Enter Duke Senior, Amiens and Lords as outlaws.
DUKE SENIOR.
I think he be transformed 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 basked him in the sun,
And railed 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 crammed
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 judgements
Of all opinion that grows rank in them
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please, for so fools have.
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
The “why” is plain as way to parish church.
He that a fool doth very wisely hit
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob. If not,
The wise man’s folly is anatomized
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley. Give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of 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 weary very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name
When that I say the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in and say that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function
That says his bravery is not on my cost,
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
There then. How then, what then? Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wronged him. If it do him right,
Then he hath wronged himself. If he be free,
Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies
Unclaimed of any man. But who comes here?
Enter Orlando with sword drawn.
ORLANDO.
Forbear, and eat no more.
JAQUES.
Why, I have eat none yet.
ORLANDO.
Nor shalt not till necessity be served.
JAQUES.
Of what kind should this cock come of?
DUKE SENIOR.
Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress?
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem’st so empty?
ORLANDO.
You touched my vein at first. The thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show
Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say!
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answered.
JAQUES.
An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.
DUKE SENIOR.
What would you have? Your gentleness shall force
More than your force move us to 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 looked on better days,
If ever been where bells have knolled to church,
If ever sat at any good man’s feast,
If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear,
And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be,
In the which hope I blush and hide my sword.
DUKE SENIOR.
True is it that we have seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knolled to church,
And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered.
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have
That to your wanting may be ministered.
ORLANDO.
Then but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed,
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.
DUKE SENIOR.
Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.
ORLANDO.
I thank ye, and be blest for your good comfort.
[_Exit._]
DUKE SENIOR.
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy.
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.
JAQUES.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Enter Orlando bearing 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.
AMIENS. (_Sings_.)
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 remembered not.
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.
DUKE SENIOR.
If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,
As you have whispered faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limned and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke
That loved your father. The residue of your fortune
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.
Support him by the arm. [_To Orlando_.] Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT III
SCENE I. A Room in the Palace
Enter Duke Frederick, Lords and Oliver.
DUKE FREDERICK.
Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be.
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:
Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is.
Seek him with candle. Bring him dead or living
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth
Of what we think against thee.
OLIVER.
O that your highness knew my heart in this:
I never loved my brother in my life.
DUKE FREDERICK.
More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors,
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands.
Do this expediently, and turn him going.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. The Forest of Arden
Enter Orlando with a paper.
ORLANDO.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love.
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
[_Exit._]
Enter Corin and Touchstone.
CORIN.
And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in
respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it
is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it
is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me
well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As 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 damned.
CORIN.
Nay, I hope.
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
CORIN.
For not being at court? Your reason.
TOUCHSTONE.
Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never 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 tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would
you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.
TOUCHSTONE.
Most shallow man! Thou worm’s meat in respect of a good piece of flesh
indeed! Learn of the wise and perpend. Civet is of a baser birth than
tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.
CORIN.
You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.
TOUCHSTONE.
Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in
thee, thou art raw.
CORIN.
Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no
man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, content
with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and
my lambs suck.
TOUCHSTONE.
That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams
together and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle;
to be bawd to a bell-wether and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth
to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If
thou be’st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no
shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape.
Enter Rosalind as Ganymede.
CORIN.
Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.
ROSALIND.
[_Reads_.]
_From the east to western Inde
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures fairest lined
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalind._
TOUCHSTONE.
I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and
sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.
ROSALIND.
Out, fool!
TOUCHSTONE.
For a taste:
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So be sure will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lined,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find
Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself
with them?
ROSALIND.
Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
ROSALIND.
I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft 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 as Aliena, reading a paper.
ROSALIND.
Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.
CELIA.
[_Reads_.]
_Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No!
Tongues I’ll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the 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 charged
That one body should be filled
With all graces wide-enlarged.
Nature presently distilled
Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra’s majesty;
Atalanta’s better part,
Sad Lucretia’s modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devised,
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts
To have the touches dearest prized.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave._
ROSALIND.
O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of love have you wearied
your parishioners withal, and never cried “Have patience, good people!”
CELIA.
How now! Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.
TOUCHSTONE.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag
and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
[_Exeunt Corin and Touchstone._]
CELIA.
Didst thou hear these verses?
ROSALIND.
O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them
more feet than the verses would bear.
CELIA.
That’s no matter. The feet might bear the verses.
ROSALIND.
Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the
verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
CELIA.
But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and
carved upon these trees?
ROSALIND.
I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for
look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since
Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
CELIA.
Trow you who hath done this?
ROSALIND.
Is it a man?
CELIA.
And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?
ROSALIND.
I prithee, who?
CELIA.
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains
may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.
ROSALIND.
Nay, but who is it?
CELIA.
Is it possible?
ROSALIND.
Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
CELIA.
O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again
wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
ROSALIND.
Good my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a
man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay
more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly,
and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour
this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of
narrow-mouthed 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 tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your
heart both in an instant.
ROSALIND.
Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true maid.
CELIA.
I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.
ROSALIND.
Orlando?
CELIA.
Orlando.
ROSALIND.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he
when thou saw’st him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he?
What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he
with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.
CELIA.
You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first. ’Tis a word too great for
any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is
more than to answer in a catechism.
ROSALIND.
But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel? Looks
he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
CELIA.
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a
lover. But take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good
observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.
ROSALIND.
It may well be called Jove’s tree when it drops forth such fruit.
CELIA.
Give me audience, good madam.
ROSALIND.
Proceed.
CELIA.
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.
ROSALIND.
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
CELIA.
Cry “holla!” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets unseasonably. He was
furnished like a hunter.
ROSALIND.
O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.
CELIA.
I would sing my song without a burden. Thou bring’st me out of tune.
ROSALIND.
Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say
on.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
CELIA.
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
ROSALIND.
’Tis he! Slink by, and note him.
[_Rosalind and Celia step aside._]
JAQUES.
I thank you for your company but, good faith, I had as lief have been
myself alone.
ORLANDO.
And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your
society.
JAQUES.
God be wi’ you, let’s meet as little as we can.
ORLANDO.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
JAQUES.
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks.
ORLANDO.
I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.
JAQUES.
Rosalind is your love’s name?
ORLANDO.
Yes, just.
JAQUES.
I do not like her name.
ORLANDO.
There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
JAQUES.
What stature is she of?
ORLANDO.
Just as high as my heart.
JAQUES.
You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with
goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?
ORLANDO.
Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have
studied your questions.
JAQUES.
You have a nimble wit. I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you
sit down with me? And we two will rail against our mistress the world
and all our misery.
ORLANDO.
I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know
most faults.
JAQUES.
The worst fault you have is to be in love.
ORLANDO.
’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.
JAQUES.
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
ORLANDO.
He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.
JAQUES.
There I shall see mine own figure.
ORLANDO.
Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
JAQUES.
I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love.
ORLANDO.
I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.
[_Exit Jaques.—Celia and Rosalind come forward._]
ROSALIND.
I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the
knave with him.
Do you hear, forester?
ORLANDO.
Very well. What would you?
ROSALIND.
I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
ORLANDO.
You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest.
ROSALIND.
Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute
and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a
clock.
ORLANDO.
And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?
ROSALIND.
By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.
I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time
gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
ORLANDO.
I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
ROSALIND.
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her
marriage and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a
se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven
year.
ORLANDO.
Who ambles time withal?
ROSALIND.
With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout;
for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives
merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean
and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious
penury. These time ambles withal.
ORLANDO.
Who doth he gallop withal?
ROSALIND.
With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can
fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
ORLANDO.
Who stays it still withal?
ROSALIND.
With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and
then they perceive not how time moves.
ORLANDO.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
ROSALIND.
With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest,
like fringe upon a petticoat.
ORLANDO.
Are you native of this place?
ROSALIND.
As the 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
touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their
whole sex withal.
ORLANDO.
Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge
of women?
ROSALIND.
There were none principal. They were all like one another as 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-shaked. I pray you tell me your remedy.
ROSALIND.
There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you. He taught me how to know a
man in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
ORLANDO.
What were his marks?
ROSALIND.
A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have
not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected,
which you have not—but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in
beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should be
ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe
untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation.
But you are no such man. You are rather point-device in your
accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.
ORLANDO.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
ROSALIND.
Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it, which
I warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of
the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences.
But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees,
wherein Rosalind is so admired?
ORLANDO.
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he,
that unfortunate he.
ROSALIND.
But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
ORLANDO.
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
ROSALIND.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark
house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so
punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers
are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
ORLANDO.
Did you ever cure any so?
ROSALIND.
Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his
mistress, and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I,
being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing
and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of
tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion
truly 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 cured him, and this way will I take upon me
to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall
not be one spot of love in ’t.
ORLANDO.
I would not be cured, youth.
ROSALIND.
I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day
to my cote and woo me.
ORLANDO.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
ROSALIND.
Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and by the way you shall tell
me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
ORLANDO.
With all my heart, good youth.
ROSALIND.
Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques at a distance observing them.
TOUCHSTONE.
Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how,
Audrey? Am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
AUDREY.
Your features, Lord warrant us! What features?
TOUCHSTONE.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest
Ovid, was among the Goths.
JAQUES.
[_Aside_.] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatched
house!
TOUCHSTONE.
When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded
with the forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more dead than
a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made
thee poetical.
AUDREY.
I do not know what “poetical” is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it
a true thing?
TOUCHSTONE.
No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are
given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said, as lovers,
they do feign.
AUDREY.
Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?
TOUCHSTONE.
I do, truly, for thou 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-favoured; for honesty coupled to
beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
JAQUES.
[_Aside_.] A material fool!
AUDREY.
Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat
into an unclean dish.
AUDREY.
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
TOUCHSTONE.
Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness; sluttishness may come
hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee. And to that end I
have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who
hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest and to couple us.
JAQUES.
[_Aside_.] I would fain see this meeting.
AUDREY.
Well, the gods give us joy!
TOUCHSTONE.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this
attempt, for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but
horn-beasts. But what though? 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 walled town is more worthier
than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable
than the bare brow of a bachelor. And by how much defence is better
than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want.
Enter Sir Oliver Martext.
Here comes Sir Oliver. 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.
[_Coming forward_.] Proceed, proceed. I’ll give her.
TOUCHSTONE.
Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t, how do you, sir? You are very
well met. God ’ild you for your last company. I am very glad to see
you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay, pray be covered.
JAQUES.
Will you be married, motley?
TOUCHSTONE.
As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her
bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would
be nibbling.
JAQUES.
And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush
like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell
you what marriage is. This fellow will but join you together as they
join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and like
green timber, warp, warp.
TOUCHSTONE.
[_Aside_.] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him
than of another, for he is not like to marry me well, and not being
well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my
wife.
JAQUES.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
TOUCHSTONE.
Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not
_O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee._
But
_Wind away,—
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee._
[_Exeunt Touchstone, Audrey and Jaques._]
MARTEXT.
’Tis no matter. Ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me
out of my calling.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
ROSALIND.
Never talk to me, I will weep.
CELIA.
Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not
become a man.
ROSALIND.
But have I not cause to weep?
CELIA.
As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
ROSALIND.
His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
CELIA.
Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own
children.
ROSALIND.
I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.
CELIA.
An excellent colour. Your chestnut was ever the only colour.
ROSALIND.
And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
CELIA.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter’s
sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in
them.
ROSALIND.
But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
CELIA.
Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
ROSALIND.
Do you think so?
CELIA.
Yes. I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer, but for his
verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a
worm-eaten nut.
ROSALIND.
Not true in love?
CELIA.
Yes, when he is in, but I think he is not in.
ROSALIND.
You have heard him swear downright he was.
CELIA.
“Was” is not “is”. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the
word of a tapster. They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He
attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.
ROSALIND.
I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me
of what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as he, so he laughed
and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as
Orlando?
CELIA.
O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words,
swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart
the heart of his lover, as a 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 complained of love,
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
CELIA.
Well, and what of him?
CORIN.
If you will see a pageant truly played
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 Phoebe.
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe.
Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin, at a distance.
PHOEBE.
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 called 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 Phoebe,
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.
PHOEBE.
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-favoured 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.
PHOEBE.
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?
PHOEBE.
For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND.
I pray you do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.
Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.
Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.
[_Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin._]
PHOEBE.
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE.
Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS.
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined.
PHOEBE.
Thou hast my love. Is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS.
I would have you.
PHOEBE.
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 employed.
SILVIUS.
So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
PHOEBE.
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.
PHOEBE.
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 mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but for my part
I love him not nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him.
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black,
And now I am remembered, scorned at me.
I marvel why I answered 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.
Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE.
I’ll write it straight,
The matter’s in my head and in my heart.
I will be bitter with him and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT IV
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden
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 gained my experience.
ROSALIND.
And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me
merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.
Enter Orlando.
ORLANDO.
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
JAQUES.
Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
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 clapped
him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
ORLANDO.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be
wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO.
Of a snail?
ROSALIND.
Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his
head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he
brings his destiny with him.
ORLANDO.
What’s that?
ROSALIND.
Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives
for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his
wife.
ORLANDO.
Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND.
And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA.
It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer
than you.
ROSALIND.
Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough
to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very
Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND.
Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack
of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when
they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn
us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
ORLANDO.
How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND.
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO.
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND.
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my
honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO.
What, of my suit?
ROSALIND.
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your
Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND.
Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO.
Then, in mine own person, I die.
ROSALIND.
No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years
old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person,
_videlicet_, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a
Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of
the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer
night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont
and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish
chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all
lies. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but
not for love.
ORLANDO.
I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her
frown might kill me.
ROSALIND.
By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your
Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I
will grant it.
ORLANDO.
Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO.
And wilt thou have me?
ROSALIND.
Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO.
What sayest thou?
ROSALIND.
Are you not good?
ORLANDO.
I hope so.
ROSALIND.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you
shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do
you say, sister?
ORLANDO.
Pray thee, marry us.
CELIA.
I cannot say the words.
ROSALIND.
You must begin “Will you, Orlando—”
CELIA.
Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I will.
ROSALIND.
Ay, but when?
ORLANDO.
Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
ROSALIND.
Then you must say “I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”
ORLANDO.
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
ROSALIND.
I might ask you for your commission. But I do take thee, Orlando, for
my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a
woman’s thought runs before her actions.
ORLANDO.
So do all thoughts. They are winged.
ROSALIND.
Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.
ORLANDO.
For ever and a day.
ROSALIND.
Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when
they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids,
but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee
than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot
against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires
than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and
I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a
hyena, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.
ORLANDO.
But will my Rosalind do so?
ROSALIND.
By my life, she will do as I do.
ORLANDO.
O, but she is wise.
ROSALIND.
Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the
waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the
casement. Shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole. 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 misused our sex in your love-prate! We must have your
doublet and hose plucked over your head and show the world what the
bird hath done to her own nest.
ROSALIND.
O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many
fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath
an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
CELIA.
Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs
out.
ROSALIND.
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought,
conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that
abuses everyone’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. Another part of the Forest
Enter Jaques and Lords, like foresters.
JAQUES.
Which is he that killed the deer?
FIRST 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?
SECOND LORD.
Yes, sir.
JAQUES.
Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
SONG
SECOND LORD.
[_Sings_.]
What shall he have that killed the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Then sing him home:
[_The rest shall bear this burden_.]
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn.
It was a crest ere thou wast born.
Thy father’s father wore it
And thy father bore it.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another part of 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.
Enter Silvius.
Look who comes here.
SILVIUS.
My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.
[_Giving a letter._]
I know not the contents, but, as I guess
By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor. Pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
ROSALIND.
Patience herself would startle at this letter
And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all!
She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,
Were man as rare as phoenix. ’Od’s my will,
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.
Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.
SILVIUS.
No, I protest, I know not the contents.
Phoebe did write it.
ROSALIND.
Come, come, you are a fool,
And turned into the extremity of love.
I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand,
A freestone-coloured hand. I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but ’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 Ethiop 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 Phoebe’s cruelty.
ROSALIND.
She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.
[_Reads._]
_Art thou god to shepherd turned,
That a maiden’s heart hath burned?_
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 thee
Little knows this love in me;
And by him seal up thy mind,
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make,
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I’ll study how to die._
SILVIUS.
Call you this chiding?
CELIA.
Alas, poor shepherd.
ROSALIND.
Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity.—Wilt thou love such a woman?
What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee? Not
to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee
a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to
love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou entreat
for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word, for here comes
more company.
[_Exit Silvius._]
Enter Oliver.
OLIVER.
Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know,
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheepcote fenced about with olive trees?
CELIA.
West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom;
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place.
But at this hour the house doth keep itself.
There’s none within.
OLIVER.
If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description,
Such garments, and such years. “The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister; the woman low,
And browner than her brother.” Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
CELIA.
It is no boast, being asked, 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 handkerchief was stained.
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 mossed with age
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back; about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached
The opening of his mouth. But suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush; under which bush’s shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch
When that the sleeping man should stir. For ’tis
The royal disposition of that beast
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.
This seen, Orlando did approach the man
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
CELIA.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived amongst men.
OLIVER.
And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
ROSALIND.
But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,
Food to the sucked and hungry lioness?
OLIVER.
Twice did he turn his back and purposed so;
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awaked.
CELIA.
Are you his brother?
ROSALIND.
Was it you he rescued?
CELIA.
Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
OLIVER.
’Twas I; but ’tis not I. I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
ROSALIND.
But, for the bloody napkin?
OLIVER.
By and by.
When from the first to last betwixt us two
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed—
As how I came into that desert place—
In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother’s love,
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripped himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And cried in fainting upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recovered him, bound up his wound,
And after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
[_Rosalind faints._]
CELIA.
Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede!
OLIVER.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
CELIA.
There is more in it. Cousin—Ganymede!
OLIVER.
Look, he recovers.
ROSALIND.
I would I were at home.
CELIA.
We’ll lead you thither.
I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
OLIVER.
Be of good cheer, youth. You a man? You lack a man’s heart.
ROSALIND.
I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well
counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited.
Heigh-ho.
OLIVER.
This was not counterfeit. There is too great testimony in your
complexion that it was a passion of earnest.
ROSALIND.
Counterfeit, I assure you.
OLIVER.
Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.
ROSALIND.
So I do. But, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right.
CELIA.
Come, you look paler and paler. Pray you draw homewards. Good sir, go
with us.
OLIVER.
That will I, for I must bear answer back
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
I shall devise something. But I pray you commend my counterfeiting to
him. Will you go?
[_Exeunt._]
ACT V
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden
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.
Enter William.
Here comes the man you mean.
TOUCHSTONE.
It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth, we that have
good wits have much to answer for. We shall be flouting; we cannot
hold.
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 covered. How old are you, friend?
WILLIAM.
Five-and-twenty, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
A ripe age. Is thy name William?
WILLIAM.
William, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
A fair name. Wast born i’ 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 sayst well. I do now remember a saying: “The fool doth think
he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” The heathen
philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips
when he put it into his mouth, meaning thereby that grapes were made to
eat and lips to open. You do love this maid?
WILLIAM.
I do, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
WILLIAM.
No, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
Then learn this of me: to have is to have. For it is a figure in
rhetoric that drink, being poured out of 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’errun thee with policy. I
will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways! Therefore tremble and depart.
AUDREY.
Do, good William.
WILLIAM.
God rest you merry, sir.
[_Exit._]
Enter Corin.
CORIN.
Our master and mistress seek you. Come away, away.
TOUCHSTONE.
Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Another part of 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.
Enter Rosalind.
ORLANDO.
You have my consent. Let your wedding be tomorrow. Thither will I
invite the Duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare
Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
God save you, brother.
OLIVER.
And you, fair sister.
[_Exit._]
ROSALIND.
O my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a
scarf!
ORLANDO.
It is my arm.
ROSALIND.
I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.
ORLANDO.
Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
ROSALIND.
Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he showed
me your handkercher?
ORLANDO.
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
ROSALIND.
O, I know where you are. Nay, ’tis true. There was never anything so
sudden but the fight of two rams, and Caesar’s thrasonical brag of “I
came, saw and overcame.” For your brother and my sister no sooner met
but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but
they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no
sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees
have they made 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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow 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, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I can live no longer by thinking.
ROSALIND.
I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then—for
now I speak to some purpose—that I know you are a gentleman of good
conceit. I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my
knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are. Neither do I labour for a
greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you,
to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please,
that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three year old,
conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not
damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture
cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I
know into what straits of fortune she is driven and it is not
impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her
before your eyes tomorrow, human as she is, and without any danger.
ORLANDO.
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 tomorrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
PHOEBE.
Youth, you have done me much ungentleness
To show the letter that I writ to you.
ROSALIND.
I care not if I have; it is my study
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.
You are there followed by a faithful shepherd.
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
PHOEBE.
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 Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
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 Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
And I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO.
And I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
And I for no woman.
SILVIUS.
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes,
All adoration, duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance,
And so am I for Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
And so am I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO.
And so am I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
And so am I for no woman.
PHOEBE.
[_To Rosalind_.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
SILVIUS.
[_To Phoebe_.] 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 Phoebe_.] I would love you if I could.—Tomorrow meet me all
together.
[_to Phoebe_.] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be
married tomorrow.
[_to Orlando_.] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you
shall be married tomorrow.
[_to Silvius_.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you,
and you shall be married tomorrow.
[_to Orlando_.] As you love Rosalind, meet.
[_to Silvius_.] As you love Phoebe, 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.
PHOEBE.
Nor I.
ORLANDO.
Nor I.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
TOUCHSTONE.
Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey, tomorrow 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.
Enter two Pages.
Here come two of the banished Duke’s 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
PAGES.
[_Sing_.]
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green cornfield 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, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower,
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crowned with the prime,
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
TOUCHSTONE
Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty,
yet the note was very untuneable.
FIRST PAGE.
You are deceived, sir, we kept time, we lost not our time.
TOUCHSTONE.
By my troth, yes. I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song.
God be wi’ you, and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. Another part of 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 Phoebe.
ROSALIND.
Patience once more whiles our compact is urged.
[_To the Duke._] 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.
[_To Orlando_.] And you say you will have her when I bring her?
ORLANDO.
That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
ROSALIND.
[_To Phoebe_.] You say you’ll marry me if I be willing?
PHOEBE.
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?
PHOEBE.
So is the bargain.
ROSALIND.
[_To Silvius_.] You say that you’ll have Phoebe if she will?
SILVIUS.
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
ROSALIND.
I have promised to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter,
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter.
Keep your word, Phoebe, 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 tutored in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
JAQUES.
There is sure another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the
ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are
called fools.
TOUCHSTONE.
Salutation and greeting to you all.
JAQUES.
Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that
I have so often met in the forest. He hath been a courtier, he swears.
TOUCHSTONE.
If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a
measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend,
smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four
quarrels, and like to have fought one.
JAQUES.
And how was that ta’en up?
TOUCHSTONE.
Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.
JAQUES.
How seventh cause?—Good my lord, like this fellow?
DUKE SENIOR.
I like him very well.
TOUCHSTONE.
God ’ild you, sir, I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir,
amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear
according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir, an
ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to
take that that no man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir,
in a poor house, as your pearl in your foul oyster.
DUKE SENIOR.
By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
TOUCHSTONE.
According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.
JAQUES.
But, for the seventh cause. How did you find the quarrel on the seventh
cause?
TOUCHSTONE.
Upon a lie seven times removed—bear your body more seeming, Audrey—as
thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard. He sent
me word if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it
was. This is called the “retort courteous”. If I sent him word again it
was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself.
This is called the “quip modest”. If again it was not well cut, he
disabled my judgement. This is called the “reply churlish”. If again it
was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is called the
“reproof valiant”. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie.
This is called 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 measured swords and parted.
JAQUES.
Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?
TOUCHSTONE.
O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book, as you have books for good
manners. I will name you the degrees: the first, the retort courteous;
the second, the quip modest; the third, the reply churlish; the fourth,
the reproof valiant; the fifth, the 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 peacemaker; much virtue in “if.”
JAQUES.
Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? He’s as good at anything, 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 in woman’s clothes, and Celia. Still music.
HYMEN.
Then is there mirth in heaven
When earthly things made even
Atone together.
Good Duke, receive thy daughter.
Hymen from heaven brought her,
Yea, brought her hither,
That thou mightst join her hand with his,
Whose heart within his bosom is.
ROSALIND.
[_To Duke Senior_.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
[_To Orlando_.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
DUKE SENIOR.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
ORLANDO.
If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
PHOEBE.
If sight and shape be true,
Why then, my love adieu.
ROSALIND.
[_To Duke Senior_.] I’ll have no father, if you be not he.
[_To Orlando_.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not he.
[_To Phoebe_.] 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.
[_To Orlando and Rosalind_.] You and you no cross shall part.
[_To Celia and Oliver_.] You and you are heart in heart.
[_To Phoebe_.] You to his love must accord
Or have a woman to your lord.
[_To Audrey and Touchstone_.] 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.
PHOEBE.
[_To Silvius_.] 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,
Addressed a mighty power, which were on foot
In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here and put him to the sword;
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came,
Where, meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise and from the world,
His crown bequeathing to his banished brother,
And all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exiled. This to be true
I do engage my life.
DUKE SENIOR.
Welcome, young man.
Thou offer’st fairly to thy brother’s wedding:
To one his lands withheld, and to the other
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot;
And after, every of this happy number
That have endured shrewd days and nights with us
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,
And fall into our rustic revelry.
Play, music! And you brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heaped 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 learned.
[_To Duke Senior_.] You to your former honour I bequeath;
Your patience and your virtue well deserves it.
[_To Orlando_.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit.
[_To Oliver_.] You to your land, and love, and great allies.
[_To Silvius_.] You to a long and well-deserved bed.
[_To Touchstone_.] And you to wrangling, for thy loving voyage
Is but for two months victualled.—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 abandoned cave.
[_Exit._]
DUKE SENIOR.
Proceed, proceed! We will begin these rites,
As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.
[_Dance. Exeunt all but Rosalind._]
EPILOGUE
ROSALIND.
It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue, but it is no more
unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good
wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet
to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better
by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am
neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of
a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar; therefore to beg will
not become me. My way is to conjure you, and I’ll begin with the women.
I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of
this play as please you. And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear
to women—as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them—that
between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I
would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions
that liked me, and breaths that I defied not. And I am sure as many as
have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths will for my kind
offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.
[_Exit._]