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As You Like It Shakespeare homepage | As You Like It | Entire play ACT I SCENE I. Orchard of Oliver's house.

   Enter ORLANDO and ADAM 

ORLANDO

   As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion
   bequeathed me by will but poor a 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 goldenly of his profit: for my part,
   he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more
   properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you
   that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that
   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 I. Besides this nothing that he so
   plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave
   me his countenance seems to take from me: he lets
   me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a
   brother, and, as 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

OLIVER

   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 unworthy 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 your 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
   courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that
   you are the first-born; but the same tradition
   takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers
   betwixt us: I have as much of my father in me as
   you; albeit, I 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 villains.
   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 hast railed on thyself.

ADAM

   Sweet masters, be patient: for your father's
   remembrance, be at accord.

OLIVER

   Let me go, I say.

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: therefore allow
   me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or
   give me the poor allottery my father left me by
   testament; with that I will go buy my fortunes.

OLIVER

   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.

OLIVER

   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 before 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 underhand means laboured to dissuade him from
   it, but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles:
   it is the stubbornest young fellow 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
   discretion; I had as lief thou didst break his 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 himself 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 anatomize 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, I'll give him his payment: if ever he go
   alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more: and
   so God keep your worship!

OLIVER

   Farewell, good Charles.
   Exit 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 especially 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 I'll go about.
   Exit

SCENE II. Lawn before the Duke's palace.

   Enter CELIA and ROSALIND 

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 extraordinary 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
   affection; by mine honour, I will; and when I break
   that oath, let me turn monster: therefore, my
   sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.

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 housewife 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

   'Tis 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 perceiveth 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 pancakes and swore by his honour the
   mustard was naught: now I'll stand to it, the
   pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and
   yet was not the knight forsworn.

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 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 meanest?

TOUCHSTONE

   One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

CELIA

   My father's love is enough to honour him: enough!
   speak no more of him; you'll 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.

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 decree.

CELIA

   Well said: that was laid 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

   You 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 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!

TOUCHSTONE

   But what is the sport, monsieur, 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 wrestling, 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 Attendants

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.

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'll not be by.

LE BEAU

   Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you.

ORLANDO

   I attend them with all respect and duty.

ROSALIND

   Young man, have you challenged 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 judgment, 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.

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 excellent 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 was 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
   supplied 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.

ORLANDO

   An 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!

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 esteem'd 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, coz, 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,
   I 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
   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'll 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!
   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.

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 lesser is his daughter
   The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,
   And here detain'd 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!
   Exit

SCENE III. A room in the palace.

   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 working-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, 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 it.

ROSALIND

   I do beseech your grace,
   Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
   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 much
   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.
   I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.

ROSALIND

   I have more cause.

CELIA

   Thou hast not, cousin;
   Prithee be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke
   Hath banish'd 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, I'll 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.

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'll have a swashing and a martial outside,
   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'll 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 assay'd to steal
   The clownish fool out of your father's court?
   Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

CELIA

   He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
   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

ACT II SCENE I. 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 pomp? 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,
   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,
   That 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:
   To the which place a poor sequester'd 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 moralize 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 abandon'd of his velvet friends,
   Tis right:' quoth he; 'thus misery doth part
   The flux of company:' anon a careless herd,
   Full of the pasture, jumps along by him
   And never stays to greet him; 'Ay' quoth Jaques,
   'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
   'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look
   Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'
   Thus most invectively he pierceth through
   The body of the country, 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 assign'd 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'll bring you to him straight.
   Exeunt

SCENE II. A room in the palace.

   Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with 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,
   Saw her abed, 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'll make him find him: do this suddenly,
   And let not search and inquisition quail
   To bring again these foolish runaways.
   Exeunt

SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S house.

   Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting 

ORLANDO

   Who's there?

ADAM

   What, my young master? O, my gentle master!
   O my sweet master! O you memory
   Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?
   Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?
   And wherefore are you gentle, strong and valiant?
   Why would you be so fond to overcome
   The bonny priser of the humorous duke?
   Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
   Know you not, master, to some kind 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!

ORLANDO

   Why, what's the matter?

ADAM

   O unhappy youth!
   Come 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 practises.
   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 hundred 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;
   And all this I give you. Let me be your servant:
   Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
   For in my youth I never did apply
   Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
   Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
   The means of weakness and debility;
   Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
   Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
   I'll do the service of a younger man
   In all your business and necessities.

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!
   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 cannot so much as a blossom yield
   In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry
   But come thy ways; well go along together,
   And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
   We'll 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 fourscore
   Here lived I, but now live here no more.
   At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
   But at fourscore it is too late a week:
   Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
   Than to die well and not my master's debtor.
   Exeunt

SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden.

   Enter ROSALIND for Ganymede, CELIA for Aliena, and TOUCHSTONE 

ROSALIND

   O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!

TOUCHSTONE

   I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

ROSALIND

   I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's
   apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort
   the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show
   itself courageous to petticoat: therefore courage,
   good Aliena!

CELIA

   I pray you, bear with me; I cannot 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 SILVIUS
   Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in
   solemn talk.

CORIN

   That is the way to make her scorn you still.

SILVIUS

   O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

CORIN

   I partly guess; for I have loved ere now.

SILVIUS

   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.

SILVIUS

   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,
   Wearying 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.
   O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!
   Exit

ROSALIND

   Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
   I have by hard adventure found mine own.

TOUCHSTONE

   And I mine. I remember, when I was in love I broke
   my sword upon a stone and bid him take that for
   coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the
   kissing of her 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! 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!

ROSALIND

   Peace, fool: he's not thy kinsman.

CORIN

   Who calls?

TOUCHSTONE

   Your betters, sir.

CORIN

   Else are they very wretched.

ROSALIND

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

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 oppress'd
   And faints for succor.

CORIN

   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.

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 a weasel sucks 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.

JAQUES

   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'll thank you;
   but that they call compliment is like the encounter
   of two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily,
   methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me
   the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will
   not, hold your tongues.

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 here
   And loves to live i' the sun,
   Seeking the food he eats
   And pleased with what he gets,
   Come hither, come hither, come hither:
   Here shall he see No enemy
   But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES

   I'll give you a verse to this note that I made
   yesterday in despite of my invention.

AMIENS

   And I'll 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,
   An if he will come to me.

AMIENS

   What's that 'ducdame'?

JAQUES

   'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a
   circle. I'll go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll
   rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

AMIENS

   And I'll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.
   Exeunt severally

SCENE VI. The forest.

   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; comfort 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 VII. The forest.

   A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and Lords like outlaws 

DUKE SENIOR

   I think he be transform'd 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! 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 i' the forest,
   A motley fool; a miserable world!
   As I do live by food, I met a fool
   Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
   And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
   In good set terms and yet a motley fool.
   'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I. 'No, sir,' quoth he,
   '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:
   'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
   And after one hour more 'twill 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 cramm'd
   With observation, the which he vents
   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 judgments
   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 folly,
   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:
   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 licence 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 neighbour?
   Or what is he of basest function
   That says his bravery is not of 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 wrong'd him: if it do him right,
   Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
   Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,
   Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here?
   Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn

ORLANDO

   Forbear, and eat no more.

JAQUES

   Why, I have eat none yet.

ORLANDO

   Nor shalt 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 touch'd 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 gentleness.

ORLANDO

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

DUKE SENIOR

   Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

ORLANDO

   Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:
   I thought that all things had been savage here;
   And therefore put I on the countenance
   Of stern commandment. But whate'er 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 look'd 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 'tis to pity and be pitied,
   Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
   In the which hope I blush, 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 engender'd:
   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
   Limp'd in pure love: till he be first sufficed,
   Oppress'd 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.
   And 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,
   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 slipper'd 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 everything.
   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; fall to: I will not trouble you
   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 remember'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,
   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

ACT III SCENE I. A room in the palace.

   Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and 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 seize into our hands,
   Till thou canst quit thee by thy brothers 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

SCENE II. 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 witness'd every where.
   Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree
   The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.
   Exit
   Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

CORIN

   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 respect 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
   is it 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?

CORIN

   No more but that I know the more one sickens the
   worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money,
   means and content 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, shepherd?

CORIN

   No, truly.

TOUCHSTONE

   Then thou art damned.

CORIN

   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 ridiculous in the country as the
   behavior of the country is most mockable at the
   court. You told me you salute not at the court, but
   you kiss your hands: that courtesy would be
   uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.

TOUCHSTONE

   Instance, briefly; come, instance.

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 instance, I say; come.

CORIN

   Besides, our hands are hard.

TOUCHSTONE

   Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again.
   A more sounder instance, come.

CORIN

   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 worms-meat, in respect of a
   good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and
   perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the
   very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

CORIN

   You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest.

TOUCHSTONE

   Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man!
   God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

CORIN

   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, cuckoldly 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.

CORIN

   Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.
   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 fair be kept in mind
   But the fair of Rosalind.

TOUCHSTONE

   I'll 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.

TOUCHSTONE

   Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

ROSALIND

   I'll 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'll 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! Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

CELIA

   [Reads]
   Why should this a desert be?
   For it is unpeopled? No:
   Tongues I'll 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 distill'd
   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! Shepherd, 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 CORIN 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 wondering how thy name
   should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

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! it is a hard matter for friends to
   meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes
   and so encounter.

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 wonderful, and after that,
   out of all hooping!

ROSALIND

   Good my complexion! 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 mightst pour this concealed man
   out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-
   mouthed bottle, either too much at once, or none at
   all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that
   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 mocking: speak, sad brow and
   true maid.

CELIA

   I' faith, coz, 'tis 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
   him here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he?
   How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see
   him again? Answer me in one word.

CELIA

   You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a
   word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To
   say ay and no to these particulars is more than to
   answer in a catechism.

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 and JAQUES

ROSALIND

   'Tis he: slink by, and note him.

JAQUES

   I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had
   as lief have been myself alone.

ORLANDO

   And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you
   too for your society.

JAQUES

   God be wi' 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 more 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 pleasing 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 goldsmiths' wives, and conned them
   out of rings?

ORLANDO

   Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from
   whence you have studied your questions.

JAQUES

   You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas 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.

JAQUES

   The worst fault you have is to be in love.

ORLANDO

   'Tis 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. I'll 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'nnight,
   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.

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, deifying the name of
   Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger I would
   give him some 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 every thing about you demonstrating a
   careless desolation; but you are no such man; you
   are rather point-device in your accoutrements 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, wherein Rosalind
   is so admired?

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 mistress; 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 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'll 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 Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?
   Exeunt

SCENE III. The forest.

   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-inhabited, worse than Jove
   in a thatched house!

TOUCHSTONE

   When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a
   man's good wit seconded with the forward child
   Understanding, it strikes a man more 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 swearest 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 therefore 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!
   sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may
   be, I will marry thee, and to that end I have been
   with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next
   village, who hath promised to meet me in this place
   of the forest and to couple us.

JAQUES

   [Aside] I would fain see this meeting.

AUDREY

   Well, the gods give us joy!

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? C ourage! As horns are odious, they are
   necessary. It is said, 'many a man knows no end of
   his goods:' right; many a man has good horns, and
   knows no end of them. Well, that is the 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?

SIR OLIVER MARTEXT

   Is there none here to give the woman?

TOUCHSTONE

   I will not take her on gift of any man.

SIR OLIVER MARTEXT

   Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

JAQUES

   [Advancing]
   Proceed, proceed I'll 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.

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 MARTEXT

   'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical knave of them
   all shall flout me out of my calling.
   Exit

SCENE IV. The forest.

   Enter ROSALIND and CELIA 

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 dissembling colour.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

   I' 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 sanctity 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?

CELIA

   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 confirmer 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 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 complain'd 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?

CORIN

   If you will see a pageant truly play'd,
   Between the pale complexion of true love
   And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
   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
   I'll prove a busy actor in their play.
   Exeunt

SCENE V. Another part of the forest.

   Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE 

SILVIUS

   Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe;
   Say that you love me not, but say not so
   In bitterness. The common executioner,
   Whose heart the accustom'd 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:
   'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
   That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
   Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
   Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
   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!
   Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
   Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
   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,
   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
   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:
   'Tis 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?
   You are a thousand times a properer man
   Than she a woman: 'tis such fools as you
   That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children:
   'Tis 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.

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,
   'Tis 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, CELIA and 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 say'st thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS

   Sweet Phebe, pity me.

PHEBE

   Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

SILVIUS

   Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:
   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?

SILVIUS

   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'll employ thee too:
   But do not look for further recompense
   Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

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 scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

PHEBE

   Know'st now 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:
   'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;
   But what care I for words? yet words do well
   When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
   It is a pretty youth: not very pretty:
   But, sure, he's proud, and yet his pride becomes him:
   He'll 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 'tis well:
   There was a pretty redness in his lip,
   A little riper and more lusty red
   Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
   Between 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 remember'd, scorn'd at me:
   I marvel why I answer'd not again:
   But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.
   I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
   And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS

   Phebe, with all my heart.

PHEBE

   I'll 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

ACT IV SCENE I. The forest.

   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, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

ROSALIND

   Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

JAQUES

   I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is
   emulation, nor the musician's, which is fantastical,
   nor the courtier's, which is proud, nor the
   soldier's, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer's,
   which is politic, nor the lady's, which is nice, nor
   the lover's, which is all these: but it is a
   melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,
   extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry's
   contemplation of my travels, in which my often
   rumination wraps me m a most humorous sadness.

ROSALIND

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

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!
   Enter ORLANDO

ORLANDO

   Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

JAQUES

   Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.
   Exit

ROSALIND

   Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and
   wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your
   own country, be out of love with your nativity and
   almost chide God for making you that countenance you
   are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a
   gondola. Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been
   all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such
   another trick, never come in my sight more.

ORLANDO

   My fair Rosalind, I come within 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'll 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 destiny 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.

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!--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 old, and in all this time
   there was not any man died in his own person,
   videlicit, 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 Hellespont and being
   taken with the cramp was drowned and the foolish
   coroners 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.

ORLANDO

   I would not have my right Rosalind 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 Rosalind 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 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 commission; but I do take
   thee, Orlando, for my husband: there's a girl goes
   before the priest; and certainly a woman's thought
   runs before her actions.

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 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 cheque 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 without 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.

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: 'tis 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 earnest, and so God mend
   me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous,
   if you break one jot of your promise or come one
   minute behind your hour, I will think you the most
   pathetical break-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
   because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I
   am in love. I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out
   of the sight of Orlando: I'll go find a shadow and
   sigh till he come.

CELIA

   And I'll sleep.
   Exeunt

SCENE II. The 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: 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it
   make noise enough.
   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 III. 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 SILVIUS

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 tenor: pardon me:
   I am but as a guiltless messenger.

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.

SILVIUS

   No, I protest, I know not the contents:
   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-colour'd hand; I verily did think
   That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands:
   She has a huswife's hand; but that's no matter:
   I say she never did invent this letter;
   This is a man's invention and his hand.

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 invention
   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 turn'd,
   That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?
   Can a woman rail thus?

SILVIUS

   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!
   Whiles you chid me, I did love;
   How then might your prayers move!
   He that brings this love to thee
   Little knows this love in me:
   And by him seal up thy mind;
   Whether that thy youth and kind
   Will the faithful offer take
   Of me and all that I can make;
   Or else by him my love deny,
   And then I'll study how to die.

SILVIUS

   Call you this chiding?

CELIA

   Alas, poor shepherd!

ROSALIND

   Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt
   thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an
   instrument and play false strains upon thee! not to
   be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see
   love hath made thee a tame snake, 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.
   Exit SILVIUS
   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
   Left on your right hand brings you to the 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
   And browner than her brother.' Are not you
   The owner of the house I did inquire for?

CELIA

   It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.

OLIVER

   Orlando doth commend him to you both,
   And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
   He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

ROSALIND

   I am: 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.

OLIVER

   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 befell! 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,
   Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd
   The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
   Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
   And with indented glides did slip away
   Into a bush: under which bush's shade
   A lioness, with udders all drawn 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.

CELIA

   Are you his brother?

ROSALIND

   Wast you he rescued?

CELIA

   Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

OLIVER

   'Twas I; but 'tis not I I do not shame
   To tell you what I was, since my conversion
   So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

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 stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
   The lioness had torn some flesh away,
   Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted
   And 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

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!

OLIVER

   Look, he recovers.

ROSALIND

   I would I were at home.

CELIA

   We'll 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 counterfeited! I pray you, tell
   your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho!

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 answer 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

ACT V SCENE I. The forest.

   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 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, prithee, 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 answer. 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
   philosopher, 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.

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 rhetoric that drink, being poured out
   of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty
   the other; for all your writers do consent 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 perishest; or, to thy better
   understanding, diest; or, to wit I kill thee, make
   thee away, translate thy life into death, thy
   liberty 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'errun thee with
   policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways:
   therefore tremble and 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

SCENE II. The forest.

   Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER 

ORLANDO

   Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you
   should like her? that but seeing you should love
   her? and loving woo? and, wooing, she should
   grant? and will you persever to enjoy her?

OLIVER

   Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the
   poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden
   wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me,
   I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me;
   consent with both that we may enjoy each other: it
   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.

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 handkerchief?

ORLANDO

   Ay, and greater wonders than that.

ROSALIND

   O, I know where you are: nay, 'tis true: there was
   never any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams
   and Caesar's thrasonical brag of 'I came, saw, and
   overcame:' for your brother and my sister no sooner
   met but they 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 remedy;
   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
   cannot part them.

ORLANDO

   They shall be married to-morrow, 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.

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. Believe then, if
   you please, that I can do strange things: I have,
   since I was three year old, conversed with a
   magician, most profound in 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 tomorrow human
   as she is and without any danger.

ORLANDO

   Speakest thou in sober meanings?

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.
   Enter SILVIUS and 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 shepherd;
   Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

PHEBE

   Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

SILVIUS

   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.

SILVIUS

   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.

SILVIUS

   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.

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?

SILVIUS

   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; 'tis like the howling
   of Irish wolves against the moon.
   To SILVIUS
   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'll be
   married to-morrow:
   To ORLANDO
   I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you
   shall be married to-morrow:
   To SILVIUS
   I will content you, if what pleases you contents
   you, and you shall be married to-morrow.
   To ORLANDO
   As you love Rosalind, meet:
   To SILVIUS
   as you love Phebe, meet: and as I love no woman,
   I'll meet. So fare you well: I have left you commands.

SILVIUS

   I'll not fail, if I live.

PHEBE

   Nor I.

ORLANDO

   Nor I.
   Exeunt

SCENE III. The forest.

   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 comes 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

   I'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.
   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

SCENE IV. The forest.

   Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and 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;
   As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
   Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, 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 kingdoms to give with her.

ROSALIND

   And you say, you will have her, when I bring her?

ORLANDO

   That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

ROSALIND

   You say, you'll 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'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

PHEBE

   So is the bargain.

ROSALIND

   You say, that you'll have Phebe, if she will?

SILVIUS

   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'll marry me,
   Or else refusing me, to wed this shepherd:
   Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll 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 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 removed:--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 Retort Courteous.
   If I sent him word again 'it was not well cut,' he
   would send me word, he cut it to please himself:
   this is called the Quip Modest. If again 'it was
   not well cut,' he disabled my judgment: this is
   called the Reply Churlish. If again 'it was not
   well cut,' he would answer, I spake not true: this
   is called the Reproof Valiant. If again 'it was not
   well cut,' he would say I lied: this is called the
   Counter-cheque Quarrelsome: 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 manners: 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
   Countercheque Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with
   Circumstance; 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 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 peacemaker; 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 stalking-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 DUKE SENIOR] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
   To ORLANDO
   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.

PHEBE

   If sight and shape be true,
   Why then, my love adieu!

ROSALIND

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

HYMEN

   Peace, ho! I bar confusion:
   'Tis 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!
   'Tis 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:
   I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
   That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
   Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day
   Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
   Address'd 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 converted
   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' wedding:
   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,
   According to the measure of their states.
   Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity
   And fall into our rustic revelry.
   Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all,
   With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures 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 convertites
   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 deserves 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 SILVIUS
   You to a long and well-deserved bed:
   To TOUCHSTONE
   And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
   Is but for two months victuall'd. So, to your pleasures:
   I am for other than for dancing measures.

DUKE SENIOR

   Stay, Jaques, stay.

JAQUES

   To see no pastime I what you would have
   I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave.
   Exit

DUKE SENIOR

   Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,
   As we do trust they'll end, in true delights.
   A dance
   EPILOGUE

ROSALIND

   It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue;
   but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord
   the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs
   no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no
   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'll begin
   with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love
   you bear to men, to like as much of this play as
   please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love
   you bear 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 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

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