy youth !

Gome not within these doors ; within this

roof

The enemy of all your graces lives :
Your brother — no, no brother; yet the

son —

Yet not the son, I will not call him son,
Of him I was about to call his father, —
Hath heard your praises, and this night he

means
To burn the lodging where you use to

lie

And you within it : if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him and his practices.

34

mm

m.

This is no place; this house is but a

butchery :

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it»
Orlando. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst

thou have me go ?
Adam. No matter whither, so you come

not here.
Orlando. What, wouldst thou have me

go and beg my food ?
Or with a base and boisterous sword

enforce

A thievish living on the common road ?
This I must do, or know not what to do ;
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so. I have five hun-
dred crowns,

The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie

lame,

And unregarded age in corners thrown :
Take that, and He that doth the ravens

feed,

Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the

gold;
All this I give you. Let me be your

servant :
Though I look old, yet I am strong and

lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply

35

.

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ;
I '11 do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
Orlando. O good old man, how well in

thee appears

The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed 1
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where 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 prunest a rotten

tree,

That can not so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways; we'll go along

together,

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We 11 light upon some settled low content.
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow

thee,

To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost four-
score

Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes

seek;
But at fourscore it is too late a week :

36

Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well and not my master's
debtor. Exeunt

Enter ROSALIND for Ganymede, CELIA
for Aliena, and TOUCHSTONE.

Rosalind* O Jupiter, how weary are my
spirits I

Touchstone. I care not for my spirits, if
my legs were not weary.
Rosalind. I could find in my heart to dis-
grace my man's apparel and to cry like a
woman; but I must comfort the weaker
vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show
itself courageous to petticoat: therefore,
courage, good Aliena.
Celia. I pray you, bear with me; I can
not go no further.

Touchstone. For my part, I had rather
bear with you than bear you : yet I should
bear no cross, if I did bear you ; for I think
you have no money in your purse.
Rosalind. Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Touchstone. Ay, now am I in Arden ; the
more fool I ; when I was at home, I was in a
better place : but travellers must be content.
Rosalind. Ay, be so, good Touchstone.
Enter CORIN and SlLVIUS.
Look you, who comes here ; a young man
and an old in solemn talk.

37

SCENE IV- THE FOREST OF ARDEN

~ " c

im

Corin. That is the way to make her

scorn you still.
Silvias. O Corin, that thou knew*st how

I do love her !
Corin. I partly guess ; for I have loved ere

now.
Silvias. No, Corin, being old, thou canst

not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a

lover

As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow :
But if thy love were ever like to mine, —
As sure I think did never man love so, —
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy ?
Corin. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Silvias. O, thou didst then ne'er love so

heartily!

If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved :
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not loved :
Or if thou hast not broke from company
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not loved.

0 Phebe, Phebe, Phebe ! Exit
Rosalind. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching

of thy wound,

1 have by hard adventure found mine own.
Touchstone. And I mine. I remember,
when I was in love I broke my sword upon

38

a stone and bid him take that for coming
a-night to Jane Smile : and I remember the
kissing of her batlet and the cow's dugs
that her pretty chopt hands had milked:
and I remember the wooing of a peascod
instead of her ; from whom I took two cods
and, giving her them again, said with
weeping tears 'Wear these for my sake/
We that are true lovers run into strange
capers ; but as all is mortal in nature, so is
all nature in love mortal in folly*
Rosalind. Thou speakest wiser than thou
art ware of.

Touchstone. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware
of mine own wit till I break my shins
against it.
Rosalind. Jove, Jove I this shepherd's

passion

Is much upon my fashion.
Touchstone. And mine; but it grows
something stale with me.
Celia. I pray you, one of you question

yond man

If he for gold will give us any food :
I faint almost to death.
Touchstone. Holla, you clown I

Rosalind. Peace, fool : he 's not thy kins-
man.

Corin. Who calls ?

Touchstone. Your betters, sir.
Corin. Else are they very wretched.

Rosalind. Peace, I say. Good even to
you, friend.

39

Corin. And to you, gentle sir, and to you

all

Rosalind. I prithee, shepherd, if that love

or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and

feed:
Here's a young maid with travel much

oppressed

And faints for succour.
Coriru Fair sir, I pity her

And wish, for her sake more than for mine

own,

My fortunes were more able to relieve her ;
But I am shepherd to another man
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze :
My master is of churlish disposition
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality :
Besides, his cote, his flocks and bounds of

feed
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote

now,

By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on ; but what is, come

see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you

be.
Rosalind. What is he that shall buy his

flock and pasture ?
Corin. That young swain that you saw

here but erewhile,
That little cares for buying any thing.

40

Rosalind. I pray thee, if it stand with

honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture and the

flock,

And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
Celia. And we will mend thy wages. I

like this place,

And willingly could waste my time in it.
Corin. Assuredly the thing is to be sold :
Go with me : if you like upon report
The soil, the profit and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

Exeunt

SCENE V- THE FOREST

Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others.

SONG.

Amiens. Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither :
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Jaques. More, more, I prithee, more.
Amiens. It will make you melancholy,
Monsieur Jaques.

Jaques. I thank it. More, I prithee, more.
I can suck melancholy out of a song, as

4J

a weasel sticks eggs. More, I prithee,
more.

Amiens. My voice is ragged: I know I
cannot please you.

Jaques. I do not desire you to please me ;
I do desire you to sing. Come, more;
another stanzo : call you 'em stanzos ?
Amiens. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
Jaqaes. Nay, I care not for their names ;
they owe me nothing. Will you sing ?
Amiens. More at your request than to
please myself.

Jaques. Well then, if ever I thank any
man, I '11 thank you; but that they call
compliment is like the encounter of two
dog-apes, and when a man thanks me
heartily, methinks I have given him a
penny and he renders me the beggarly
thanks. Come, sing; and you that will
not, hold your tongues.
Amiens. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs,
cover the while ; the Duke will drink under
this tree. He hath been all this day to look
you.

Jaques. And I have been all this day to
avoid him. He is too disputable for my
company; I think of as many matters as
he ; but I give heaven thanks, and make no
boast of them. Come, warble, come.
SONG.

Who doth ambition shun, [All together
And loves to live i' the sun, here.
Seeking the food he eats,

42

And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither :

Here shall he see

No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Jaques. 1 11 give you a verse to this note,

that I made yesterday in despite of my

invention.

Amiens. And Til sing it.

Jaques. Thus it goes : —

If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame :
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
And if he will come to me.

Amiens. What 's that ' ducdame' ?
Jaques. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call
fools into a circle. I '11 go sleep, if I can ;
if I cannot, I '11 rail against all the first-born
of Egypt.

Amiens. And 1 11 go seek the Duke : his
banquet is prepared. Exeunt severally.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.

Adam. Dear master, I can go no further ;
O, I die for food ! Here lie I down, and
measure out my grave. Farewell, kind
master.

Orlando. Why, how now, Adam! no
greater heart in thee ? Live a little ; com-
fort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this
uncouth forest yield any thing 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 arm'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 labour.
Well said! thou lookest cheerly, and I'll
be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the
bleak air : come, I will bear thee to some
shelter ; and thou shalt not die for lack of
a dinner, if there live any thing in this
desert. Cheerly, good Adam ! Exeunt

SCENE VU— THE FOREST

A table set out Enter DUKE senior,
AMIENS, and LORDS like outlaws.

Duke Senior. I think he be transformed

into a beast;

For I can no where find him like a man.
First Lord. My lord, he is but even now

gone hence :

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
Duke Senior. If he, compact of jars, grow

musical,

We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go, seek him : tell him I would speak with

him.

Enter JAQUES.
First Lord. He saves my labour by his

own approach.
Duke Senior. Why, how now, monsieur 1

what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your

company ?

What, you look merrily !
Jaques. A fool, a fool! I met a fool f

the forest,

A motley fool ; a miserable world I
As I do live by food, I met a fool ;
Who laid him down and basked him in the

sun,
And railed on Lady Fortune in good

terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool

45

* Good morrow, fool/ quoth L * No, sir/

quoth he,
4 Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me

fortune : *

And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, ' It is ten o'clock :
Thus we may see/ quoth he, ' how the

world wags :

'T is but an hour ago since it was nine ;
And after one hour more 't will be eleven ;
And 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

The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative ;
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial. O noble fool !
A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear.
Duke Senior. What fool is this ?
Jaques. O 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,

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places

crammed
With observation, the which he vents

46

And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And looking on it with lack lustre eye
Says very •wisely, ** It is ten o' clock/'

In mangled forms. O that I were a fool !
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke Senior. Thou shalt have one.
Jaques. It is my only suit ;

Provided that you weed your better judge-
ments

Of all opinion that grows rank in them
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please ; for so fools

have;
And they that are most galled with my

My,
They most must laugh. And why, sir,

must they so ?
The 'why' is plain as way to parish

church:

He that a fool doth very wisely hit
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob : if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomized
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley ; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and

through

Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke Senior. Fie on thee! I can tell

what thou wouldst do.
Jaques. What, for a counter, would I do

but good?
Duke Senior. Most mischievous foul sin,

in chiding sin :

47

W5MA

^l/ -VAX

Wff

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all the embossed sores and headed

evils,
That thou with license of free foot hast

caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general

world*

Jaques. Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party ?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the weary very means do ebb ?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ?
Who can come in and say that I mean her,
When such a one as she such is her neigh-
bour?

Or what is he of basest function,
That says his bravery is not on my cost,
Thinking that I mean him, but therein

suits

His folly to the mettle of my speech ?
There then ; how then ? what then ? Let

me see wherein
My tongue hath wronged him : if it do him

right,
Then he hath wrongM himself; if he be

free,
Why then my taxing like a wild-goose

flies,
Unclaimed of any man. But who comes

here?

48

Enter ORLANDO, %>#£ his sword

drawn.

Orlando. Forbear, and cat no more.

Jaques. Why, I have eat none yet.

Orlando. Nor shall not, till necessity be
served.

Jaques. Of what kind should this cock
come of ?

Duke Senior. Art thou thus bolden'd, man,
by thy distress ?

Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

That in civility thou seem 'st so empty ?

Orlando. You touched my vein at first :
the thorny point

Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the
show

Of smooth civility : yet am I inland bred

And know some nurture. But forbear, I
say:

He dies that touches any of this fruit

Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaques. An you will not be answered

with reason, I must die.

Duke Senior. What would you have?
Your gentleness shall force,

More than your force move us to gentle-
ness.

Orlando. I almost die for food; and let
me have it.

Duke Senior. Sit down and feed, and wel-
come to our table.

Orlando. Speak you so gently ? Pardon
me, I pray you :

4 49

I thought that all things had been savage

here;

And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment. But whatever

you are

That in this desert inaccessible,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ;
If ever you have looked on better days,
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to

church,

If ever sat at any good man's feast,
If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear
And know what 't is to pity and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be :
In the which hope I blusht and hide my

sword*
Duke Senior. True is it that we have

seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to

church,
And sat at good men's feasts, and wiped

our eyes

Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered :
And therefore sit you down in gentleness
And take upon command what help we

have

That to your wanting may be minister'd.
Orlando. Then 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,

Who after me hath many a weary step
Limped in pure love : till he be first sufficed,
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and

hunger,

I will not touch a bit.

Duke Senior. Go find him out,

And we will nothing waste till you return.
Orlando. I thank ye; and be blest for

your good comfort ! Exit

Duke Senior. Thou seest we are not all

alone unhappy :

This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the

scene

Wherein we play in.

Jaques. All the world 's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many

parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the

infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining school-boy, with his

satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like

snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a

soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the

pard,

51

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in

quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then

the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age

shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too

wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly

voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of

all,

That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every

thing.

Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM.

Duke Senior. Welcome. Set down your

venerable burthen,
And let him feed.

Orlando. I thank you most for him.
Adam. So had you need :

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Duke Senior. Welcome ; f all to : I will not

trouble you

52

As yet, to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some music; and, good cousin,

sing.

SONG.

Amiens. Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! unto the green

holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving
mere folly :

Then, heigh-ho, the holly !
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remetnber'd not.
Heigh-ho ! sing, &c.

Duke Senior. If that you were the good

Sir Rowland's son,

As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither : I am the Duke
That loved your father: the residue of

your fortune,
Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man,

53

Thou art right welcome as thy master is.
Support him by the arm. Give me your

hand,

And let me all your fortunes understand.

Exeunt

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, LORDS, am/'

OLIVER.

Duke Frederick. 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 :
Find 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

Worth seizure do we seae into our hands,
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's

mouth

Of what we think against thee.
Oliver. O that your Highness knew my

heart in this !

I never loved my brother in my life.
Duke Frederick. More 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.

Exeunt

57

SCENE //-THE FOREST

Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.

Orlando. Hang there, my verse, in witness

of my love :
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night,

survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere

above,
Thy huntress' name that my full life doth

sway,

O Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books
And in their barks my thoughts I'll

character;

That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed every
where.

58

mm

. %-jsNwdr

"Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love."

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.

Exit.

Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.
Cortn. And how like you this shepherd's
life, Master Touchstone ?
Touchstone. Truly, shepherd, in respect
of itself, it is a good life ; but in respect that
it is a shepherd's life, it is naught* In re-
spect that it is solitary, I like it very well ;
but in respect that it is private, it is a very
vile life. 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 humour well ; but
as there is no more plenty in it, it goes
much against my stomach. Hast any
philosophy in thee, shepherd ?
Conn. No more but that I know the more
one sickens the worse at ease he is ; and
that he that wants money, means and con-
tent is without three good friends ; that the
property of rain is to wet and fire to 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 complain of good breeding or
comes of a very dull kindred,
Touchstone. Such a one is a natural
philosopher. Wast ever in court, shep-
herd?

Corin. No, truly,
Touchstone. Then thou art damned*

59

Conn. Nay, I hope.

Touchstone. Truly, thou art damned, like
an ill-roasted egg all on one side,
Corin. For not being at court? Your
reason.

Touchstone. Why, if thou never wast at
court, thou never sawest good manners ;
if thou never sawest good manners,
then thy manners must be wicked; and
wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation.
Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.
Corin. Not a whit, Touchstone : those that
are good manners at the court are as ridic-
ulous in the country as the behaviour 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
would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shep-
herds.

Touchstone. Instance, briefly ; come, in-
stance.

Corin. Why, we are still handling our
ewes, and their fells, you know, are
greasy.

Touchstone. Why, do not your courtier's
hands sweat? and is not the grease of a
mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a
man? Shallow, shallow. A better in-
stance, I say ; come.
Corin. Besides, our hands are hard,
Touchstone. Your lips will feel them the
sooner. Shallow again, A more sounder
instance, come.

60

Conn. And they are often tarred over
with the surgery of our sheep ; and would
you have us kiss tar ? The courtier's hands
are perfumed with civet,
Touchstone* Most shallow man! thou
worm's-meat, in respect of a good piece of
flesh indeed I Learn of the wise, and per-
pend : civet is of a baser birth than tar, the
very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the
instance, shepherd.

Conn. You have too courtly a wit for
me: Til rest.

Touchstone. Wilt thou rest damned?
God help thee, shallow man ! God make
incision in thee ! thou art raw*
Conn. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn
that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man
hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of
other men's good, content with my harm,
and the greatest of my pride is to see my
ewes graze and my lambs suck.
Touchstone. That is another simple sin
in you, to bring the ewes and the rams
together and to offer to get your living by
the copulation of cattle ; to be bawd to a
bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a
twelvemonth to a crooked-pated, old, cuck-
oldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If
thou beest not damned for this, the devil
himself will have no shepherds; I cannot
see else how thou shouldst 'scape.
Conn. Here comes young Master Gany-
mede, my new mistress's brother,

61

m

Enter ROSALIND, with a paper, reading.
Rosalind. From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lined

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind

But the fair of Rosalind.

Touchstone. 1 11 rhyme you so eight years
together, dinners and suppers and sleeping-
hours excepted: it is the right butter-
women's rank to market.
Rosalind. Out, fool !
Touchstone. For a taste :

If a hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat will after kind,

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lined,

So must slender Rosalind.

They that reap must sheaf and bind ;

Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalind.

He that sweetest rose will find,

Must find love's prick and Rosalind.

This is the very false gallop of verses : why
do you infect yourself with them ?
Rosalind. Peace, you dull fool! I found
them on a tree.

62

Touchstone. Truly, the tree yields bad

fruit,

Rosalind. I '11 graff it with you, and then

I shall graff it with a medlar : then it will

be the earliest fruit i' the country ; for you '11

be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that 's

the right virtue of the medlar.

Touchstone. You have said; but whether

wisely or no, let the forest judge.

Enter CELIA, with a, writing.

Rosalind. Peace I

Here comes my sister, reading : stand aside.

Celia. [Reads'] Why should this a desert

be?

For it is unpeopled ? No ;
Tongues 1 11 hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show :
Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age ;
Some, of violated vows

'Twixt the souls of friend and friend :
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence end,
Will I Rosalinda write,

Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore Heaven Nature charged

That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide-enlarged ;
Nature presently distilPd

63

Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra's majesty,

Atalanta's better part,

Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devised;
Of many faces, eyes and hearts,

To have the touches dearest prized,
Heaven would that she these gifts should

have,

And I to live and die her slave.
Rosalind. O most gentle pulpiter! what
tedious homily of love have you wearied
your parishioners withal, and never cried
' Have patience, good people ! '
Celia. How now! back, friends! Shep-
herd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.
Touchstone. Come, shepherd, let us make
an honourable retreat ; though not with bag
and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
Exeunt CORDST and TOUCHSTONE.
Celia. Didst thou hear these verses ?
Rosalind. O, yes, I heard them all, and
more too; for some of them had in them
more feet than the verses would bear.
Celia. That 's no matter : the feet might
bear the verses.

Rosalind. Ay, but the feet were lame and
could not bear themselves without the verse
and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
Celia. But didst thou hear without won-
dering how thy name should be hanged
and carved upon these trees ?

64

Rosalind. I was seven of the nine days
out of the wonder before you came; for
look here what I found on a palm tree* I
was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras'
time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can
hardly remember.

Celia. Trow you who hath done this ?
Rosalind. Is it a man ?
Celia. And a chain, that you once wore,
about his neck. Change you colour ?
Rosalind. I prithee, who ?
Celia. O Lord, Lord I it is a hard matter
for friends to meet ; but mountains may be
removed with earthquakes and so en-
counter.

Rosalind. Nay, but who is it ?
Celia, Is it possible?
Rosalind. Nay, I prithee now with
most petitionary vehemence, tell me who
it is.

Celia. O wonderful, wonderful, and most
wonderful wonderful ! and yet again won-
derful, and after that, out of all hooping !
Rosalind. Good my complexion I dost thou
think, though I am caparisoned like a man,
I have a doublet and hose in my disposition ?
One inch of delay more is a South-sea of
discovery ; I prithee, tell me who is it quickly,
and speak apace. I would thou couldst
stammer, that thou might'st pour this con-
cealed man out of thy mouth, as wine
comes out of a narrow-mouthed bottle,
either too much at once, or none at all. I

5 65

prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that
I may drink thy tidings.
Celia. So you may put a man in your
belly.

Rosalind. Is he of God's making ? What
manner of man ? Is his head worth a hat ?
Or his chin worth a beard ?
Celia. Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Rosalind. Why, God will send more, if
the man will be thankful : let me stay the
growth of his beard, if thou delay me not
the knowledge of his chin,
Celia. It is young Orlando, that tripped up
the wrestler's heels and your heart both in
an instant.

Rosalind. Nay, but the devil take mock-
ing : speak sad brow and true maid.
Celia. F faith, coz, 't is he,
Rosalind. Orlando ?
Celia. Orlando.

Rosalind. Alas the day ! what shall I do
with my doublet and hose ? What did he
when thou sawest him ? What said he ?
How looked he ? Wherein went he ? What
makes he here ? Did he ask for me ? Where
remains he? How parted he with thee?
and when shalt thou see him again ? An-
swer me in one word.
Celia. You must borrow me Gargantua's
mouth first : 't is a word too great for any
mouth of this age's size. To say ay and
no to these particulars is more than to
answer in a catechism.

66

Rosalind. But doth he know that I am in
this forest and in man's apparel ? Looks
he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled ?
Celia. It is as easy to count atomies as to
resolve the propositions 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.
Rosalind. It may well be called Jove's
tree, when it drops forth such fruit*
Celia. Give me audience, good madam.
Rosalind. Proceed*

Celia. There lay he, stretched along, like
a wounded knight.

Rosalind. Though it be pity to see such a
sight, it well becomes the ground*
Celia. Cry 'holla' to thy tongue, I
prithee ; it curvets unseasonably. He was
furnished like a hunter.
Rosalind. O, ominous ! he comes to kill
my heart.

Celia. I would sing my song without a
burden : thou bringest me out of tune.
Rosalind. Do you not know I am a
woman? when I think, I must speak.
Sweet, say on.

Celia. You bring me out. Soft! comes
he not here?

Enter ORLANDO anc/jAQUES.
Rosalind. T is he: slink by, and note him.
Jaques. I thank you for your company ;
but, good faith, I had as lief have been my-
self alone.

67

Orlando. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion
sake,

I thank you too for your society.
Jaques. God buy you : let *s meet as little
as we can.

Orlando. I do desire we may be better
strangers.

Jaques. I pray you, mar no more trees
with writing love-songs in their barks.
Orlando. I pray you, mar no moe of my
verses with reading them ill-favouredly,
Jaques. Rosalind is your love's name ?
Orlando. Yes, just.
Jaques. I do not like, her name.
Orlando. There was no thought of pleas-
ing you when she was christened.
Jaques, What stature is she of?
Orlando. Just as high as my heart.
Jaques. You are full of pretty answers.
Have you not been acquainted with gold-
smiths' wives, and conned them out of
rings?

Orlando. Not so ; but I answer you right
painted cloth, from whence you have stud-
ied your questions.

Jaques. You have a nimble wit : I think
't was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you
sit down with me ? and we two will rail
against our mistress the world, and all our
misery.

Orlando. I will chide no breather in the
world but myself, against whom I know
most faults.

68

i/ f'1

m

Jaques. The worst fault you have is to
be in love.

Orlando. T is a fault I will not change
for your best virtue. I am weary of you.
Jaques. By my troth, I was seeking for
a fool when I found you.
Orlando. He is drowned in the brook:
look but in, and you shall see him.
Jaques. There I shall see mine own
figure.

Orlando. Which I take to be either a fool
or a cipher.

Jaques. I'll tarry no longer with you:
farewell, good Signior Love.
Orlando. I am glad of your departure:
adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

Exit JAQUES.

Rosalind. [Aside to Celia.} I will speak to
him like a saucy lackey, and under that
habit play the knave with him. Do you
hear, forester ?

Orlando. Very well : what would you ?
Rosalind. I pray you, what is 't o'clock ?
Orlando. You should ask me what time
o' day : there 's no clock in the forest*
Rosalind. Then there is no true lover in
the forest; else sighing every minute and
groaning every hour would detect the lazy
foot of Time as well as a clock.
Orlando. And why not the swift foot of
Time ? had not that been as proper ?
Rosalind. By no means, sir : Time travels
in divers paces with divers persons. Ill

69

tell you who Time ambles withal, who
Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal
and who he stands still withal,
Orlando. I prithee, who doth he trot
withal?

Rosalind. Marry, he trots hard with a
young maid between the contract of her
marriage and the day it is solemnized : if
the interim be but a se'n night, Time's pace
is so hard that it seems the length of seven
year,

Orlando. Who ambles Time withal ?
Rosalind. With a priest that lacks Latin,
and a rich man that hath not the gout ; for
the one sleeps 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, the other
knowing no burden of heavy tedious
penury : these Time ambles withal,
Orlando. Who doth he gallop withal?
Rosalind. With a thief to the gallows;
for though he go as softly as foot can fall,
he thinks himself too soon there.
Orlando. Who stays it still withal ?
Rosalind. With lawyers in the vacation ;
for they sleep between term and term
and then they perceive not how Time
moves.

Orlando. Where dwell you, pretty youth ?
Rosalind. With this shepherdess, my
sister : here in the skirts of the forest, like
fringe upon a petticoat.

70

Orlando. Are you native of this place ?
Rosalind. As the cony that you see dwell
where she is kindled

Orlando. Your accent is something finer
than you could purchase in so removed a
dwelling.

Rosalind. I have been told so of many :
but indeed an old religious uncle of mine
taught me to speak, who was in his youth
an inland man ; one 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 with so many giddy offences as
he hath generally taxed their whole sex
withal,

Orlando. Can you remember any of the
principal evils that he laid to the charge of
women ?

Rosalind. There were none principal;
they were all like one another as half-pence
are, every one fault seeming monstrous till
his fellow-fault came to match it,
Orlando. I prithee, recount some of
them.

Rosalind. No, I will not cast away my
physic but on those that are sick. There
is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our
young plants with carving Rosalind on
their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns
and elegies on brambles ; all, forsooth, deify-
ing the name of Rosalind : if I could meet
that fancy-monger, I would give him some

71

in

good counsel, for he seems to have the
quotidian of love upon him.
Orlando. I am he that is so love-shaked :
I pray you, tell me your remedy.
Rosalind. There is none of my uncle's
marks upon you: he taught me how to
know a man in love; in which cage of
rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
Orlando. What were his marks ?
Rosalind. A lean cheek, which you have
not ; a blue eye and sunken, which you have
not; 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 younger
brother's revenue : then your hose should
be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your
sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied and
everything about you demonstrating a care-
less desolation ; but you are no such man ;
you are rather point-device in your accou-
trements, as loving yourself than seeming
the lover of any other.
Orlando. Fair youth, I would I could
make thee believe I love.
Rosalind. Me believe it! you may as
soon make her that you love believe it;
which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to
confess she does : that 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, where-
in Rosalind is so admired ?

72

Orlando. I swear to thee, youth, by the
white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that
unfortunate he.

Rosalind. But are you so much in love as
your rhymes speak ?

Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can
express how much,

Rosalind. Love 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 not so punished and cured is, that
the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers
are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by
counsel.

Orlando. Did you ever cure any so ?
Rosalind. Yes, one, and in this manner.
He was to imagine me his love, his mis-
tress ; and I set him every day to woo me :
at which time would I, being but a moonish
youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,
longing and liking; proud, fantastical, apish,
shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of
smiles ; for every passion something and for
no passion truly any thing, as boys and
women are for the most part cattle of this
colour: would now like him, now loathe
him ; then entertain him, then forswear him ;
now weep for him, then spit at him ; that I
drave my suitor from his mad humour of
love to a living humour of madness ; which
was, to forswear the full stream of the world
and to live in a nook merely monastic.
And thus I cured him ; and this way will I

73

take upon me to wash your liver as clean
as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall
not be one spot of love in 't.
Orlando. I would not be cured, youth.
Rosalind. I would cure you, if you would
but call me Rosalind and come every day
to my cote and woo me.
Orlando. Now, by the faith of my love, I
will : tell me where it is.
Rosalind. Go with me to it and I 11 show
it you : and by the way you shall tell me
where in the forest you live. Will you go ?
Orlando. With all my heart, good youth.
Rosalind. Nay, you must call me Rosa-
lind. Come, sister, will you go ?

Exeunt

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY;
JAQUES behind.

Touchstone. 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 ?
Audrey. Your features! Lord warrant
us ! what features ?

Touchstone. I am here with thee and thy
goats, as the most capricious poet, honest
Ovid, was among the Goths.
Jaques. [Aside.'] O knowledge ill-inhab-
ited, worse than Jove in a thatched house !

74

Touchstone. When a man's verses cannot
be understood, nor a man's good wit
seconded with the forward child, under-
standing, it strikes a man more dead than a
great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I
would the gods had made thee poetical.
Audrey. I do not know what 'poetical'
is : is it honest in deed and word ? is it a
true thing ?

Touchstone. No, truly; for the truest
poetry is the most feigning ; and lovers are
given to poetry, and what they swear in
poetry may be said as lovers they do feign.
Audrey. Do you wish then that the gods
had made me poetical ?
Touchstone. I do, truly ; for thou swear-
est to me thou art honest : now, if thou wert
a poet, I might have some hope thou didst
feign.

Audrey. Would you not have me honest ?
Touchstone. No, truly, unless thou wert
hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to
beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
Jaques. [Aside.'} A material fool !
Audrey. Well, I am not fair ; and there-
fore I pray the gods make me honest.
Touchstone. Truly, and to cast away
honesty upon a foul slut were to put good
meat into an unclean dish.
Audrey. I am not a slut, though I thank
the gods I am foul.

Touchstone. Well, praised be the gods for
thy foulness 1 sluttishness may come here-

75

after. 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 forest and to couple us.
Jaques. [ Aside. ] I would fain see this
meeting.

Audrey. Well, the gods give us joy I
Touchstone. Amen. A man may, if he
were of a fearful heart, stagger in this
attempt ; for here we have no temple but
the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts.
But what though? Courage! As horns are
odious, they are necessary. It is said,
4 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 dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his
own getting. Horns? — 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 a married man more
honourable than the bare brow of a
bachelor; and by how much defence is
better than no skill, by so much is a horn
more precious than to want. Here comes
Sir Oliver.

Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT.
Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met : will
you dispatch us here under this tree, or
shall we go with you to your chapel ?

76

Sir Other, Is there none here to give the
woman?

Touchstone. I will not take her on gift of
any man.

Sir Oliver. Truly, she must be given, or
the marriage is not lawful.
Jaques. Proceed, proceed: III give her.
Touchstone. Good even, good Master
What-ye-call 't : how do you, sir? You
are very well met : God 'ild you for your last
company : I am very glad to see you: even a
toy in hand here, sir : nay, pray be covered.
Jaques. Will you be married, motley ?
Touchstone. As the ox hath his bow, sir,
the horse his curb and the falcon her bells,
so man hath his desires; and as pigeons
bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.
Jaques. And will you, being a man of
your breeding, be married under a bush like
a beggar ? Get you to church, 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, warp.

Touchstone. [ Aside.] I 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 wife.

Jaques. Go thou with me, and let me
counsel thee.

77

Touchstone. Come, sweet Audrey :

We must be married, or we must live in

bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver : not, —
O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee :
but,—

Wind away,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.

Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and

AUDREY.

Sir Oliver. 'T is no matter : ne'er a fan-
tastical knave of them all shall flout me out
of my calling. Exit

Enter ROSALIND andCEUA.

Rosalind. Never talk to me ; I will weep.
Celia. Do, I prithee; but yet have the
grace to consider that tears do not become
a man.

Rosalind. But have I not cause to weep ?
Celia. As good cause as one would desire ;
therefore weep.

Rosalind. His very hair is of the dissem-
bling colour.

Celia. Something browner than Judas's :
marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

78

Rosalind. P faith, his hair is of a good
colour.

Celia. An excellent colour : your chestnut
was ever the only colour.
Rosalind. And his kissing is as full of sanc-
tity as the touch of holy bread.
Celia. He hath bought a pair of cast lips
of Diana; a nun of winter's sisterhood
kisses not more religiously ; the very ice of
chastity is in them.

Rosalind. But why did he swear he would
come this morning, and comes not ?
Celia. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in
him.

Rosalind. Do you think so ?
Celt a. Yes ; I think he is not a pick-purse
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.
Rosalind. Not true in love ?
Celia. Yes, when he is in ; but I think he
is not in.

Rosalind. You have heard him swear
downright he was.

Celia. 'Was' is not 'is': besides, the
oath of a lover is no stronger than the
word of a tapster ; they are both the con-
firmer of false reckonings. He attends
here in the forest on the Duke your father.
Rosalind. I met the Duke yesterday and
had much question with him: he asked
me of what parentage I was ; I told him,
of as good as he; so he laughed and let

79

me go. But what talk we of fathers, when
there is such a man as Orlando ?
Celia. O, that 's a brave man ! he writes
brave verses, speaks brave words, swears
brave oaths and breaks them bravely, quite
traverse, athwart the heart of his lover ; as
a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on
one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose :
but all 's brave that youth mounts and folly
guides. Who comes here ?
Enter CORIN.
Corin. Mistress and master, you have oft

inquired

After the shepherd that complained of love,
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
Celia. Well, and what of him ?

Conn. If you will see a pageant truly

Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud dis-

dain,

Go hence a little and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Rosalind. O, come, let us remove :
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
1 11 prove a busy actor in their play.

Exeunt

80

SCENE K- ANOTHERPARTOFTHE FOREST

Enter SlLVIUS am/PHEBE.

Sttvius. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me;

do not, Phebc ;

Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart the accustomed sight of death

makes hard,

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon : will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN,
behind.

Phebe. I would not be thy executioner :
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee*
Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye :
T is pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest

things,

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be calPd tyrants, butchers, mur-
derers !

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ;
And 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,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers I

6 8)

Now show the wound mine eye hath made

in thee :

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there re-
mains

Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps ; but now

mine eyes,

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.
Silvius. O dear Phebe,

\i \ If ever, — as that ever may be near, —
You meet in some fresh cheek the power

of fancy,

Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
Phebe. But till that time

Come not thou near me: and when that

time comes,

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ;
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
Rosalind. And why, I pray you ? Who

might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched ? What though you

have no beauty, —

As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed, —
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ?
Why, what means this? Why do you

look on me ?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary

82

Of nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes too !
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it :
T is not your inky brows, your black silk

hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of

cream,

That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you

follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and

rain?

^1 You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman : 't is such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favour'd

children :

T is not her glass, but you, that flatters her ;
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, 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,
Sell when you can: you are not for all

markets :

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer:
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd : fare you well.
Phebe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a

year together :
I had rather hear you chide than this man

woo.

B

Rosalind. He's fallen in love with your
foulness 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. Why look you so upon
me?

Phebe. For no ill will I bear you.
Rosalind. I 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,

T is at the tuft of olives here hard by.
Will you go, sister ? Shepherd, ply her

hard.
Come, 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.
Come, to our flock. Exeunt ROSALIND,
CELIAam/CORIN
Phebe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw

of might,
'Who ever loved that loved not at first

sight?'

Silvius. Sweet Phebe, —
Phebe. Ha, what sa/st thou, Silvius ?
Silvius. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phebe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle

Silvius.
Silvius. Wherever sorrow is, relief would

be:

84

If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined,
Phebe. Thou hast my love: is not that

neighbourly ?

Silvias. I would have you,
Phebe. Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,
And yet it is not that I bear thee love ;
But since that thou canst talk of love so

well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to

me,

I will endure, and I '11 employ thee too :
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art

employed.

Silvius. So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps: loose now

and then

A scattered smile, and that I '11 live upon,
Phebe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke

to me erewhile ?
Silvius. Not very well, but I have met

him oft;
And he hath bought the cottage and the

bounds

That the old carlot once was master of.
Phebe. Think not I love him, though I

ask for him ;

85

'T is 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.

It is a pretty youth : not very pretty :
But, sure, he's proud, and yet his pride

becomes him :
He '11 make a proper man : the best thing

in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his

tongue

Did make offence his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall ; yet for his years he 's

tall:

His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well :
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 't was just

the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled

damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they

mark'd him

In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him : but, for my part,
I 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 ?
He said mine eyes were black and my hair

black;
And, now I am remembered, scorn'd at me :

86

I marvel why I answer'd not again :
But that's all one; omittance is no quit-
tance.

I '11 write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it : wilt thou, Silvius ?
Silvias. Phebe, with all my heart.
Phebe. I '11 write it straight ;

The matter 's in my head and in my heart :
I will be bitter with him and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt

87

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.

Jaques. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be

better acquainted with thee.

Rosalind. They say you are a melancholy

fellow.

Jaques. I am so ; I do love it better than

laughing.

Rosalind. Those that are in extremity of

either are abominable fellows, and betray

themselves to every modern censure worse

than drunkards.

Jaques. Why, 't is good to be sad and say

nothing.

Rosalind. Why then, 'tis good to be a

post.

9J

91

Jaques. I have neither the scholar's mel-
ancholy, which is emulation; nor the
musician's, which is fantastical ; nor the
courtier's, which is proud; nor the sol-
dier's, which is ambitious ; nor the lawyer's,
which 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, com-
pounded of many simples, extracted from
many objects; and indeed the sundry con-
templation of my travels, in which my
often rumination wraps me in a most
humorous sadness*

Rosalind. A traveller 1 By my faith, you
have great reason to be sad : I fear you
have sold your own lands to see other
men's; then, to have seen much, and to
have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor
hands.

Jaques. Yes, I have gained my experience.
Rosalind. And your experience makes
you sad : I had rather have a fool to make
me merry than experience to make me sad ;
and to travel for it too 1
Enter ORLANDO.

Orlando. Good-day and happiness, dear
Rosalind!

Jaques. Nay, then, God buy you, an you
talk in blank verse. Exit

Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller :
look you lisp and wear strange suits ; dis-
able all the benefits of your own country ;
be out of love with your nativity and almost

92

chide God for making you that countenance
you are ; or I will scarce think you have
swam in a gondola. Why, how now, Or-
lando ! where have you been all this while ?
You a lover 1 An you serve me such
another trick, never come in my sight more.
Orlando. My fair Rosalind, I come with-
in an hour of my promise.
Rosalind. Break an hour's promise in
love ! He that will divide a minute into a
thousand parts, and break but a part of the
thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of
love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath
clapped him o' the shoulder, but I '11 warrant
him heart-whole.

Orlando* Pardon me, dear Rosalind*
Rosalind. Nay, an you be so tardy, come
no more in my sight : I had as lief be wooed
of a snail.

Orlando. Of a snail ?
Rosalind. Ay, of a snail ; for though he
comes slowly, he carries his house on his
head; a better jointure, I think, than you
make a woman : besides, he brings his des-
tiny with him,
Orlando. What 's that ?
Rosalind. Why, horns, which such as
you are fain to be beholding to your wives
for : but he comes armed in his fortune and
prevents the slander of his wife.
Orlando. Virtue is no horn-maker; and
my Rosalind is virtuous.
Rosalind. And I am your Rosalind.

93

Celia. It pleases him to call you so ; but he

hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

Rosalind. Come, woo me, woo me; for

now I am in a holiday humour and like

enough to consent* What would you say

to me now, an I were your very very

Rosalind?

Orlando. I would kiss before I spoke.

Rosalind. Nay, you were better speak

first; and when you were gravelled for lack

of matter, you might take occasion to kiss.

Very good orators, when they are out, they

will spit ; and for lovers lacking — God warn

us 1 — matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

Orlando. How if the kiss be denied ?

Rosalind. Then she puts you to entreaty

and there begins new matter.

Orlando. Who could be out, being before

his beloved mistress ?

Rosalind. Marry, that should you, if I

were your mistress, or I should think my

honesty ranker than my wit.

Orlando. What, of my suit ?

Rosalind. Not out of your apparel, and

yet out of your suit. Am not I your

Rosalind ?

Orlando. I take some joy to say you are,

because I would be talking of her.

Rosalind. Well, in her person, I say I will

not have you.

Orlando. Then in mine own person I die.

Rosalind. No, faith, die by attorney. The

poor world is almost six thousand years

94

old, and in all this time there was not any
man died in his own person, videlicet, in a
love-cause, Troilus had his brains dashed
out with a Grecian club ; yet he did what
he could to die before, and he is one of the
patterns of love. Leander, he would have
lived many a fair year, though Hero had
turned nun, if it had not been for a hot
midsummer night; for, good youth, he
went but forth to wash him in the Helles-
pont and being taken with the cramp was
drowned: and the foolish chroniclers of
that age found it was 'Hero of Sestos/
But these are all lies : men have died from
time to time and worms have eaten them,
but not for love. *r

Orlando. I would not have my right Rosa-
lind of this mind ; for, I protest, her frown
might kill me.

Rosalind. By this hand, it will not kill a
fly. But come, now I will be your Rosa-
lind in a more coming-on disposition, and
ask me what you will, I will grant it.
Orlando. Then love me, Rosalind.
Rosalind. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and
Saturdays and all.
Orlando. And wilt thou have me ?
Rosalind. Ay, and twenty such.
Orlando. What sayest thou ?
Rosalind. Are you not good ?
Orlando. I hope so.

Rosalind. Why then, can one desire too
much of a good thing ? Come, sister, you

95

m

^Rte*1

shall be the priest and marry us. Give me
your hand, Orlando. What do you say,
sister ?

Orlando. Pray thee, marry us.
Celia. I cannot say the words.
Rosalind. You must begin, 'Will you,
Orlando — '

Celia. Go to. Will you, Orlando, have
to wife this Rosalind ?
Orlando. I will.
Rosalind. Ay, but when ?
Orlando. Why now ; as fast as she can
marry us*

Rosalind. Then you must say * I take thee,
Rosalind, for wife/

Orlando. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Rosalind. I might ask you for your com-
mission; but I do take thee, Orlando, for
my husband : there 's a girl goes before the
priest; and certainly a woman's thought
runs before her actions.
Orlando. So do all thoughts; they are
winged.

Rosalind. Now tell me how long you
would have her after you have possessed
her.

Orlando. For ever and a day.
Rosalind. Say ' a day/ without the 'ever/
No, no, Orlando; men are April when
they woo, December when they wed:
maids are May when they are maids, but
the sky changes when they are wives.
I will be more jealous of thee than a

96

Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more
clamorous than a parrot against rain, more
new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in
my desires than a monkey: I will weep
for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and
I will do that when you are disposed to be
merry ; I will laugh like a hyen, and that
when thou art inclined to sleep.
Orlando. But will my Rosalind do so ?
Rosalind. By my life, she will do as I do.
Orlando. O, but she is wise.
Rosalind. Or else she could not have the
wit to do this : the wiser, the waywarder :
make the doors upon a woman's wit and it
will out at the casement; shut that and
'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill
fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
Orlando. A man that had a wife with such
a wit, he might say ' Wit, whither wilt ? '
Rosalind. Nay, you might keep that check
for it till you met your wife's wit going to
your neighbour's bed.
Orlando. And what wit could wit have
to excuse that ?

Rosalind. Marry, to say she came to seek
you there. You shall never take her with-
out her answer, unless you take her without
her tongue. O, that woman that cannot
make her fault her husband's occasion, let
her never nurse her child herself, for she
will breed it like a fool !
Orlando. For these two hours, Rosalind,
I will leave thee.

7 97

m

Rosalind. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack
thee two hours !

Orlando. I must attend the Duke at
dinner : by two o'clock I will be with thee
again,

Rosalind. Ay, go your ways, go your
ways ; I knew what you would prove : my
friends told me as much, and I thought no
less: that flattering tongue of yours won
me : 't is but one cast away, and so, come,
death ! Two o'clock is your hour ?
Orlando. Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Rosalind. By my troth, and in good earn-
est, and so God mend me, and by all pretty
oaths that are not dangerous, if you break
one jot of your promise or come one minute
behind your hour, I will think you the
most pathetical break-promise, and the most
hollow lover, and the most unworthy of
her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen
out of the gross band of the unfaithful:
therefore beware my censure and keep your
promise.

Orlando. With no less religion than if
thou wert indeed my Rosalind : so adieu.
Rosalind. Well, Time is the old justice
that examines all such offenders, and let
Time try : adieu. Exit ORLANDO.

Celia. You have simply misused our sex
in your love-prate: we must have your
doublet and hose plucked over your head,
and show the world what the bird hath
done to her own nest.

Rosalind. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little
coz, that thou didst know how many fathom
deep I am in love! But it cannot be
sounded : my affection hath an unknown
bottom, like the bay of Portugal,
Celia. Or rather, bottomless ; that as fast
as you pour affection in, it runs out.
Rosalind. No, that same wicked bastard of
Venus that was begot of thought, conceived
of spleen, and born of madness, that blind
rascally boy that abuses every one's eyes be-
cause his own are out, let him be judge how
deep I am in love. Ill tell thee, Aliena, I
cannot be out of the sight of Orlando : I '11
go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
Celia. And 1 11 sleep. Exeunt

SCENE ff-nm FOREST

Enter JAQUES, LORDS, and FORESTERS.

Jaques. Which is he that killed the

deer?

A Lord. Sir, it was I.

Jaques. Let's present him to the Duke,

like a Roman conqueror ; and it would do

well to set the deer's horns upon his head,

for a branch of victory. Have you no song,

forester, for this purpose ?

Forester. Yes, sir.

Jaques. Sing it : 't is no matter how it be

in tune, so it make noise enough.

99

SONG.

Forester. What shall he have that kill'd

the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.

Then sing him home :
The rest shall bear this burden.
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn ;
It was a crest ere thou wast born :
Thy 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.

Exeunt

SCENE /ZT-THE FOREST

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Rosalind. How say you now ? Is it not
past two o'clock ? and here much Orlando !
Celia. I warrant you, with pure love and
troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and
arrows and is gone forth to sleep* Look,
who comes here.

Enter SDLVIUS.

Silvius. My errand is to you, fair youth ;
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this :
I know not the contents ; but, as I guess
By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenour : pardon me ;
I am but as a guiltless messenger,
joo

Rosalind. Patience herself would startle at
this letter

And play the swaggerer ; bear this, bear all :

She says I am not fair, that I lack manners ;

She calls me proud, and that she could not
love me,

Were man as rare as phoenix. 'Od 's my
will!

Her love is not the hare that I do hunt :

Why writes she so to me ? Well, shepherd,
well,

This is a letter of your own device.

Silvias. No, I protest, I know not the con-
tents:

Phebe did write it.

Rosalind. Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn'd into the extremity of love.

I saw her hand : she has a leathern hand,

A freestone-coloured hand ; I verily did think

That her old gloves were on, but 't was her
hands:

She has a huswife's hand; but that's no
matter:

I say she never did invent this letter;

This is a man's invention and his hand.

Silvius. Sure, it is hers.

Rosalind. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a
cruel style,

A style for challengers ; why, she defies me,

Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle
brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude inven-
tion,

JOJ

Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect

Than in their countenance* Will you hear
the letter?

Silvius. So please you, for I never heard it
yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

Rosalind. She Phebes me : mark how the
tyrant writes.

[Reads] Art thou god to shepherd turned,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?

Can a woman rail thus ?

Silvias. Call you this railing ?

Rosalind [reads'].

Why, thy godhead laid apart,
Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?

Did you ever hear such railing ?

Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.

Meaning me a beast.

If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect I
Whiles you chide me, I did love ;
How then might your prayers move I
He that brings this love to thee
Little knows this love in me :
And by him seal up thy mind ;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me and all that I can make ;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then 1 11 study how to die.
102

Silvias. Call you this chiding ?
Celia. Alas, poor shepherd !
Rosalind. Do you pity him? no, he de-
serves no pity. Wilt thou love such a wo-
man ? What, to make thee an instrument
and play false strains upon thee 1 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 charge
her to love thee ; if she will not, I will never
have her unless thou entreat for her. If
you be a true lover, hence, and not a word ;
for here comes more company. TV

ExitSlLVIUS. (I
Enter OLIVER.

Oliver. Good morrow, fair ones : pray you,

if you know,

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheep-cote fenced about with olive-trees?
Celia. West of this place, down in the

neighbour bottom :

The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream
^eft on vour "^t hand brings you to the && J

place.

But at this hour the house doth keep itself;
There's none within.
Oliver. If that an eye may profit by a

tongue,

Then should I know you by description;
Such garments and such years : * The boy

is fair,

Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister : the woman low,

J03

And browner than her brother/ Are not

you

The owner of the house I did enquire for ?
Celia. It is no boast, being ask*d, to say we

are.
Other. Orlando doth commend him to you

both,

And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he ?
Rosalind. lam: what must we understand

by this ?
Oliver. Some of my shame; if you will

know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and

where

This handkercher was stain'd.
Celia. I pray you, tell it.

Other. When last the young Orlando

parted from you

He left a promise to return again
Within an hour, and pacing through the

forest,

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself :
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd

with age

And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with

hair,

Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreathed
itself,

104

Who with her head nimble in threats ap-

proach'd

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlinkM itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush : under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike

watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir;

for 'tis

The royal disposition of that beast
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead :
This seen, Orlando did approach the man
And found it was his brother, his elder

brother,
Celia. O, I have heard him speak of that

same brother ;

And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived amongst men*
Oliver, And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.
Rosalind. But, to Orlando : did he leave

him there,

Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness ?
Oliver. Twice did he turn his back and

purposed so ;

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him: in which

hurtling
From miserable slumber I awaked.

105

......

Celia. Are you his brother ?

Rosalind. Was *t you he rescued ?

Celia. Was 't you that did so oft contrive

to kill him?
Other. 'T was I ; but 't is not I: I do not

shame

To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Rosalind. But, for the bloody napkin?
Oliver. By and by.

When from the first to last betwixt us two
Tears our recountments had most kindly

bathed,

As how I came into that desert place ;
In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love ;
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripped himself, and here upon his

arm

The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled ; and now he

fainted

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound ;
And, after some small space, being strong at

heart,

He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

ROSALIND swoons.

106

Celia. Why, how now, Ganymede ! sweet
Ganymede !

Oliver. Many will swoon when they do
look on blood,

Celia. There is more in it. Cousin
Ganymede !

Other. Look, he recovers.

Rosalind. I would I were at home.

Celia. We '11 lead you thither.

I pray you, will you take him by the arm ?

Oliver. Be of good cheer, youth: you a

man ! you lack a man's heart.

Rosalind. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah,

a body would think this was well counter-
feited ! I pray you, tell your brother how

well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho I

Oliver. This was not counterfeit : there is

too great testimony in your complexion that

it was a passion of earnest*

Rosalind. Counterfeit, I assure you.

Oliver. Well then, take a good heart and

counterfeit to be a man.

Rosalind. So I do : but, i' faith, I should

have been a woman by right.

Celia. Come, you look paler and paler:

pray you, draw homewards. Good sir, go

with us.

Oliver. That will I, for I must bear an-
swer back

How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

Rosalind. I shall devise something: but,

I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to

him. Will you go? Exeunt.

J07

'I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways; therefore tremble, depart/

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.

Touchstone. We shall find a time, Audrey;
patience, gentle Audrey.
Audrey. Faith, the priest was good enough,
for all the old gentleman's saying.
Touchstone. A most wicked Sir Oliver,
Audrey, a most vile Martext, But, Audrey,
there is a youth here in the forest lays claim
to you.

Audrey. Ay, I know who 'tis: he hath
no interest in me in the world : here comes
the man you mean.

Touchstone. It is meat and drink to me to

see a clown : by my troth, we that have

m

good wits have much to answer for ; we
shall be flouting ; we cannot hold
Enter WILLIAM.
William. Good even, Audrey.
Audrey. God ye good even, William.
William. And good even to you, sir.
Touchstone. Good even, gentle friend.
Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, pri-
thee, be covered. How old are you, friend ?
William. Five and twenty, sir.
Touchstone. A ripe age. Is thy name
William?

William. William, sir.
Touchstone. A fair name. Wast born i*
the forest here ?

William. Ay, sir, I thank God,
Touchstone. * Thank God ; ' a good an-
swer. Art rich ?
William. Faith, sir, so so.
Touchstone. 'So so ' is good, very good,
very excellent good ; and yet it is not ; it is
but so so. Art thou wise ?
William. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
Touchstone. Why, thou sayest 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 philos-
opher, when he had a desire to eat a grape,
would open his lips when he put it into his
mouth ; meaning thereby that grapes were
made to eat and lips to open. You do love
this maid?
William. I do, sir.

U2

Touchstone. Give me your hand* Art
thou learned ?
William. No, sir.

Touchstone. Then learn this of me: to
have, is to have ; for it is a figure in rhet-
oric 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 that ipse
is he : now, you are not ipse, for I am he.
William. Which he, sir ?
Touchstone. He, sir, that must marry this
woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon,
— which is in the vulgar leave, — the
society, — which in the boorish is company,
— of this female, — which in the common
is woman ; which together is, abandon the
society of this female, or, clown, thou per-
ishest; or, to thy better understanding,
diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee
away, translate thy life into death, thy lib-
erty into bondage: I will deal in poison
with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel ; I will
bandy with thee in faction ; I will o'er-run
thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and
and fifty ways : therefore tremble, depart.
Audrey. Do, good William.
William. God rest you merry, sir.

Exit.
Enter CORIN.

Corin. Our master and mistress seeks
you ; come, away, away !
Touchstone. Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey!
I attend, I attend. Exeunt.

113

Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER.

Orlando. Is 't possible that on so little ac-
quaintance 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 ?
Oliver. Neither call the giddiness of it in
question, the poverty of her, the small ac-
quaintance, 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 shall 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,
Orlando. You have my consent. Let your
wedding be to-morrow: thither will I invite
the Duke and all 's contented followers. Go
you and prepare Aliena ; for look you, here
comes my Rosalind.

Enter ROSALIND.

Rosalind. God save you, brother.

Oliver. And you, fair sister. Exit.

Rosalind. O, my dear Orlando, how it

grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a

scarf!

Orlando. It is my arm.

114

Rosalind. I thought thy heart had been
wounded with the claws of a lion.
Orlando. Wounded it is, but with the eyes
of a lady.

Rosalind. Did your brother tell you how I
counterfeited to swoon when he showed me
your handkercher ?

Orlando. Ay, and greater wonders than
that.

Rosalind. O, I know where you are : nay,
't is true : there was never any thing so sud-
den but the fight of two rams, and Caesar's
thrasonical brag of ' I came, saw, and over-
came : ' for your brother and my sister no
sooner met but they looked; 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 rem-
edy : and in these degrees have they made
a pair of stairs to marriage which they will
climb incontinent, or else be incontinent
before marriage: they are in the very wrath
of love and they will together; clubs can-
not part them.

Orlando. They shall be married to-mor-
row, and I will bid 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 to-morrow be at
the height of heart-heaviness, by how much
I shall think my brother happy in having
what he wishes for.

IfS

Rosalind, Why then, to-morrow I cannot
serve your turn for Rosalind ?
Orlando. I can live no longer by thinking.
Rosalind, I will weary you then no longer
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 labour for a
greater esteem than may in some little
measure draw a belief from you, to do
yourself good and not to grace me. Be-
lieve 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 his 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 not inconvenient to you, to set her
before your eyes to-morrow human as she
is and without any danger,
Orlando. Speakest thou in sober mean-
ings?

Rosalind. By my life, I do ; which I tender
dearly, though I say I am a magician.
Therefore, put you in your best array ; bid
your friends ; for if you will be married to-
morrow, you shall ; and to Rosalind, if you
will.

Itt

Enter SlLVIUS am/ PHEBE,

Look, here comes a lover of mine and a

lover of hers.
Phebe. Youth, you have done me much

ungentleness.

To show the letter that I writ to you.
Rosalind. I care not if I have : it is my

study

To seem despiteful and ungentle to you:
You are there followed by a faithful shep-
herd;
Look upon him, love him; he worships

you,
Phebe. Good shepherd, tell this youth

what 't is to love.
Sihius. It is to be all made of sighs and

tears;

And so am I for Phebe.
Phebe. And I for Ganymede.
Orlando. And I for Rosalind*
Rosalind. And I for no woman,
Sihius. It is to be all made of faith and

service ;

And so am I for Phebe.
Phebe. And I for Ganymede.
Orlando. And I for Rosalind.
Rosalind. And I for no woman.
Silvias. It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes ;
All adoration, duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance;
And so am I for Phebe.

JJ7

Phebe. And so am I for Ganymede.
Orlando. And so am I for Rosalind,
Rosalind. And so am I for no woman.
Phebe. If this be so, why blame you me

to love you ?
Silvias. If this be so, why blame you me

to love you ?
Orlando. If this be so, why blame you me

to love you ?

Rosalind. Who do you speak to, ' Why
blame you me to love you ? '
Orlando. To her that is not here, nor doth

not hear,

Rosalind. Pray you, no more of this ; 't is
like the howling of Irish wolves against the
moon. [To Silvias.'] I will help you, if I
can: [To Phebe.~] I would love you, if I
could. To-morrow meet me all together.
[To Phebe.~] I will marry you, if ever I
marry woman, and I '11 be married to-mor-
row : [ To Orlando J I will satisfy you, if
ever I satisfied man, and you shall be mar-
ried to-morrow: [To Silvias.'} I will con-
tent you, if what pleases you contents you,
and you shall be married to-morrow, [ To
Orlando.] As you love Rosalind, meet:
[To Silvias."] as you love Phebe, meet:
and as I love no woman, I '11 meet. So,
fare you well : I have left you commands.
Silvias. I'll not fail, if I live.
Phebe. Nor I.
Orlando. Nor I.

[Exeunt.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.

Touchstone. To-morrow is the joyful

day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be

married.

Audrey. I do desire it with all my heart ;

and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire

to be a woman of the world. Here come

two of the banished Duke's pages.

Enter two PAGES.

First Page. Well met, honest gentleman.

Touchstone. By my troth, well met.

Come, sit, sit, and a song.

Second Page. We are for you : sit i* the

middle.

First Page. Shall we clap into 't roundly,

without hawking or spitting or saying we

are hoarse, which are the only prologues to

a bad voice ?

Second Page. V faith, i' faith; and both

in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse.

SONG

It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass

In the spring time, the only pretty ring

time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding :
Sweet lovers love the spring.

IJ9

Pi

mm

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,

In spring time, &c.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino ;

How that a life was but a flower
In spring time, &c.

And therefore take the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

For love is crowned with the prime
In spring time, &c.

Touchstone. Truly, young gentlemen,
though there was no great matter in the
ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.
First Page. You are deceived, sir: we
kept time, we lost not our time*
Touchstone. By 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. Exeunt.

Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, JAQUES,

ORLANDO, OLIVER, am/CELiA.

Duke Senior. Dost thou believe, Orlando,

that the boy,

Can do all this that he hath promised ?
Orlando. I sometimes do believe, and

sometimes do not ;

J20

As those that fear they hope, and know

they fear.

Enter ROSALIND, SlLVIUS, and PHEBE.
Rosalind. Patience once more, whiles our

compact is urged :

You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
You will bestow her on Orlando here ?
Duke Senior. That would I, had I king-
doms to give with her.
Rosalind. And you say, you will have

her, when I bring her.
Orlando. That would I, were I of all king-
doms king.
Rosalind. You say, you 11 marry me, if I

be willing ?
Phebe. That will I, should I die the hour

after.
Rosalind. But if you do refuse to marry

me,
You 11 give yourself to this most faithful

shepherd ?

Phebe. So is the bargain.
Rosalind. You say, that you'll have

Phebe, if she will?
Sifoius. Though to have her and death

were both one thing.
Rosalind. I have promised to make all

this matter even.
Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your

daughter ;

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter:
( Keep your word, Phebe, that you 'II marry

me,

J2J

Or else refusing me, to wed this shepherd :
Keep your word, Silvius, that you 'II marry

her,

If she refuse me : and from hence I go,
To make these doubts all even.

[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.
Duke Senior. I do remember in this

shepherd boy
Some lively touches of my daughter's

favour.
Orlando. My lord, the first time that I

ever saw him
Methought he was a brother to your

daughter :

But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.
Jaques. There is, sure, another flood
toward, and these couples are coming to
the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange
beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.
Touchstone. Salutation and greeting to
you all!

Jaques. Good my lord, bid him welcome:
this is the motley-minded gentleman that I
have so often met in the forest : he hath been
a courtier, he swears.
Touchstone. If any man doubt that, let
him put me to my purgation. I have trod

a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have
122

been politic with my friend, smooth with
mine enemy ; I have undone three tailors ;
I have had four quarrels, and like to have
fought one.

Jaques. And how was that ta'en up ?
Touchstone. Faith, we met, and found the
quarrel was upon the seventh cause.
Jaques. How seventh cause ? Good my
lord, like this fellow.
Duke Senior. I like him very well.
Touchstone. God 'ild you, sir ; I desire
you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst
the rest of the country copulatives, to swear
and to forswear; according as marriage
binds and blood breaks : a poor virgin, sir,
an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own ; a
poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that
no man else will : rich honesty dwells like
a miser, sir, in a poor house ; as your pearl
in your foul oyster.

Duke Senior. By my faith, he is very
swift and sententious.

Touchstone. According to the fool's bolt,
sir, and such dulcet diseases.
Jaques. But, for the seventh cause ; how
did you find the quarrel on the seventh
cause?

Touchstone. Upon a lie seven times re-
moved:— bear your body more seeming,
Audrey: — as thus, sir. I did dislike the
cut of a certain courtier's beard : he sent me
word, if I said his beard was not cut well,
he was in the mind it was : this is called the

123

Retort Courteous, If I sent him word again
4 it was not well cut/ he would send me
word, he cut it to please himself: this is
called the Quip Modest. If again 4 it was
not well cut/ he disabled my judgment : this
is called the Reply Churlish. E 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 would say,
I lie: this is called the Countercheck Quar-
relsome : and so to the Lie Circumstantial
and the Lie Direct.

Jaques. And how oft did you say his beard
was not well cut ?

Touchstone. I durst go no further than the
Lie Circumstantial, nor he durst not give
me the Lie Direct; and so we measured
swords and parted,

Jaques. Can you nominate in order now
the degrees of the lie ?
Touchstone. O sir, we quarrel in print, by
the book ; as you have books for good man-
ners : I will name you the degrees. The
first, the Retort Courteous ; the second, the
Quip Modest ; the third, the Reply Churlish ;
the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the
Countercheck Quarrelsome ; the sixth, the
Lie with Grcumstance ; the seventh, the Lie
Direct, 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 when the
parties were met themselves, one of them

124

Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind in woman's clothes, and Celh

thought but of an If, as, * If you said so, then
I said so ; ' and they shook hands and swore
brothers. Your If is the only peace-maker ;
much virtue in If.

Jaques. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord?
he's as good at any thing and yet a fool.
Duke Senior. He uses his folly like a stalk-
ing-horse and under the presentation of that
he shoots his wit.

Enter HYMEN, ROSALIND, and CELIA.
Still Music.

Hymen. Then is there mirth in heaven,
When earthly things made even

Atone together.

Good Duke, receive thy daughter :
Hymen from heaven brought her,

Yea, brought her hither,
That thou mightst join her hand with his
Whose heart within his bosom is.
Rosalind. To you I give myself, for I am

yours.

To you I give myself, for I am yours.
Duke Senior. If there be truth in sight,

you are my daughter.
Orlando. If there be truth in sight, you are

my Rosalind.
Pfiebe. If sight and shape be true,

Why then, my love adieu !
Rosalind. I '11 have no father, if you be not

he:

I '11 have no husband, if you be not he :
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.

J25

Hymen. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion :
T is I must make conclusion

Of these most strange events :
Here 's eight that must take hands
To join in Hymen's bands,

If truth holds true contents.

You and you no cross shall part :

You and you are heart in heart :

You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord :

You and you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,

Feed yourselves with questioning ;

That reason wonder may diminish,

How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG
Wedding is great Juno's crown ;

O blessed bond of board and bed !
T is Hymen peoples every town ;

High wedlock then be honoured :
Honour, high honour, and renown,
To Hymen, god of every town !

Duke Senior. O my dear niece, welcome

thou art to me !

Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree.
Phebe. I will not eat my word, now thou

art mine;

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
Enter JAQUES DE BOYS.
Jaques de Boys. Let me have audience for

a word or two :

126

M

I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair as-
sembly.
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every

day

Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Addressed a mighty power ; which were on

foot,

In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here and put him to the sword :
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came ;
Where meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was con-
verted
Both from his enterprise and from the

world ;
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd

brother,

And all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exiled. This to be

true,

I do engage my life.
Duke Senior. Welcome, young man ;
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wed-
ding:

To one his lands withheld ; and to the other
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot :
And after, every of this happy number,
That have endured shrewd days and nights

with us,
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,

J27

mm-

According to the measure of their states*

Meantime, forget this new-fallen dignity,

And fall into our rustic revelry.

Play, music I And you, brides and bride-
grooms all,

With measure heap'd in joy, to the meas-
ures fall*

Jaques. Sir, by your patience. If I heard
you rightly,

The Duke hath put on a religious life

And thrown into neglect the pompous
court?

Jaques de Boys. He hath.

Jaques. To him will I : out of these con-
vertities

There is much matter to be heard and
learn'd.

[To Duke Senior.~\ You to your former
honour I bequeath ;

Your patience and your virtue well de-
serves it :

[To Orlando."] You to a love, that your
true faith doth merit :

[To Oliver.] You to your land, and love,
and great allies :

[To SilviusJ] You to a long and well-de-
served bed :

[To Touchstone."] And you to wrang-
ling ; for thy loving voyage

Is but for two months victualled. So, to
your pleasures :

I am for other than for dancing measures.

Duke Senior. Stay, Jaques, stay.

128

Jaques. To see no pastime I : what you

would have

I 11 stay to know at your abandoned cave.

Exit.
Duke Senior. Proceed, proceed : we will

begin these rites,

As we do trust they '11 end, in true delights*

[A dance.

Rosalind. It is not the fashion to see the
lady the epilogue; but it is no more un-
handsome than to see the lord the prologue.
If it be true that good wine needs no bush,
't is true that a good play needs no epilogue :
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
beggar, therefore to beg will not become
me : my way is to conjure you ; and I '11
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 to 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

J29

many of you as had beards that pleased me,
complexions that liked me and breaths that
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,

Exeunt

130

LJ L_

" ' '

C , S . V / A/ c

«&»*

DC SOUTHERN REGIONAL

A 000027499 3
«^~7 .

!r\\W (y