As You Like It

1As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion

2bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns,

3and, as thou sayest, charged my brother, on his

4blessing, to breed me well: and there begins my

5sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and

6report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part,

7he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more

8properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you

9that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that

10differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses

11are bred better; for, besides that they are fair

12with their feeding, they are taught their manage,

13and to that end riders dearly hired: but I, his

14brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the

15which his animals on his dunghills are as much

16bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so

17plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave

18me his countenance seems to take from me: he lets

19me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a

20brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my

21gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that

22grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I

23think is within me, begins to mutiny against this

24servitude: I will no longer endure it, though yet I

25know no wise remedy how to avoid it.

26Yonder comes my master, your brother.

27Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will

28shake me up.

29Now, sir! what make you here?

30Nothing: I am not taught to make any thing.

31What mar you then, sir?

32Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God

33made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.

34Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile.

35Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with them?

36What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should

37come to such penury?

38Know you where your are, sir?

39O, sir, very well; here in your orchard.

40Know you before whom, sir?

41Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know

42you are my eldest brother; and, in the gentle

43condition of blood, you should so know me. The

44courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that

45you are the first-born; but the same tradition

46takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers

47betwixt us: I have as much of my father in me as

48you; albeit, I confess, your coming before me is

49nearer to his reverence.

50What, boy!

51Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.

52Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

53I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir

54Rowland de Boys; he was my father, and he is thrice

55a villain that says such a father begot villains.

56Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand

57from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy

58tongue for saying so: thou hast railed on thyself.

59Sweet masters, be patient: for your father's

60remembrance, be at accord.

61Let me go, I say.

62I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. My

63father charged you in his will to give me good

64education: you have trained me like a peasant,

65obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like

66qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in

67me, and I will no longer endure it: therefore allow

68me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or

69give me the poor allottery my father left me by

70testament; with that I will go buy my fortunes.

71And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent?

72Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be troubled

73with you; you shall have some part of your will: I

74pray you, leave me.

75I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.

76Get you with him, you old dog.

77Is 'old dog' my reward? Most true, I have lost my

78teeth in your service. God be with my old master!

79he would not have spoke such a word.

80Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will

81physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand

82crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!

83Calls your worship?

84Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?

85So please you, he is here at the door and importunes

86access to you.

87Call him in.

88'Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

89Good morrow to your worship.

90Good Monsieur Charles, what's the new news at the

91new court?

92There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news:

93that is, the old duke is banished by his younger

94brother the new duke; and three or four loving lords

95have put themselves into voluntary exile with him,

96whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke;

97therefore he gives them good leave to wander.

98Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke's daughter, be

99banished with her father?

100O, no; for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves

101her, being ever from their cradles bred together,

102that she would have followed her exile, or have died

103to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no

104less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and

105never two ladies loved as they do.

106Where will the old duke live?

107They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and

108a many merry men with him; and there they live like

109the old Robin Hood of England: they say many young

110gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time

111carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

112What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke?

113Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a

114matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand

115that your younger brother Orlando hath a disposition

116to come in disguised against me to try a fall.

117To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that

118escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him

119well. Your brother is but young and tender; and,

120for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I

121must, for my own honour, if he come in: therefore,

122out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you

123withal, that either you might stay him from his

124intendment or brook such disgrace well as he shall

125run into, in that it is a thing of his own search

126and altogether against my will.

127Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which

128thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had

129myself notice of my brother's purpose herein and

130have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from

131it, but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles:

132it is the stubbornest young fellow of France, full

133of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's

134good parts, a secret and villanous contriver against

135me his natural brother: therefore use thy

136discretion; I had as lief thou didst break his neck

137as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if

138thou dost him any slight disgrace or if he do not

139mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise

140against thee by poison, entrap thee by some

141treacherous device and never leave thee till he

142hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other;

143for, I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak

144it, there is not one so young and so villanous this

145day living. I speak but brotherly of him; but

146should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must

147blush and weep and thou must look pale and wonder.

148I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come

149to-morrow, I'll give him his payment: if ever he go

150alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more: and

151so God keep your worship!

152Farewell, good Charles.

153Now will I stir this gamester: I hope I shall see

154an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why,

155hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle, never

156schooled and yet learned, full of noble device, of

157all sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much

158in the heart of the world, and especially of my own

159people, who best know him, that I am altogether

160misprised: but it shall not be so long; this

161wrestler shall clear all: nothing remains but that

162I kindle the boy thither; which now I'll go about.

1I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

2Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of;

3and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could

4teach me to forget a banished father, you must not

5learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.

6Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight

7that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father,

8had banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou

9hadst been still with me, I could have taught my

10love to take thy father for mine: so wouldst thou,

11if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously

12tempered as mine is to thee.

13Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to

14rejoice in yours.

15You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is

16like to have: and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt

17be his heir, for what he hath taken away from thy

18father perforce, I will render thee again in

19affection; by mine honour, I will; and when I break

20that oath, let me turn monster: therefore, my

21sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.

22From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let

23me see; what think you of falling in love?

24Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal: but

25love no man in good earnest; nor no further in sport

26neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst

27in honour come off again.

28What shall be our sport, then?

29Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from

30her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.

31I would we could do so, for her benefits are

32mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman

33doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

34'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce

35makes honest, and those that she makes honest she

36makes very ill-favouredly.

37Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's office to

38Nature's: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world,

39not in the lineaments of Nature.

40No? when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she

41not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature

42hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not

43Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?

44Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when

45Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of

46Nature's wit.

47Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but

48Nature's; who perceiveth our natural wits too dull

49to reason of such goddesses and hath sent this

50natural for our whetstone; for always the dulness of

51the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now,

52wit! whither wander you?

53Mistress, you must come away to your father.

54Were you made the messenger?

55No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you.

56Where learned you that oath, fool?

57Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they

58were good pancakes and swore by his honour the

59mustard was naught: now I'll stand to it, the

60pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and

61yet was not the knight forsworn.

62How prove you that, in the great heap of your

63knowledge?

64Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.

65Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and

66swear by your beards that I am a knave.

67By our beards, if we had them, thou art.

68By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; but if you

69swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no

70more was this knight swearing by his honour, for he

71never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away

72before ever he saw those pancakes or that mustard.

73Prithee, who is't that thou meanest?

74One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

75My father's love is enough to honour him: enough!

76speak no more of him; you'll be whipped for taxation

77one of these days.

78The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what

79wise men do foolishly.

80By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little

81wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery

82that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes

83Monsieur Le Beau.

84With his mouth full of news.

85Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young.

86Then shall we be news-crammed.

87All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

88Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau: what's the news?

89Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.

90Sport! of what colour?

91What colour, madam! how shall I answer you?

92As wit and fortune will.

93Or as the Destinies decree.

94Well said: that was laid on with a trowel.

95Nay, if I keep not my rank,--

96Thou losest thy old smell.

97You amaze me, ladies: I would have told you of good

98wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.

99You tell us the manner of the wrestling.

100I will tell you the beginning; and, if it please

101your ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is

102yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming

103to perform it.

104Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.

105There comes an old man and his three sons,--

106I could match this beginning with an old tale.

107Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.

108With bills on their necks, 'Be it known unto all men

109by these presents.'

110The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the

111duke's wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him

112and broke three of his ribs, that there is little

113hope of life in him: so he served the second, and

114so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man,

115their father, making such pitiful dole over them

116that all the beholders take his part with weeping.

117Alas!

118But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies

119have lost?

120Why, this that I speak of.

121Thus men may grow wiser every day: it is the first

122time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport

123for ladies.

124Or I, I promise thee.

125But is there any else longs to see this broken music

126in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon

127rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?

128You must, if you stay here; for here is the place

129appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to

130perform it.

131Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it.

132Come on: since the youth will not be entreated, his

133own peril on his forwardness.

134Is yonder the man?

135Even he, madam.

136Alas, he is too young! yet he looks successfully.

137How now, daughter and cousin! are you crept hither

138to see the wrestling?

139Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.

140You will take little delight in it, I can tell you;

141there is such odds in the man. In pity of the

142challenger's youth I would fain dissuade him, but he

143will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if

144you can move him.

145Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.

146Do so: I'll not be by.

147Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you.

148I attend them with all respect and duty.

149Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?

150No, fair princess; he is the general challenger: I

151come but in, as others do, to try with him the

152strength of my youth.

153Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your

154years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's

155strength: if you saw yourself with your eyes or

156knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of your

157adventure would counsel you to a more equal

158enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to

159embrace your own safety and give over this attempt.

160Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore

161be misprised: we will make it our suit to the duke

162that the wrestling might not go forward.

163I beseech you, punish me not with your hard

164thoughts; wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny

165so fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let

166your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my

167trial: wherein if I be foiled, there is but one

168shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one

169dead that was willing to be so: I shall do my

170friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me, the

171world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in

172the world I fill up a place, which may be better

173supplied when I have made it empty.

174The little strength that I have, I would it were with you.

175And mine, to eke out hers.

176Fare you well: pray heaven I be deceived in you!

177Your heart's desires be with you!

178Come, where is this young gallant that is so

179desirous to lie with his mother earth?

180Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.

181You shall try but one fall.

182No, I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him

183to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him

184from a first.

185An you mean to mock me after, you should not have

186mocked me before: but come your ways.

187Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!

188I would I were invisible, to catch the strong

189fellow by the leg.

190O excellent young man!

191If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who

192should down.

193No more, no more.

194Yes, I beseech your grace: I am not yet well breathed.

195How dost thou, Charles?

196He cannot speak, my lord.

197Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?

198Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.

199I would thou hadst been son to some man else:

200The world esteem'd thy father honourable,

201But I did find him still mine enemy:

202Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed,

203Hadst thou descended from another house.

204But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth:

205I would thou hadst told me of another father.

206Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

207I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,

208His youngest son; and would not change that calling,

209To be adopted heir to Frederick.

210My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,

211And all the world was of my father's mind:

212Had I before known this young man his son,

213I should have given him tears unto entreaties,

214Ere he should thus have ventured.

215Gentle cousin,

216Let us go thank him and encourage him:

217My father's rough and envious disposition

218Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserved:

219If you do keep your promises in love

220But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,

221Your mistress shall be happy.

222Gentleman,

223Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,

224That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.

225Shall we go, coz?

226Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

227Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts

228Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up

229Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.

230He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes;

231I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?

232Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown

233More than your enemies.

234Will you go, coz?

235Have with you. Fare you well.

236What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

237I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.

238O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown!

239Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

240Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you

241To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved

242High commendation, true applause and love,

243Yet such is now the duke's condition

244That he misconstrues all that you have done.

245The duke is humorous; what he is indeed,

246More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

247I thank you, sir: and, pray you, tell me this:

248Which of the two was daughter of the duke

249That here was at the wrestling?

250Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;

251But yet indeed the lesser is his daughter

252The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,

253And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,

254To keep his daughter company; whose loves

255Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.

256But I can tell you that of late this duke

257Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,

258Grounded upon no other argument

259But that the people praise her for her virtues

260And pity her for her good father's sake;

261And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady

262Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well:

263Hereafter, in a better world than this,

264I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

265I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.

266Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

267From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother:

268But heavenly Rosalind!

1Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

2Not one to throw at a dog.

3No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon

4curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

5Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one

6should be lamed with reasons and the other mad

7without any.

8But is all this for your father?

9No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how

10full of briers is this working-day world!

11They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in

12holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden

13paths our very petticoats will catch them.

14I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.

15Hem them away.

16I would try, if I could cry 'hem' and have him.

17Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

18O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!

19O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in

20despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of

21service, let us talk in good earnest: is it

22possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so

23strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?

24The duke my father loved his father dearly.

25Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son

26dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him,

27for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate

28not Orlando.

29No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

30Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

31Let me love him for that, and do you love him

32because I do. Look, here comes the duke.

33With his eyes full of anger.

34Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste

35And get you from our court.

36Me, uncle?

37You, cousin

38Within these ten days if that thou be'st found

39So near our public court as twenty miles,

40Thou diest for it.

41I do beseech your grace,

42Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:

43If with myself I hold intelligence

44Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,

45If that I do not dream or be not frantic,--

46As I do trust I am not--then, dear uncle,

47Never so much as in a thought unborn

48Did I offend your highness.

49Thus do all traitors:

50If their purgation did consist in words,

51They are as innocent as grace itself:

52Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

53Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:

54Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

55Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.

56So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

57So was I when your highness banish'd him:

58Treason is not inherited, my lord;

59Or, if we did derive it from our friends,

60What's that to me? my father was no traitor:

61Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much

62To think my poverty is treacherous.

63Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

64Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake,

65Else had she with her father ranged along.

66I did not then entreat to have her stay;

67It was your pleasure and your own remorse:

68I was too young that time to value her;

69But now I know her: if she be a traitor,

70Why so am I; we still have slept together,

71Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together,

72And wheresoever we went, like Juno's swans,

73Still we went coupled and inseparable.

74She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

75Her very silence and her patience

76Speak to the people, and they pity her.

77Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;

78And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous

79When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:

80Firm and irrevocable is my doom

81Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.

82Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege:

83I cannot live out of her company.

84You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself:

85If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,

86And in the greatness of my word, you die.

87O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?

88Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

89I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.

90I have more cause.

91Thou hast not, cousin;

92Prithee be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke

93Hath banish'd me, his daughter?

94That he hath not.

95No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love

96Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:

97Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?

98No: let my father seek another heir.

99Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

100Whither to go and what to bear with us;

101And do not seek to take your change upon you,

102To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;

103For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

104Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.

105Why, whither shall we go?

106To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

107Alas, what danger will it be to us,

108Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!

109Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

110I'll put myself in poor and mean attire

111And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

112The like do you: so shall we pass along

113And never stir assailants.

114Were it not better,

115Because that I am more than common tall,

116That I did suit me all points like a man?

117A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,

118A boar-spear in my hand; and--in my heart

119Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will--

120We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,

121As many other mannish cowards have

122That do outface it with their semblances.

123What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

124I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page;

125And therefore look you call me Ganymede.

126But what will you be call'd?

127Something that hath a reference to my state

128No longer Celia, but Aliena.

129But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal

130The clownish fool out of your father's court?

131Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

132He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;

133Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,

134And get our jewels and our wealth together,

135Devise the fittest time and safest way

136To hide us from pursuit that will be made

137After my flight. Now go we in content

138To liberty and not to banishment.

1Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

2Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

3Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods

4More free from peril than the envious court?

5Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,

6The seasons' difference, as the icy fang

7And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,

8Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,

9Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say

10'This is no flattery: these are counsellors

11That feelingly persuade me what I am.'

12Sweet are the uses of adversity,

13Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

14Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

15And this our life exempt from public haunt

16Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

17Sermons in stones and good in every thing.

18I would not change it.

19Happy is your grace,

20That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

21Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

22Come, shall we go and kill us venison?

23And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,

24Being native burghers of this desert city,

25Should in their own confines with forked heads

26Have their round haunches gored.

27Indeed, my lord,

28The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,

29And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp

30Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.

31To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself

32Did steal behind him as he lay along

33Under an oak whose antique root peeps out

34Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:

35To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,

36That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,

37Did come to languish, and indeed, my lord,

38The wretched animal heaved forth such groans

39That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat

40Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

41Coursed one another down his innocent nose

42In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool

43Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

44Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

45Augmenting it with tears.

46But what said Jaques?

47Did he not moralize this spectacle?

48O, yes, into a thousand similes.

49First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

50'Poor deer,' quoth he, 'thou makest a testament

51As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

52To that which had too much:' then, being there alone,

53Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends,

54''Tis right:' quoth he; 'thus misery doth part

55The flux of company:' anon a careless herd,

56Full of the pasture, jumps along by him

57And never stays to greet him; 'Ay' quoth Jaques,

58'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

59'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look

60Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'

61Thus most invectively he pierceth through

62The body of the country, city, court,

63Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we

64Are mere usurpers, tyrants and what's worse,

65To fright the animals and to kill them up

66In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

67And did you leave him in this contemplation?

68We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

69Upon the sobbing deer.

70Show me the place:

71I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

72For then he's full of matter.

73I'll bring you to him straight.

1Can it be possible that no man saw them?

2It cannot be: some villains of my court

3Are of consent and sufferance in this.

4I cannot hear of any that did see her.

5The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

6Saw her abed, and in the morning early

7They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.

8My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft

9Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

10Hisperia, the princess' gentlewoman,

11Confesses that she secretly o'erheard

12Your daughter and her cousin much commend

13The parts and graces of the wrestler

14That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

15And she believes, wherever they are gone,

16That youth is surely in their company.

17Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither;

18If he be absent, bring his brother to me;

19I'll make him find him: do this suddenly,

20And let not search and inquisition quail

21To bring again these foolish runaways.

1Who's there?

2What, my young master? O, my gentle master!

3O my sweet master! O you memory

4Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?

5Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?

6And wherefore are you gentle, strong and valiant?

7Why would you be so fond to overcome

8The bonny priser of the humorous duke?

9Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

10Know you not, master, to some kind of men

11Their graces serve them but as enemies?

12No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,

13Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.

14O, what a world is this, when what is comely

15Envenoms him that bears it!

16Why, what's the matter?

17O unhappy youth!

18Come not within these doors; within this roof

19The enemy of all your graces lives:

20Your brother--no, no brother; yet the son--

21Yet not the son, I will not call him son

22Of him I was about to call his father--

23Hath heard your praises, and this night he means

24To burn the lodging where you use to lie

25And you within it: if he fail of that,

26He will have other means to cut you off.

27I overheard him and his practises.

28This is no place; this house is but a butchery:

29Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

30Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

31No matter whither, so you come not here.

32What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

33Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce

34A thievish living on the common road?

35This I must do, or know not what to do:

36Yet this I will not do, do how I can;

37I rather will subject me to the malice

38Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

39But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,

40The thrifty hire I saved under your father,

41Which I did store to be my foster-nurse

42When service should in my old limbs lie lame

43And unregarded age in corners thrown:

44Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,

45Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,

46Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

47And all this I give you. Let me be your servant:

48Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;

49For in my youth I never did apply

50Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,

51Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo

52The means of weakness and debility;

53Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,

54Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;

55I'll do the service of a younger man

56In all your business and necessities.

57O good old man, how well in thee appears

58The constant service of the antique world,

59When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

60Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

61Where none will sweat but for promotion,

62And having that, do choke their service up

63Even with the having: it is not so with thee.

64But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree,

65That cannot so much as a blossom yield

66In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry

67But come thy ways; well go along together,

68And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,

69We'll light upon some settled low content.

70Master, go on, and I will follow thee,

71To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.

72From seventeen years till now almost fourscore

73Here lived I, but now live here no more.

74At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

75But at fourscore it is too late a week:

76Yet fortune cannot recompense me better

77Than to die well and not my master's debtor.

1O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!

2I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

3I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's

4apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort

5the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show

6itself courageous to petticoat: therefore courage,

7good Aliena!

8I pray you, bear with me; I cannot go no further.

9For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear

10you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you,

11for I think you have no money in your purse.

12Well, this is the forest of Arden.

13Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was

14at home, I was in a better place: but travellers

15must be content.

16Ay, be so, good Touchstone.

17Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in

18solemn talk.

19That is the way to make her scorn you still.

20O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

21I partly guess; for I have loved ere now.

22No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,

23Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

24As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow:

25But if thy love were ever like to mine--

26As sure I think did never man love so--

27How many actions most ridiculous

28Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

29Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

30O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily!

31If thou remember'st not the slightest folly

32That ever love did make thee run into,

33Thou hast not loved:

34Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

35Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,

36Thou hast not loved:

37Or if thou hast not broke from company

38Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

39Thou hast not loved.

40O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

41Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,

42I have by hard adventure found mine own.

43And I mine. I remember, when I was in love I broke

44my sword upon a stone and bid him take that for

45coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the

46kissing of her batlet and the cow's dugs that her

47pretty chopt hands had milked; and I remember the

48wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took

49two cods and, giving her them again, said with

50weeping tears 'Wear these for my sake.' We that are

51true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is

52mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

53Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.

54Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I

55break my shins against it.

56Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion

57Is much upon my fashion.

58And mine; but it grows something stale with me.

59I pray you, one of you question yond man

60If he for gold will give us any food:

61I faint almost to death.

62Holla, you clown!

63Peace, fool: he's not thy kinsman.

64Who calls?

65Your betters, sir.

66Else are they very wretched.

67Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

68And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

69I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

70Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

71Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:

72Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd

73And faints for succor.

74Fair sir, I pity her

75And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,

76My fortunes were more able to relieve her;

77But I am shepherd to another man

78And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:

79My master is of churlish disposition

80And little recks to find the way to heaven

81By doing deeds of hospitality:

82Besides, his cote, his flocks and bounds of feed

83Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,

84By reason of his absence, there is nothing

85That you will feed on; but what is, come see.

86And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

87What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

88That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

89That little cares for buying any thing.

90I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,

91Buy thou the cottage, pasture and the flock,

92And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

93And we will mend thy wages. I like this place.

94And willingly could waste my time in it.

95Assuredly the thing is to be sold:

96Go with me: if you like upon report

97The soil, the profit and this kind of life,

98I will your very faithful feeder be

99And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

1Under the greenwood tree

2Who loves to lie with me,

3And turn his merry note

4Unto the sweet bird's throat,

5Come hither, come hither, come hither:

6Here shall he see No enemy

7But winter and rough weather.

8More, more, I prithee, more.

9It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

10I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck

11melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs.

12More, I prithee, more.

13My voice is ragged: I know I cannot please you.

14I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to

15sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call you 'em stanzos?

16What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

17Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me

18nothing. Will you sing?

19More at your request than to please myself.

20Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you;

21but that they call compliment is like the encounter

22of two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily,

23methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me

24the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will

25not, hold your tongues.

26Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the

27duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all

28this day to look you.

29And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is

30too disputable for my company: I think of as many

31matters as he, but I give heaven thanks and make no

32boast of them. Come, warble, come.

33SONG.

34Who doth ambition shun

35And loves to live i' the sun,

36Seeking the food he eats

37And pleased with what he gets,

38Come hither, come hither, come hither:

39Here shall he see No enemy

40But winter and rough weather.

41I'll give you a verse to this note that I made

42yesterday in despite of my invention.

43And I'll sing it.

44Thus it goes:--

45If it do come to pass

46That any man turn ass,

47Leaving his wealth and ease,

48A stubborn will to please,

49Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:

50Here shall he see

51Gross fools as he,

52An if he will come to me.

53What's that 'ducdame'?

54'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a

55circle. I'll go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll

56rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

57And I'll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.

1Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food!

2Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell,

3kind master.

4Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live

5a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little.

6If this uncouth forest yield any thing savage, I

7will either be food for it or bring it for food to

8thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers.

9For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at

10the arm's end: I will here be with thee presently;

11and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will

12give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I

13come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said!

14thou lookest cheerly, and I'll be with thee quickly.

15Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear

16thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for

17lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this

18desert. Cheerly, good Adam!

1I think he be transform'd into a beast;

2For I can no where find him like a man.

3My lord, he is but even now gone hence:

4Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

5If he, compact of jars, grow musical,

6We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.

7Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.

8He saves my labour by his own approach.

9Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

10That your poor friends must woo your company?

11What, you look merrily!

12A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest,

13A motley fool; a miserable world!

14As I do live by food, I met a fool

15Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,

16And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,

17In good set terms and yet a motley fool.

18'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I. 'No, sir,' quoth he,

19'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune:'

20And then he drew a dial from his poke,

21And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

22Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock:

23Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags:

24'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,

25And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;

26And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

27And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;

28And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear

29The motley fool thus moral on the time,

30My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

31That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

32And I did laugh sans intermission

33An hour by his dial. O noble fool!

34A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

35What fool is this?

36O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,

37And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

38They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,

39Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

40After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd

41With observation, the which he vents

42In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!

43I am ambitious for a motley coat.

44Thou shalt have one.

45It is my only suit;

46Provided that you weed your better judgments

47Of all opinion that grows rank in them

48That I am wise. I must have liberty

49Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

50To blow on whom I please; for so fools have;

51And they that are most galled with my folly,

52They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?

53The 'why' is plain as way to parish church:

54He that a fool doth very wisely hit

55Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

56Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,

57The wise man's folly is anatomized

58Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

59Invest me in my motley; give me leave

60To speak my mind, and I will through and through

61Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

62If they will patiently receive my medicine.

63Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

64What, for a counter, would I do but good?

65Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:

66For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

67As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

68And all the embossed sores and headed evils,

69That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,

70Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

71Why, who cries out on pride,

72That can therein tax any private party?

73Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

74Till that the weary very means do ebb?

75What woman in the city do I name,

76When that I say the city-woman bears

77The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?

78Who can come in and say that I mean her,

79When such a one as she such is her neighbour?

80Or what is he of basest function

81That says his bravery is not of my cost,

82Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits

83His folly to the mettle of my speech?

84There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

85My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,

86Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,

87Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,

88Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here?

89Forbear, and eat no more.

90Why, I have eat none yet.

91Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.

92Of what kind should this cock come of?

93Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress,

94Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

95That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

96You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point

97Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show

98Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred

99And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:

100He dies that touches any of this fruit

101Till I and my affairs are answered.

102An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.

103What would you have? Your gentleness shall force

104More than your force move us to gentleness.

105I almost die for food; and let me have it.

106Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

107Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:

108I thought that all things had been savage here;

109And therefore put I on the countenance

110Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are

111That in this desert inaccessible,

112Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

113Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time

114If ever you have look'd on better days,

115If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,

116If ever sat at any good man's feast,

117If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear

118And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,

119Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

120In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

121True is it that we have seen better days,

122And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church

123And sat at good men's feasts and wiped our eyes

124Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd:

125And therefore sit you down in gentleness

126And take upon command what help we have

127That to your wanting may be minister'd.

128Then but forbear your food a little while,

129Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn

130And give it food. There is an old poor man,

131Who after me hath many a weary step

132Limp'd in pure love: till he be first sufficed,

133Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,

134I will not touch a bit.

135Go find him out,

136And we will nothing waste till you return.

137I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!

138Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:

139This wide and universal theatre

140Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

141Wherein we play in.

142All the world's a stage,

143And all the men and women merely players:

144They have their exits and their entrances;

145And one man in his time plays many parts,

146His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

147Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

148And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

149And shining morning face, creeping like snail

150Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

151Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

152Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

153Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

154Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

155Seeking the bubble reputation

156Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

157In fair round belly with good capon lined,

158With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

159Full of wise saws and modern instances;

160And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

161Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

162With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

163His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

164For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

165Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

166And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

167That ends this strange eventful history,

168Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

169Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

170Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen,

171And let him feed.

172I thank you most for him.

173So had you need:

174I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

175Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you

176As yet, to question you about your fortunes.

177Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

178SONG.

179Blow, blow, thou winter wind.

180Thou art not so unkind

181As man's ingratitude;

182Thy tooth is not so keen,

183Because thou art not seen,

184Although thy breath be rude.

185Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

186Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

187Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

188This life is most jolly.

189Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

190That dost not bite so nigh

191As benefits forgot:

192Though thou the waters warp,

193Thy sting is not so sharp

194As friend remember'd not.

195Heigh-ho! sing, & c.

196If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,

197As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,

198And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

199Most truly limn'd and living in your face,

200Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke

201That loved your father: the residue of your fortune,

202Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man,

203Thou art right welcome as thy master is.

204Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,

205And let me all your fortunes understand.

1Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:

2But were I not the better part made mercy,

3I should not seek an absent argument

4Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:

5Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is;

6Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living

7Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

8To seek a living in our territory.

9Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine

10Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,

11Till thou canst quit thee by thy brothers mouth

12Of what we think against thee.

13O that your highness knew my heart in this!

14I never loved my brother in my life.

15More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;

16And let my officers of such a nature

17Make an extent upon his house and lands:

18Do this expediently and turn him going.

1Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:

2And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey

3With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,

4Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.

5O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books

6And in their barks my thoughts I'll character;

7That every eye which in this forest looks

8Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.

9Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree

10The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.

11And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?

12Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good

13life, but in respect that it is a shepherd's life,

14it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I

15like it very well; but in respect that it is

16private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it

17is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in

18respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As

19is it a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well;

20but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much

21against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

22No more but that I know the more one sickens the

23worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money,

24means and content is without three good friends;

25that the property of rain is to wet and fire to

26burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a

27great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that

28he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may

29complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.

30Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in

31court, shepherd?

32No, truly.

33Then thou art damned.

34Nay, I hope.

35Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg, all

36on one side.

37For not being at court? Your reason.

38Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawest

39good manners; if thou never sawest good manners,

40then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is

41sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous

42state, shepherd.

43Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good manners

44at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the

45behavior of the country is most mockable at the

46court. You told me you salute not at the court, but

47you kiss your hands: that courtesy would be

48uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.

49Instance, briefly; come, instance.

50Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their

51fells, you know, are greasy.

52Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? and is not

53the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of

54a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come.

55Besides, our hands are hard.

56Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again.

57A more sounder instance, come.

58And they are often tarred over with the surgery of

59our sheep: and would you have us kiss tar? The

60courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.

61Most shallow man! thou worms-meat, in respect of a

62good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and

63perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the

64very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

65You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest.

66Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man!

67God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

68Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get

69that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's

70happiness, glad of other men's good, content with my

71harm, and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes

72graze and my lambs suck.

73That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes

74and the rams together and to offer to get your

75living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a

76bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a

77twelvemonth to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,

78out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not

79damned for this, the devil himself will have no

80shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst

81'scape.

82Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.

83From the east to western Ind,

84No jewel is like Rosalind.

85Her worth, being mounted on the wind,

86Through all the world bears Rosalind.

87All the pictures fairest lined

88Are but black to Rosalind.

89Let no fair be kept in mind

90But the fair of Rosalind.

91I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and

92suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: it is the

93right butter-women's rank to market.

94Out, fool!

95For a taste:

96If a hart do lack a hind,

97Let him seek out Rosalind.

98If the cat will after kind,

99So be sure will Rosalind.

100Winter garments must be lined,

101So must slender Rosalind.

102They that reap must sheaf and bind;

103Then to cart with Rosalind.

104Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

105Such a nut is Rosalind.

106He that sweetest rose will find

107Must find love's prick and Rosalind.

108This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you

109infect yourself with them?

110Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.

111Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

112I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it

113with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit

114i' the country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half

115ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.

116You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the

117forest judge.

118Peace! Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

119[Reads]

120Why should this a desert be?

121For it is unpeopled? No:

122Tongues I'll hang on every tree,

123That shall civil sayings show:

124Some, how brief the life of man

125Runs his erring pilgrimage,

126That the stretching of a span

127Buckles in his sum of age;

128Some, of violated vows

129'Twixt the souls of friend and friend:

130But upon the fairest boughs,

131Or at every sentence end,

132Will I Rosalinda write,

133Teaching all that read to know

134The quintessence of every sprite

135Heaven would in little show.

136Therefore Heaven Nature charged

137That one body should be fill'd

138With all graces wide-enlarged:

139Nature presently distill'd

140Helen's cheek, but not her heart,

141Cleopatra's majesty,

142Atalanta's better part,

143Sad Lucretia's modesty.

144Thus Rosalind of many parts

145By heavenly synod was devised,

146Of many faces, eyes and hearts,

147To have the touches dearest prized.

148Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

149And I to live and die her slave.

150O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of love

151have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never

152cried 'Have patience, good people!'

153How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little.

154Go with him, sirrah.

155Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;

156though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

157Didst thou hear these verses?

158O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of

159them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

160That's no matter: the feet might bear the verses.

161Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear

162themselves without the verse and therefore stood

163lamely in the verse.

164But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name

165should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

166I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder

167before you came; for look here what I found on a

168palm-tree. I was never so be-rhymed since

169Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I

170can hardly remember.

171Trow you who hath done this?

172Is it a man?

173And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.

174Change you colour?

175I prithee, who?

176O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to

177meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes

178and so encounter.

179Nay, but who is it?

180Is it possible?

181Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence,

182tell me who it is.

183O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful

184wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that,

185out of all hooping!

186Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am

187caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in

188my disposition? One inch of delay more is a

189South-sea of discovery; I prithee, tell me who is it

190quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst

191stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man

192out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-

193mouthed bottle, either too much at once, or none at

194all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that

195may drink thy tidings.

196So you may put a man in your belly.

197Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his

198head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

199Nay, he hath but a little beard.

200Why, God will send more, if the man will be

201thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if

202thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

203It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's

204heels and your heart both in an instant.

205Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, sad brow and

206true maid.

207I' faith, coz, 'tis he.

208Orlando?

209Orlando.

210Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and

211hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What said

212he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes

213him here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he?

214How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see

215him again? Answer me in one word.

216You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a

217word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To

218say ay and no to these particulars is more than to

219answer in a catechism.

220But doth he know that I am in this forest and in

221man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the

222day he wrestled?

223It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the

224propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my

225finding him, and relish it with good observance.

226I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

227It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops

228forth such fruit.

229Give me audience, good madam.

230Proceed.

231There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight.

232Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well

233becomes the ground.

234Cry 'holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets

235unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.

236O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

237I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest

238me out of tune.

239Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must

240speak. Sweet, say on.

241You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?

242'Tis he: slink by, and note him.

243I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had

244as lief have been myself alone.

245And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you

246too for your society.

247God be wi' you: let's meet as little as we can.

248I do desire we may be better strangers.

249I pray you, mar no more trees with writing

250love-songs in their barks.

251I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading

252them ill-favouredly.

253Rosalind is your love's name?

254Yes, just.

255I do not like her name.

256There was no thought of pleasing you when she was

257christened.

258What stature is she of?

259Just as high as my heart.

260You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been

261acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them

262out of rings?

263Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from

264whence you have studied your questions.

265You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas made of

266Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and

267we two will rail against our mistress the world and

268all our misery.

269I will chide no breather in the world but myself,

270against whom I know most faults.

271The worst fault you have is to be in love.

272'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue.

273I am weary of you.

274By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found

275you.

276He is drowned in the brook: look but in, and you

277shall see him.

278There I shall see mine own figure.

279Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

280I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good

281Signior Love.

282I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur

283Melancholy.

284[Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him, like a saucy

285lackey and under that habit play the knave with him.

286Do you hear, forester?

287Very well: what would you?

288I pray you, what is't o'clock?

289You should ask me what time o' day: there's no clock

290in the forest.

291Then there is no true lover in the forest; else

292sighing every minute and groaning every hour would

293detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

294And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that

295been as proper?

296By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with

297divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles

298withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops

299withal and who he stands still withal.

300I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

301Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the

302contract of her marriage and the day it is

303solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight,

304Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of

305seven year.

306Who ambles Time withal?

307With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that

308hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because

309he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because

310he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean

311and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden

312of heavy tedious penury; these Time ambles withal.

313Who doth he gallop withal?

314With a thief to the gallows, for though he go as

315softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

316Who stays it still withal?

317With lawyers in the vacation, for they sleep between

318term and term and then they perceive not how Time moves.

319Where dwell you, pretty youth?

320With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the

321skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

322Are you native of this place?

323As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.

324Your accent is something finer than you could

325purchase in so removed a dwelling.

326I have been told so of many: but indeed an old

327religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was

328in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship

329too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard

330him read many lectures against it, and I thank God

331I am not a woman, to be touched with so many

332giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their

333whole sex withal.

334Can you remember any of the principal evils that he

335laid to the charge of women?

336There were none principal; they were all like one

337another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming

338monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.

339I prithee, recount some of them.

340No, I will not cast away my physic but on those that

341are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that

342abuses our young plants with carving 'Rosalind' on

343their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies

344on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of

345Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger I would

346give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the

347quotidian of love upon him.

348I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you tell me

349your remedy.

350There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he

351taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage

352of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

353What were his marks?

354A lean cheek, which you have not, a blue eye and

355sunken, which you have not, an unquestionable

356spirit, which you have not, a beard neglected,

357which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for

358simply your having in beard is a younger brother's

359revenue: then your hose should be ungartered, your

360bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe

361untied and every thing about you demonstrating a

362careless desolation; but you are no such man; you

363are rather point-device in your accoutrements as

364loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

365Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

366Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you

367love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to

368do than to confess she does: that is one of the

369points in the which women still give the lie to

370their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he

371that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind

372is so admired?

373I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of

374Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

375But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

376Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

377Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves

378as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and

379the reason why they are not so punished and cured

380is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers

381are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

382Did you ever cure any so?

383Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me

384his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to

385woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish

386youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing

387and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow,

388inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every

389passion something and for no passion truly any

390thing, as boys and women are for the most part

391cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe

392him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep

393for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor

394from his mad humour of love to a living humour of

395madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of

396the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic.

397And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon

398me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's

399heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.

400I would not be cured, youth.

401I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind

402and come every day to my cote and woo me.

403Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me

404where it is.

405Go with me to it and I'll show it you and by the way

406you shall tell me where in the forest you live.

407Will you go?

408With all my heart, good youth.

409Nay you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?

1Come apace, good Audrey: I will fetch up your

2goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the man yet?

3doth my simple feature content you?

4Your features! Lord warrant us! what features!

5I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most

6capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

7[Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove

8in a thatched house!

9When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a

10man's good wit seconded with the forward child

11Understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a

12great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would

13the gods had made thee poetical.

14I do not know what 'poetical' is: is it honest in

15deed and word? is it a true thing?

16No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most

17feigning; and lovers are given to poetry, and what

18they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign.

19Do you wish then that the gods had made me poetical?

20I do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou art

21honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some

22hope thou didst feign.

23Would you not have me honest?

24No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for

25honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

26[Aside] A material fool!

27Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods

28make me honest.

29Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut

30were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

31I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.

32Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness!

33sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may

34be, I will marry thee, and to that end I have been

35with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next

36village, who hath promised to meet me in this place

37of the forest and to couple us.

38[Aside] I would fain see this meeting.

39Well, the gods give us joy!

40Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart,

41stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple

42but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what

43though? C ourage! As horns are odious, they are

44necessary. It is said, 'many a man knows no end of

45his goods:' right; many a man has good horns, and

46knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of

47his wife; 'tis none of his own getting. Horns?

48Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer

49hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man

50therefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more

51worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a

52married man more honourable than the bare brow of a

53bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no

54skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to

55want. Here comes Sir Oliver.

56Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: will you

57dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go

58with you to your chapel?

59Is there none here to give the woman?

60I will not take her on gift of any man.

61Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

62[Advancing]

63Proceed, proceed I'll give her.

64Good even, good Master What-ye-call't: how do you,

65sir? You are very well met: God 'ild you for your

66last company: I am very glad to see you: even a

67toy in hand here, sir: nay, pray be covered.

68Will you be married, motley?

69As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb and

70the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and

71as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.

72And will you, being a man of your breeding, be

73married under a bush like a beggar? Get you to

74church, and have a good priest that can tell you

75what marriage is: this fellow will but join you

76together as they join wainscot; then one of you will

77prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, warp.

78[Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to be

79married of him than of another: for he is not like

80to marry me well; and not being well married, it

81will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

82Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

83'Come, sweet Audrey:

84We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

85Farewell, good Master Oliver: not,--

86O sweet Oliver,

87O brave Oliver,

88Leave me not behind thee: but,--

89Wind away,

90Begone, I say,

91I will not to wedding with thee.

92'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical knave of them

93all shall flout me out of my calling.

1Never talk to me; I will weep.

2Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider

3that tears do not become a man.

4But have I not cause to weep?

5As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

6His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

7Something browner than Judas's marry, his kisses are

8Judas's own children.

9I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.

10An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.

11And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch

12of holy bread.

13He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun

14of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously;

15the very ice of chastity is in them.

16But why did he swear he would come this morning, and

17comes not?

18Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

19Do you think so?

20Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a

21horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do

22think him as concave as a covered goblet or a

23worm-eaten nut.

24Not true in love?

25Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.

26You have heard him swear downright he was.

27'Was' is not 'is:' besides, the oath of a lover is

28no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are

29both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends

30here in the forest on the duke your father.

31I met the duke yesterday and had much question with

32him: he asked me of what parentage I was; I told

33him, of as good as he; so he laughed and let me go.

34But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a

35man as Orlando?

36O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses,

37speaks brave words, swears brave oaths and breaks

38them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of

39his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse

40but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble

41goose: but all's brave that youth mounts and folly

42guides. Who comes here?

43Mistress and master, you have oft inquired

44After the shepherd that complain'd of love,

45Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

46Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

47That was his mistress.

48Well, and what of him?

49If you will see a pageant truly play'd,

50Between the pale complexion of true love

51And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

52Go hence a little and I shall conduct you,

53If you will mark it.

54O, come, let us remove:

55The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

56Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

57I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

1Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe;

2Say that you love me not, but say not so

3In bitterness. The common executioner,

4Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,

5Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck

6But first begs pardon: will you sterner be

7Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

8I would not be thy executioner:

9I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

10Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye:

11'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

12That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,

13Who shut their coward gates on atomies,

14Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!

15Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

16And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:

17Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;

18Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,

19Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers!

20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:

21Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

22Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,

23The cicatrice and capable impressure

24Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,

25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,

26Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

27That can do hurt.

28O dear Phebe,

29If ever,--as that ever may be near,--

30You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

31Then shall you know the wounds invisible

32That love's keen arrows make.

33But till that time

34Come not thou near me: and when that time comes,

35Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

36As till that time I shall not pity thee.

37And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

38That you insult, exult, and all at once,

39Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,--

40As, by my faith, I see no more in you

41Than without candle may go dark to bed--

42Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?

43Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?

44I see no more in you than in the ordinary

45Of nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life,

46I think she means to tangle my eyes too!

47No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:

48'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

49Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

50That can entame my spirits to your worship.

51You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

52Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain?

53You are a thousand times a properer man

54Than she a woman: 'tis such fools as you

55That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children:

56'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

57And out of you she sees herself more proper

58Than any of her lineaments can show her.

59But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees,

60And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:

61For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

62Sell when you can: you are not for all markets:

63Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer:

64Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

65So take her to thee, shepherd: fare you well.

66Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together:

67I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

68He's fallen in love with your foulness and she'll

69fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as

70she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her

71with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?

72For no ill will I bear you.

73I pray you, do not fall in love with me,

74For I am falser than vows made in wine:

75Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,

76'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.

77Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.

78Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,

79And be not proud: though all the world could see,

80None could be so abused in sight as he.

81Come, to our flock.

82Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,

83'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?'

84Sweet Phebe,--

85Ha, what say'st thou, Silvius?

86Sweet Phebe, pity me.

87Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

88Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:

89If you do sorrow at my grief in love,

90By giving love your sorrow and my grief

91Were both extermined.

92Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

93I would have you.

94Why, that were covetousness.

95Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,

96And yet it is not that I bear thee love;

97But since that thou canst talk of love so well,

98Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,

99I will endure, and I'll employ thee too:

100But do not look for further recompense

101Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

102So holy and so perfect is my love,

103And I in such a poverty of grace,

104That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

105To glean the broken ears after the man

106That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then

107A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

108Know'st now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

109Not very well, but I have met him oft;

110And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

111That the old carlot once was master of.

112Think not I love him, though I ask for him:

113'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;

114But what care I for words? yet words do well

115When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

116It is a pretty youth: not very pretty:

117But, sure, he's proud, and yet his pride becomes him:

118He'll make a proper man: the best thing in him

119Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

120Did make offence his eye did heal it up.

121He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall:

122His leg is but so so; and yet 'tis well:

123There was a pretty redness in his lip,

124A little riper and more lusty red

125Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference

126Between the constant red and mingled damask.

127There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him

128In parcels as I did, would have gone near

129To fall in love with him; but, for my part,

130I love him not nor hate him not; and yet

131I have more cause to hate him than to love him:

132For what had he to do to chide at me?

133He said mine eyes were black and my hair black:

134And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me:

135I marvel why I answer'd not again:

136But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.

137I'll write to him a very taunting letter,

138And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?

139Phebe, with all my heart.

140I'll write it straight;

141The matter's in my head and in my heart:

142I will be bitter with him and passing short.

143Go with me, Silvius.

1I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted

2with thee.

3They say you are a melancholy fellow.

4I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

5Those that are in extremity of either are abominable

6fellows and betray themselves to every modern

7censure worse than drunkards.

8Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

9Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

10I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is

11emulation, nor the musician's, which is fantastical,

12nor the courtier's, which is proud, nor the

13soldier's, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer's,

14which is politic, nor the lady's, which is nice, nor

15the lover's, which is all these: but it is a

16melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,

17extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry's

18contemplation of my travels, in which my often

19rumination wraps me m a most humorous sadness.

20A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to

21be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see

22other men's; then, to have seen much and to have

23nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

24Yes, I have gained my experience.

25And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have

26a fool to make me merry than experience to make me

27sad; and to travel for it too!

28Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

29Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.

30Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and

31wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your

32own country, be out of love with your nativity and

33almost chide God for making you that countenance you

34are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a

35gondola. Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been

36all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such

37another trick, never come in my sight more.

38My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

39Break an hour's promise in love! He that will

40divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but

41a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the

42affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid

43hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I'll warrant

44him heart-whole.

45Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

46Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I

47had as lief be wooed of a snail.

48Of a snail?

49Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he

50carries his house on his head; a better jointure,

51I think, than you make a woman: besides he brings

52his destiny with him.

53What's that?

54Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be

55beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in

56his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.

57Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

58And I am your Rosalind.

59It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a

60Rosalind of a better leer than you.

61Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday

62humour and like enough to consent. What would you

63say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?

64I would kiss before I spoke.

65Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were

66gravelled for lack of matter, you might take

67occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are

68out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking--God

69warn us!--matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

70How if the kiss be denied?

71Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

72Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

73Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or

74I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

75What, of my suit?

76Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit.

77Am not I your Rosalind?

78I take some joy to say you are, because I would be

79talking of her.

80Well in her person I say I will not have you.

81Then in mine own person I die.

82No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is

83almost six thousand years old, and in all this time

84there was not any man died in his own person,

85videlicit, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains

86dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he

87could to die before, and he is one of the patterns

88of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair

89year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been

90for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went

91but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and being

92taken with the cramp was drowned and the foolish

93coroners of that age found it was 'Hero of Sestos.'

94But these are all lies: men have died from time to

95time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

96I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind,

97for, I protest, her frown might kill me.

98By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now

99I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on

100disposition, and ask me what you will. I will grant

101it.

102Then love me, Rosalind.

103Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.

104And wilt thou have me?

105Ay, and twenty such.

106What sayest thou?

107Are you not good?

108I hope so.

109Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?

110Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.

111Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?

112Pray thee, marry us.

113I cannot say the words.

114You must begin, 'Will you, Orlando--'

115Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

116I will.

117Ay, but when?

118Why now; as fast as she can marry us.

119Then you must say 'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.'

120I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

121I might ask you for your commission; but I do take

122thee, Orlando, for my husband: there's a girl goes

123before the priest; and certainly a woman's thought

124runs before her actions.

125So do all thoughts; they are winged.

126Now tell me how long you would have her after you

127have possessed her.

128For ever and a day.

129Say 'a day,' without the 'ever.' No, no, Orlando;

130men are April when they woo, December when they wed:

131maids are May when they are maids, but the sky

132changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous

133of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen,

134more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more

135new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires

136than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana

137in the fountain, and I will do that when you are

138disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and

139that when thou art inclined to sleep.

140But will my Rosalind do so?

141By my life, she will do as I do.

142O, but she is wise.