AS YOU LIKE IT by William Shakespeare

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AS YOU LIKE IT

by William Shakespeare

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

  DUKE, living in exile

  FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his dominions

  AMIENS, lord attending on the banished Duke

  JAQUES,   "      "       "  "     "      "

  LE BEAU, a courtier attending upon Frederick

  CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick

  OLIVER, son of Sir Rowland de Boys

  JAQUES,   "   "  "    "     "  "

  ORLANDO,  "   "  "    "     "  "

  ADAM,   servant to Oliver

  DENNIS,     "     "   "

  TOUCHSTONE, the court jester

  SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar

  CORIN,    shepherd

  SILVIUS,     "

  WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Audrey

  A person representing HYMEN

  ROSALIND, daughter to the banished Duke

  CELIA, daughter to Frederick

  PHEBE, a shepherdes 

  AUDREY, a country wench

  Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants

<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM

SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS

PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITY

WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE

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SCENE:

OLIVER'S house; FREDERICK'S court; and the Forest of Arden

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 say'st,

    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

    hir'd; 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.

                           Enter OLIVER

  ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your brother.

  ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake

me

    up.                                           [ADAM retires]

  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 nought awhile.

  ORLANDO. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What

    prodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such

penury?

  OLIVER. Know you where you are, sir?

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

  OLIVER. Know you before whom, sir? 

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

are

    my eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you

    should so know me. The 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!                               [Strikes him]

  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 pull'd out

thy

    tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself.

  ADAM. [Coming forward] 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

    charg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have 

    train'd 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 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. 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 disguis'd

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

    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 villainous 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 villainous this day living. I speak but

brotherly

    of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must

blush

    and weep, and thou must 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!

 Exit

  OLIVER. Farewell, good 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 school'd

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

<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM

SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS

PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITY

WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE

DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS

PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED

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SCENE II.

A lawn before the DUKE'S palace

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

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

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

and

    would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to

forget

    a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any

    extraordinary pleasure.

  CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight

that I

    love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy

    uncle, the Duke my father, 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

temper'd

    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 dullness 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 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 pancackes

or

    that mustard.

  CELIA. Prithee, who is't that thou mean'st?

  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 whipt 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. 

                           Enter 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-cramm'd.

  CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. 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 decrees.

  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. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.

  LE BEAU. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your

    ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do;

and

    here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.

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

  LE BEAU. There comes an old man and his three sons-

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

  LE BEAU. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and

presence.

  ROSALIND. With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men

by

    these presents'-

  LE BEAU. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the

Duke's

    wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke

three of

    his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he

serv'd

    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

  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.

  FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin! Are you crept hither

to

    see the wrestling?

  ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave.

  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.

  FREDERICK. Do so; I'll not be by.

                                     [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart]

  LE BEAU. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you.

  ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty.

  ROSALIND. Young man, have you challeng'd 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 foil'd there is but one

    sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that

is

    willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have

none

    to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing;

only

    in the world I fill up a place, which may be better 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 deceiv'd 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.

  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. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mock'd

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.

                                      [CHARLES is thrown. Shout]

  FREDERICK. No more, no more.

  ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd.

  FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles?

  LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord.

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

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

    Boys.

  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 pleas'd 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, 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 lov'd 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 ventur'd.

  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 deserv'd;

    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 urg'd 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 deserv'd

    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 smaller 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.

The DUKE's 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 lam'd 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 lov'd 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?

                    Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

  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.

  FREDERICK. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,

    And get you from our court. 

  ROSALIND. Me, uncle?

  FREDERICK. You, cousin.

    Within these ten days if that thou beest 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.

  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.

  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.

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

    Else had she with her father rang'd 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 wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,

    Still we went coupled and inseparable.

  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.

  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 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 griev'd 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 sund'red? 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 charge 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

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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 not the penalty of Adam,

    The seasons' difference; as the icy fang

    And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,

    Which when it bites and blows upon my body,

    Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say

    '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 everything.

    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 gor'd.

  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 sequest'red stag,

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

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

    The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans

    That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat

    Almost to bursting; and the big round tears

    Cours'd one another down his innocent nose

    In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,

    Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

    Stood on th' 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 mak'st a testament

    As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

    To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone,

    Left and abandoned of his velvet friends:

    ''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.

The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

  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 untreasur'd 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.

  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 prizer 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 practices.

    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 boist'rous sword enforce

    A thievish living on the common road?

    This I must do, or know not what to do;

    Yet this I will not do, do how I can.

    I rather will subject me to the malice 

    Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

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

    The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,

    Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,

    When service should in my old limbs lie lame,

    And unregarded age in corners thrown.

    Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,

    Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,

    Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

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

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

    For in my youth I never did apply

    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 prun'st a rotten tree

    That cannot so much as a blossom yield

    In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.

    But come thy ways, we'll go along together,

    And ere we have thy youthful wages spent

    We'll light upon some settled low content.

  ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow the

    To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.

    From seventeen years till now almost four-score

    Here lived I, but now live here no more.

    At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,

    But at fourscore it is too late a week;

    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 CLOWN alias

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.

                        Enter CORIN and SILVIUS

 

  ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. 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 lov'd 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 never love so heartily!

    If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly

    That ever love did make thee run into,

    Thou hast not lov'd;

    Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

    Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,

    Thou hast not lov'd; 

    Or if thou hast not broke from company

    Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

    Thou hast not lov'd.

    O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!                          Exit Silvius

  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 batler, and the

    cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I

remember

    the wooing of  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 speak'st 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 Ensman.

  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 succour.

  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.

Another part of 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 th' encounter of two

dog-apes;

    and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks 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 to

    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

              [All together here]

 

           Who doth ambition shun,

           And loves to live i' th' sun,

           Seeking the food he eats,

           And pleas'd 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 prepar'd.

                                                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 anything savage, I will either be food for it or

    bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than

thy

    powers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the

    arm's end. I will here be with the 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 look'st 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

    anything 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 nowhere 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' th' 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 anatomiz'd

    Even by the squand'ring 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 th' 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 th' embossed sores and headed evils

    That thou with license of free foot hast caught

    Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

  JAQUES. Why, who cries out on pride

    That can therein tax any private party?

    Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, 

    Till that the wearer's 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 on my cost,

    Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits

    His folly to the mettle of my speech?

    There then! how then? what then? Let me see wherein

    My tongue hath 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 serv'd.

  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 arn 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 answer'd 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 wip'd 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 wip'd our eyes

    Of drops that sacred pity hath engend'red;

    And therefore sit you down in gentleness,

    And take upon command what help we have

    That to your wanting may be minist'red.

  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 suffic'd,

    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;

    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 lin'd,

    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 sav'd, a world too wide

    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

    That ends this strange eventful history,

    Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 

                  Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM

  DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden.

    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

            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 rememb'red 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 lov'd 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.

The palace

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS

  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 brother's mouth

    Of what we think against thee.

  OLIVER. O that your Highness knew my heart in this!

    I never lov'd my brother in my life.

  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

nought.

    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 it is a spare life,

    look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more

plenty

    in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy

in

    thee, shepherd?

  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 damn'd.

  CORIN. Nay, I hope.

  TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, 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 saw'st

good

    manners; if thou never saw'st 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 behaviour of

the

    country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute

not

    at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be

    uncleanly if courtiers were 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 tarr'd over with the surgery of our 

    sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands

are

    perfum'd with civet.

  TOUCHSTONE. Most shallow man! thou worm's 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 damn'd? 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 crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly

ram,

    out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd 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, reading a paper

  ROSALIND.   'From the east to western Inde,

              No jewel is like Rosalinde.

              Her worth, being mounted on the wind,

              Through all the world bears Rosalinde.

              All the pictures fairest lin'd

              Are but black to Rosalinde.

              Let no face be kept in mind

              But the fair of Rosalinde.'

  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 Rosalinde.

                If the cat will after kind, 

                So be sure will Rosalinde.

                Winter garments must be lin'd,

                So must slender Rosalinde.

                They that reap must sheaf and bind,

                Then to cart with Rosalinde.

                Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

                Such a nut is Rosalinde.

                He that sweetest rose will find

                Must find love's prick and Rosalinde.

    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' th' 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.   '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 streching 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 charg'd

             That one body should be fill'd

           With all graces wide-enlarg'd.

             Nature presently distill'd

           Helen's cheek, but not her heart,

             Cleopatra's majesty,

           Atalanta's better part,

             Sad Lucretia's modesty.

           Thus Rosalinde of many parts

             By heavenly synod was devis'd,

           Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

             To have the touches dearest priz'd.

           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

    hang'd 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

    berhym'd 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 remov'd 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, most wonderful wonderful, and

yet

    again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!

  ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am

    caparison'd 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 could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd

man

    out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle-

    either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the

cork

    out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

  CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly.

  ROSALIND. Is he of God's making? What manner of man?

    Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard?

  CELIA. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

  ROSALIND. Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful.

Let 

    me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the

    knowledge of his chin.

  CELIA. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd 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 saw'st him? What said he? How look'd

he?

    Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where

    remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see

him

    again? 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

    dropp'd acorn.

  ROSALIND. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops

forth

    such fruit.

  CELIA. Give me audience, good madam.

  ROSALIND. Proceed.

  CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd 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 furnish'd like a hunter.

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

  CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring'st 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 buy you; let's meet as little as we can.

  ORLANDO. I do desire we may be better strangers.

  JAQUES. I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in

    their barks.

  ORLANDO. I pray you mar no 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

    christen'd.

  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 conn'd 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 drown'd 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 solemniz'd; 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 coney 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 touch'd with so many giddy offences as

he

    hath generally tax'd 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 halfpence 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-shak'd; 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 ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded,

your

    sleeve unbutton'd, 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 punish'd 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 anything, 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 cur'd 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

    thatch'd 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 swear'st 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-favour'd; 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 promis'd 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? Courage! As horns

are

    odious, they are necessary. It is said: 'Many a man knows no

end

    of his goods.' Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no

end

    of them. Well, that is the 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 wall'd 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 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?

  MARTEXT. Is there none here to give the woman?

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

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

lawful.

  JAQUES. [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.

  TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you,

sir?

    You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I

am

    very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray

be

    cover'd.

  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

  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 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 laugh'd 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 puny 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 enquired

    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 th' 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, at a distance

  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 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 not 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. [Advancing] 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 fall'n 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 abus'd 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 lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?'

  SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe.

  PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?

  SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

  PHEBE. Why, I arn 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 extermin'd.

  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 scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon.

  PHEBE. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

  SILVIUS. Not very well; but I have met him oft;

    And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

    That the old carlot once was master of.

  PHEBE. Think not I love him, though I ask for him;

    '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

    Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

    There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him

    In parcels as I did, would have gone near

    To fall in love with him; but, for my part,

    I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

    I have more cause to hate him than to love him;

    For what had he to do to chide at me?

    He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black, 

    And, now I am rememb'red, 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

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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 contemplation of

my

    travels; in which my often rumination wraps me in 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 gain'd my experience.

                        Enter ORLANDO

  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.

  ORLANDO. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

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

  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. [Exit JAQUES] 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

    thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be

said

    of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' th' 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 woo'd 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

    gravell'd 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, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus

had

    his brains dash'd 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 liv'd many a fair year, though Hero

had

    turn'd 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 drown'd; and the foolish

    chroniclers of that age found it was- Hero of Sestos. But

these

    are all lies: men have died from time to time, and worms have

    eaten them, but not for love.

  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 wing'd.

  ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you

have

    possess'd 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 dispos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that

when

    thou are inclin'd to sleep.

  ORLANDO. But will my Rosalind do so?

  ROSALIND. By my life, she will do as I do.

  ORLANDO. O, but she is wise.

  ROSALIND. Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The

wiser, 

    the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will

out

    at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole;

stop

    that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

  ORLANDO. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say

'Wit,

    whither wilt?' ROSALIND. Nay, you might keep that check for

it, till you met your

    wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.

  ORLANDO. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

  ROSALIND. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall

never

    take her 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 misus'd our sex in your love-prate. We

must

    have your doublet and hose pluck'd 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, conceiv'd 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 and LORDS, in the habit of foresters

  JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer?

  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?

  LORD. Yes, sir.

  JAQUES. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make

noise

    enough.

                    SONG.

      What shall he have that kill'd the deer?

      His leather skin and horns to wear.

                              [The rest shall hear this burden:]

           Then sing him home.

      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 did bid me give you this.

    I know not the contents; but, as I guess

    By the stern brow and waspish action

    Which she did use as she was writing of it,

    It bears an angry tenour. Pardon me,

    I am but as a guiltless messenger.

  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. '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 the

            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 endur'd! Well, go your way to

her,

    for I see love hath made thee 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 fenc'd 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 wreath'd 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 liv'd 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 purpos'd 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 awak'd.

  CELIA. Are you his brother?

  ROSALIND. Was't you he rescu'd?

  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 bath'd,

    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,

    Dy'd 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

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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.

                         Enter WILLIAM

  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.

  WILLIAM. Good ev'n, Audrey.

  AUDREY. God ye good ev'n, William.

  WILLIAM. And good ev'n to you, sir. 

  TOUCHSTONE. Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy

    head; nay, prithee be cover'd. 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' th' 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 say'st 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 pour'd out of 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;

    will o'er-run 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 show'd me your handkercher?

  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 look'd; no sooner look'd

but

    they lov'd; no sooner lov'd but they sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd

but

    they ask'd one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason

but

    they sought the remedy- and in these degrees have they made

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, convers'd

    with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not

damnable.

    If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture

cries

    it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her.

I 

    know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is

not

    impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to

set

    her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without

any

    danger.

  ORLANDO. Speak'st 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 follow'd 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 obedience;

    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. Why do you speak too, '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, Audre'y; to-morrow

will we

    be married.

  AUDREY. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no

    dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here

come

    two of the banish'd 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' th' 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 the 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 the 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 the 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 deceiv'd, 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 buy 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 urg'd:

    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 promis'd 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 call'd 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 flatt'red 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-favour'd thing, sir, but mine own; a

    poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that 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 call'd 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 call'd the

Quip 

    Modest. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my

judgment.

    This is call'd the Reply Churlish. If again it was not well

cut,

    he would answer I spake not true. This is call'd the Reproof

    Valiant. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie.

This

    is call'd the Countercheck 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 measur'd

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

    Countercheck 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 peace-maker; much virtue in If.

  JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord?

    He's as good at any thing, and yet a fool.

  DUKE SENIOR. He uses his folly like a 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] 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 restor'd to them again

    That were with him exil'd. 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 endur'd 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 th' 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] 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]

Exeunt

EPILOGUE

                           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

    furnish'd 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 simp'ring 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

    pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd 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.

THE END

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