As You Like It (Folio 1, 1623)

Author: William Shakespeare

Editor: David Bevington

Peer Reviewed

As You Like It (Modern)
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  23. Epilogue
As You Like It (Folio 1, 1623)
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  23. Epilogue
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As you Like it.

Actus primus. Scœna Prima.

Enter Orlando and Adam.

¶_Orlando.

¶As I remember Adam, it was vpon this fashion

5bequeathed me by will, but poore a thousand

¶Crownes, and as thou saist, charged my bro-

¶ther on his blessing to breed mee well: and

¶there begins my sadnesse: My brother Iaques he keepes

¶at schoole, and report speakes goldenly of his profit:

10for my part, he keepes me rustically at home, or (to speak

¶more properly) staies me heere at home vnkept: for call

¶you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that dif-

¶fers not from the stalling of an Oxe? his horses are bred

¶better, for besides that they are faire with their feeding,

15they are taught their mannage, and to that end Riders

¶deerely hir'd: but I (his brother) gaine nothing vnder

¶him but growth, for the which his Animals on his

¶dunghils are as much bound to him as I: besides this no-

¶thing that he so plentifully giues me, the something that

20nature gaue mee, his countenance seemes to take from

¶me: hee lets mee feede with his Hindes, barres mee the

¶place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my

¶gentility with my education. This is it Adam that

¶grieues me, and the spirit of my Father, which I thinke

25is within mee, begins to mutinie against this seruitude.

¶I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise

¶remedy how to auoid it.

Enter Oliuer.

¶Adam. Yonder comes my Master, your brother.

30Orlan. Goe a-part Adam, and thou shalt heare how

¶he will shake me vp.

¶Oli. Now Sir, what make you heere?

¶Orl. Nothing: I am not taught to make any thing.

¶Oli. What mar you then sir?

35Orl. Marry sir, I am helping you to mar that which

¶God made, a poore vnworthy brother of yours with

¶idlenesse.

¶Oliuer. Marry sir be better employed, and be naught

¶a while.

40Orlan. Shall I keepe your hogs, and eat huskes with

¶them? what prodigall portion haue I spent, that I should

¶come to such penury?

¶Oli. Know you where you are sir?

¶Orl. O sir, very well: heere in your Orchard.

45Oli. Know you before whom sir?

¶Orl. I, better then him I am before knowes mee: I

¶know you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle con-

¶dition of bloud you should so know me: the courtesie of

¶nations allowes you my better, in that you are the first

50borne, but the same tradition takes not away my bloud,

¶were there twenty brothers betwixt vs: I haue as much

¶of my father in mee, as you, albeit I confesse your com-

¶ming before me is neerer to his reuerence.

¶Oli. What Boy.

55Orl. Come, come elder brother, you are too yong in

(this.

¶Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me villaine?

¶Orl. I am no villaine: I am the yongest sonne of Sir

¶Rowland de Boys, he was my father, and he is thrice a vil-

¶laine that saies such a father begot villaines: wert thou

60not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy

¶throat, till this other had puld out thy tongue for saying

¶so, thou hast raild on thy selfe.

¶Adam. Sweet Masters bee patient, for your Fathers

¶remembrance, be at accord.

65Oli. Let me goe I say.

¶Orl. I will not till I please: you shall heare mee: my

¶father charg'd you in his will to giue me good educati-

¶on: you haue train'd me like a pezant, obscuring and

¶hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities: the spirit

70of my father growes strong in mee, and I will no longer

¶endure it: therefore allow me such exercises as may be-

¶come a gentleman, or giue mee the poore allottery my

¶father left me by testament, with that I will goe buy my

¶fortunes.

75Oli. 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 haue some part of your will, I pray you

¶leaue me.

¶Orl. I will no further offend you, then becomes mee

80for my good.

¶Oli. Get you with him, you olde dogge.

¶Adam. Is old dogge my reward: most true, I haue

¶lost my teeth in your seruice: God be with my olde ma-

¶ster, he would not haue spoke such a word.

Ex. Orl. Ad.

85Oli. Is it euen so, begin you to grow vpon me? I will

¶physicke your ranckenesse, and yet giue no thousand

¶crownes neyther: holla Dennis.

Enter Dennis.

¶Den. Calls your worship?

90Oli. Was not Charles the Dukes Wrastler heere to

¶speake with me?

¶Den. So please you, he is heere at the doore, and im-

¶portunes accesse to you.

¶Oli. Call him in: 'twill be a good way: and to mor-

95row the wrastling is.

Enter Charles.

¶Cha. Good morrow to your worship.

¶Oli. Good Mounsier Charles: what's the new newes

¶at the new Court?

100Charles. There's no newes at the Court Sir, but the

¶olde newes: that is, the old Duke is banished by his yon-

¶ger brother the new Duke, and three or foure louing

¶Lords haue put themselues into voluntary exile with

¶him, whose lands and reuenues enrich the new Duke,

105therefore he giues them good leaue to wander.

¶Oli. Can you tell if Rosalind the Dukes daughter bee

¶banished with her Father?

¶Cha. O no; for the Dukes daughter her Cosen so

¶loues her, being euer from their Cradles bred together,

110that hee would haue followed her exile, or haue died to

¶stay behind her; she is at the Court, and no lesse beloued

¶of her Vncle, then his owne daughter, and neuer two La-

¶dies loued as they doe.

¶Oli. Where will the old Duke liue?

115Cha. They say hee is already in the Forrest of Arden,

¶and a many merry men with him; and there they liue

¶like the old Robin Hood of England: they say many yong

¶Gentlemen flocke to him euery day, and fleet the time

¶carelesly as they did in the golden world.

120Oli. What, you wrastle to morrow before the new

¶Duke.

¶Cha. Marry doe I sir: and I came to acquaint you

¶with a matter: I am giuen sir secretly to vnderstand, that

¶your yonger brother Orlando hath a disposition to come

125in disguis'd against mee to try a fall: to morrow sir I

¶wrastle for my credit, and hee that escapes me without

¶some broken limbe, shall acquit him well: your brother

¶is but young and tender, and for your loue I would bee

¶loth to foyle him, as I must for my owne honour if hee

130come in: therefore out of my loue to you, I came hither

¶to acquaint you withall, that either you might stay him

¶from his intendment, or brooke such disgrace well as he

¶shall runne into, in that it is a thing of his owne search,

¶and altogether against my will.

135Oli. Charles, I thanke thee for thy loue to me, which

¶thou shalt finde I will most kindly requite: I had my

¶selfe notice of my Brothers purpose heerein, and haue by

¶vnder-hand meanes laboured to disswade him from it;

¶but he is resolute. Ile tell thee Charles, it is the stubbor-

140nest yong fellow of France, full of ambition, an enuious

¶emulator of euery mans good parts, a secret & villanous

¶contriuer against mee his naturall brother: therefore vse

¶thy discretion, I had as liefe thou didst breake his necke

¶as his finger. And thou wert best looke to't; for if thou

145dost him any slight disgrace, or if hee doe not mightilie

¶grace himselfe on thee, hee will practise against thee by

¶poyson, entrap thee by some treacherous deuise, and ne-

¶uer leaue thee till he hath tane thy life by some indirect

¶meanes or other: for I assure thee, (and almost with

150teares I speake it) there is not one so young, and so vil-

¶lanous this day liuing. I speake but brotherly of him,

¶but should I anathomize him to thee, as hee is, I must

¶blush, and weepe, and thou must looke pale and

¶wonder.

155Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you: if hee

¶come to morrow, Ile giue him his payment: if euer hee

¶goe alone againe, Ile neuer wrastle for prize more: and

¶so God keepe your worship.

Exit.

¶_Farewell good Charles. Now will I stirre this Game-

160ster: I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soule (yet

¶I know not why) hates nothing more then he: yet hee's

¶gentle, neuer school'd, and yet learned, full of noble

¶deuise, of all sorts enchantingly beloued, and indeed

¶so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my

165owne people, who best know him, that I am altogether

¶misprised: but it shall not be so long, this wrastler shall

¶cleare all: nothing remaines, but that I kindle the boy

¶thither, which now Ile goe about.

Exit.

Scœna Secunda.

170

Enter Rosalind, and Cellia.

¶Cel. I pray thee Rosalind, sweet my Coz, be merry.

¶Ros. Deere Cellia; I show more mirth then I am mi-

¶stresse of, and would you yet were merrier: vnlesse you

¶could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not

175learne mee how to remember any extraordinary plea-

¶sure.

¶Cel. Heerein I see thou lou'st mee not with the full

¶waight that I loue thee; if my Vncle thy banished father

¶had banished thy Vncle the Duke my Father, so thou

180hadst beene still with mee, I could haue taught my loue

¶to take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the truth

¶of thy loue to me were so righteously temper'd, as mine

¶is to thee.

¶Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate,

185to reioyce in yours.

¶Cel. You know my Father hath no childe, but I, nor

¶none is like to haue; and truely when he dies, thou shalt

¶be his heire; for what hee hath taken away from thy fa-

¶ther perforce, I will render thee againe in affection: by

190mine honor I will, and when I breake that oath, let mee

¶turne monster: therefore my sweet Rose, my deare Rose,

¶be merry.

¶Ros. From henceforth I will Coz, and deuise sports:

¶let me see, what thinke you of falling in Loue?

195Cel. Marry I prethee doe, to make sport withall: but

¶loue no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport ney-

¶ther, then with safety of a pure blush, thou maist in ho-

¶nor come off againe.

¶Ros. What shall be our sport then?

200Cel. Let vs sit and mocke the good houswife For-

¶tune from her wheele, that her gifts may henceforth bee

¶bestowed equally.

¶Ros. I would wee could doe so: for her benefits are

¶mightily misplaced, and the bountifull blinde woman

205doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

¶Cel. 'Tis true, for those that she makes faire, she scarce

¶makes honest, & those that she makes honest, she makes

¶very illfauouredly.

¶Ros. Nay now thou goest from Fortunes office to Na-

210tures: Fortune reignes in gifts of the world, not in the

¶lineaments of Nature.

Enter Clowne.

¶Cel. No; when Nature hath made a faire creature,

¶may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? though nature

215hath giuen vs wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune

¶sent in this foole to cut off the argument?

¶Ros. Indeed there is fortune too hard for nature, when

¶fortune makes natures naturall, the cutter off of natures

¶witte.

220Cel. Peraduenture this is not Fortunes work neither,

¶but Natures, who perceiueth our naturall wits too dull

¶to reason of such goddesses, hath sent this Naturall for

¶our whetstone. for alwaies the dulnesse of the foole, is

¶the whetstone of the wits. How now Witte, whether

225wander you?

¶Clow. Mistresse, you must come away to your farher.

¶Cel. Were you made the messenger?

¶Clo. No by mine honor, but I was bid to come for you

¶Ros. Where learned you that oath foole?

230Clo. Of a certaine Knight, that swore by his Honour

¶they were good Pan-cakes, and swore by his Honor the

¶Mustard was naught: Now Ile stand to it, the Pancakes

¶were naught, and the Mustard was good, and yet was

¶not the Knight forsworne.

235Cel. How proue you that in the great heape of your

¶knowledge?

¶Ros. I marry, now vnmuzzle your wisedome.

¶Clo. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chinnes,

¶and sweare by your beards that I am a knaue.

240Cel. By our beards (if we had them) thou art.

¶Clo. By my knauerie (if I had it) then I were: but if

¶you sweare by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no

¶more was this knight swearing by his Honor, for he ne-

¶uer had anie; or if he had, he had sworne it away, before

245euer he saw those Pancakes, or that Mustard.

¶Cel. Prethee, who is't that thou means't?

¶Clo. One that old Fredericke your Father loues.

¶Ros. My Fathers loue is enough to honor him enough;

¶speake no more of him, you'l be whipt for taxation one

250of these daies.

¶Clo. The more pittie that fooles may not speak wise-

¶ly, what Wisemen do foolishly.

¶Cel. By my troth thou saiest true: For, since the little

¶wit that fooles haue was silenced, the little foolerie that

255wise men haue makes a great shew; Heere comes Mon-

¶sieur the Beu.

Enter le Beau.

¶Ros. With his mouth full of newes.

¶Cel. Which he vvill put on vs, as Pigeons feed their

260young.

¶Ros. Then shal we be newes-cram'd.

¶Cel. All the better: we shalbe the more Marketable.

¶Boon-iour Monsieur le Beu, what's the newes?

¶Le Ben. Faire Princesse,

265you haue lost much good sport.

¶Cel. Sport: of what colour?

¶Le Beu. What colour Madame? How shall I aun-

¶swer you?

¶Ros. As wit and fortune will.

270Clo. Or as the destinies decrees.

¶Cel. Well said, that was laid on with a trowell.

¶Clo. Nay, if I keepe not my ranke.

¶Ros. Thou loosest thy old smell.

¶Le Beu. You amaze me Ladies: I would haue told

275you of good wrastling, which you haue lost the sight of.

¶Ros. Yet tell vs the manner of the Wrastling.

¶Le Beu. I wil tell you the beginning: and if it please

¶your Ladiships, you may see the end, for the best is yet

¶to doe, and heere where you are, they are comming to

280performe it.

¶Cel. Well, the beginning that is dead and buried.

¶Le Beu. There comes an old man, and his three sons.

¶Cel. I could match this beginning with an old tale.

¶Le Beu. Three proper yong men, of excellent growth

285and presence.

¶Ros. With bils on their neckes: Be it knowne vnto

¶all men by these presents.

¶Le Beu. The eldest of the three, wrastled with Charles

¶the Dukes Wrastler, which Charles in a moment threw

290him, and broke three of his ribbes, that there is little

¶hope of life in him: So he seru'd the second, and so the

¶third: yonder they lie, the poore old man their Father,

¶making such pittiful dole ouer them, that all the behol-

¶ders take his part with weeping.

295Ros. Alas.

¶Clo. But what is the sport Monsieur, that the Ladies

¶haue lost?

¶Le Beu. Why this that I speake of.

¶Clo. Thus men may grow wiser euery day. It is the

300first time that euer I heard breaking of ribbes was sport

¶for Ladies.

¶Cel. Or I, I promise thee.

¶Ros. But is there any else longs to see this broken

¶Musicke in his sides? Is there yet another doates vpon

305rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrastling Cosin?

¶Le Beu. You must if you stay heere, for heere is the

¶place appointed for the wrastling, and they are ready to

¶performe it.

¶Cel. Yonder sure they are comming. Let vs now stay

310and see it.

Flourish. Enter Duke, Lords, Orlando, Charles,

¶and Attendants.

¶Duke. Come on, since the youth will not be intreated

¶His owne perill on his forwardnesse.

315Ros. Is yonder the man??

¶Le Beu. Euen he, Madam.

¶Cel. Alas, he is too yong: yet he looks successefully

¶Du. How now daughter, and Cousin:

¶Are you crept hither to see the wrastling?

320Ros. I my Liege, so please you giue vs leaue.

¶Du. You wil take little delight in it, I can tell you

¶there is such oddes in the man: In pitie of the challen-

¶gers youth, I would faine disswade him, but he will not

¶bee entreated. Speake to him Ladies, see if you can

325mooue him.

¶Cel. Call him hether good Monsieuer Le Beu.

¶Duke. Do so: Ile not be by.

¶Le Beu. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princesse cals

¶for you.

330Orl. I attend them with all respect and dutie.

¶Ros. Young man, haue you challeng'd Charles the

¶Wrastler?

¶Orl. No faire Princesse: he is the generall challenger,

¶I come but in as others do, to try with him the strength

335of my youth.

¶Cel. Yong Gentleman, your spirits are too bold for

¶your yeares: you haue seene cruell proofe of this mans

¶strength, if you saw your selfe with your eies, or knew

¶your selfe with your iudgment, the feare of your aduen-

340ture would counsel you to a more equall enterprise. We

¶pray you for your owne sake to embrace your own safe-

¶tie, and giue ouer this attempt.

¶Ros. Do yong Sir, your reputation shall not therefore

¶be misprised: we wil make it our suite to the Duke, that

345the wrastling might not go forward.

¶Orl. I beseech you, punish mee not with your harde

¶thoughts, wherein I confesse me much guiltie to denie

¶so faire and excellent Ladies anie thing. But let your

¶faire eies, and gentle wishes go with mee to my triall;

350wherein if I bee foil'd, there is but one sham'd that vvas

¶neuer gracious: if kil'd, but one dead that is willing to

¶be so: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I haue none to

¶lament me: the world no iniurie, for in it I haue nothing:

¶onely in the world I fil vp a place, which may bee better

355supplied, when I haue made it emptie.

¶Ros. The little strength that I haue, I would it vvere

¶with you.

¶Cel. And mine to eeke out hers.

¶Ros. Fare you well: praie heauen I be deceiu'd in you.

360Cel. Your hearts desires be with you.

¶Char. Come, where is this yong gallant, that is so

¶desirous to lie with his mother earth?

¶Orl. Readie Sir, but his will hath in it a more modest

¶working.

365Duk. You shall trie but one fall.

¶Cha. No, I warrant your Grace you shall not entreat

¶him to a second, that haue so mightilie perswaded him

¶from a first.

¶Orl. You meane to mocke me after: you should not

370haue mockt me before: but come your waies.

¶Ros. Now Hercules, be thy speede yong man.

¶Cel. I would I were inuisible, to catch the strong fel-

¶low by the legge.

Wrastle.

¶Ros. Oh excellent yong man.

375Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eie, I can tell who

¶should downe.

Shout.

¶Duk. No more, no more.

¶Orl. Yes I beseech your Grace, I am not yet well

¶breath'd.

380Duk. How do'st thou Charles?

¶Le Beu. He cannot speake my Lord.

¶Duk. Beare him awaie:

¶What is thy name yong man?

¶Orl. Orlando my Liege, the yongest sonne of Sir Ro-

385land de Boys.

¶Duk. I would thou hadst beene son to some man else,

¶The world esteem'd thy father honourable,

¶But I did finde him still mine enemie:

¶Thou should'st haue better pleas'd me with this deede,

390Hadst thou descended from another house:

¶But fare thee well, thou art a gallant youth,

¶I would thou had'st told me of another Father.

Exit Duke.

¶Cel. Were I my Father (Coze) would I do this?

395Orl. I am more proud to be Sir Rolands sonne,

¶His yongest sonne, and would not change that calling

¶To be adopted heire to Fredricke.

¶Ros. My Father lou'd Sir Roland as his soule,

¶And all the world was of my Fathers minde,

400Had I before knowne this yong man his sonne,

¶I should haue giuen him teares vnto entreaties,

¶Ere he should thus haue ventur'd.

¶Cel. Gentle Cosen,

¶Let vs goe thanke him, and encourage him:

405My Fathers rough and enuious disposition

¶Sticks me at heart: Sir, you haue well deseru'd,

¶If you doe keepe your promises in loue;

¶But iustly as you haue exceeded all promise,

¶Your Mistris shall be happie.

410Ros. Gentleman,

¶Weare this for me: one out of suites with fortune

¶That could giue more, but that her hand lacks meanes.

¶Shall we goe Coze?

¶Cel. I: fare you well faire Gentleman.

415Orl. Can I not say, I thanke you? My better parts

¶Are all throwne downe, and that which here stands vp

¶Is but a quintine, a meere liuelesse blocke.

¶Ros. He cals vs back: my pride fell with my fortunes,

¶Ile aske him what he would: Did you call Sir?

420Sir, you haue wrastled well, and ouerthrowne

¶More then your enemies.

¶Cel. Will you goe Coze?

¶Ros. Haue with you: fare you well.

Exit.

¶Orl. What passion hangs these weights_vpō my toong?

425I cannot speake to her, yet she vrg'd conference.

Enter Le Beu.

¶O poore Orlando! thou art ouerthrowne

¶Or Charles, or something weaker masters thee.

¶Le Beu. Good Sir, I do in friendship counsaile you

430To leaue this place; Albeit you haue deseru'd

¶High commendation, true applause, and loue;

¶Yet such is now the Dukes condition,

¶That he misconsters all that you haue done:

¶The Duke is humorous, what he is indeede

435More suites you to conceiue, then I to speake of.

¶Orl. I thanke you Sir; and pray you tell me this,

¶Which of the two was daughter of the Duke,

¶That here was at the Wrastling?

¶Le Beu. Neither his daughter, if we iudge by manners,

440But yet indeede the taller is his daughter,

¶The other is daughter to the banish'd Duke,

¶And here detain'd by her vsurping Vncle

¶To keepe his daughter companie, whose loues

¶Are deerer then the naturall bond of Sisters:

445But I can tell you, that of late this Duke

¶Hath tane displeasure 'gainst his gentle Neece,

¶Grounded vpon no other argument,

¶But that the people praise her for her vertues,

¶And pittie her, for her good Fathers sake;

450And on my life his malice 'gainst the Lady

¶Will sodainly breake forth: Sir, fare you well,

¶Hereafter in a better world then this,

¶I shall desire more loue and knowledge of you.

¶Orl. I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.

455Thus must I from the smoake into the smother,

¶From tyrant Duke, vnto a tyrant Brother.

¶But heauenly Rosaline.

Exit

Scena Tertius.

Enter Celia and Rosaline.

460Cel. Why Cosen, why Rosaline: Cupid haue mercie,

¶Not a word?

¶Ros. Not one to throw at a dog.

¶Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away

¶vpon curs, throw some of them at me; come lame mee

465with reasons.

¶Ros. Then there were two Cosens laid vp, when the

¶one should be lam'd with reasons, and the other mad

¶without any.

¶Cel. But is all this for your Father?

470Ros. No, some of it is for my childes Father: Oh

¶how full of briers is this working day world.

¶Cel. They are but burs, Cosen, throwne vpon thee

¶in holiday foolerie, if we walke not in the trodden paths

¶our very petty-coates will catch them.

475Ros. I could shake them off my coate, these burs are

¶in my heart.

¶Cel. Hem them away.

¶Ros. I would try if I could cry hem, and haue him.

¶Cel. Come, come, wrastle with thy affections.

480Ros. O they take the part of a better wrastler then

¶my selfe.

¶Cel. O, a good wish vpon you: you will trie in time

¶in dispight of a fall: but turning these iests out of seruice,

¶let vs talke in good earnest: Is it possible on such a so-

485daine, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir

¶Roulands yongest sonne?

¶Ros. The Duke my Father lou'd his Father deerelie.

¶Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should loue his

¶Sonne deerelie? By this kinde of chase, I should hate

490him, for my father hated his father deerely; yet I hate

¶not Orlando.

¶Ros. No faith, hate him not for my sake.

¶Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserue well?

Enter Duke with Lords.

495Ros. Let me loue him for that, and do you loue him

¶Because I doe. Looke, here comes the Duke.

¶Cel. With his eies full of anger.

¶Duk. Mistris, dispatch you with your safest haste,

¶And get you from our Court.

500Ros. Me Vncle.

¶Duk You Cosen,

¶Within these ten daies if that thou beest found

¶So neere our publike Court as twentie miles,

¶Thou diest for it.

505Ros. I doe beseech your Grace

¶Let me the knowledge of my fault beare with me:

¶If with my selfe I hold intelligence,

¶Or haue acquaintance with mine owne desires,

¶If that I doe not dreame, or be not franticke,

510(As I doe trust I am not) then deere Vncle,

¶Neuer so much as in a thought vnborne,

¶Did I offend your highnesse.

¶Duk. Thus doe all Traitors,

¶If their purgation did consist in words,

515They are as innocent as grace it selfe;

¶Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

¶Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a Traitor;

¶Tell me whereon the likelihoods depends?

¶Duk. Thou art thy Fathers daughter, there's enough.

520Ros. So was I when your highnes took his Dukdome,

¶So was I when your highnesse banisht him;

¶Treason is not inherited my Lord,

¶Or if we did deriue it from our friends,

¶What's that to me, my Father was no Traitor,

525Then good my Leige, mistake me not so much,

¶To thinke my pouertie is treacherous.

¶Cel. Deere Soueraigne heare me speake.

¶Duk. I Celia, we staid her for your sake,

¶Else had she with her Father rang'd along.

530Cel. I did not then intreat to haue her stay,

¶It was your pleasure, and your owne remorse,

¶I was too yong that time to value her,

¶But now I know her: if she be a Traitor,

¶Why so am I: we still haue slept together,

535Rose at an instant, learn'd, plaid, eate together,

¶And wheresoere we went, like Iunos Swans,

¶Still we went coupled and inseperable.

¶Duk. She is too subtile for thee, and her smoothnes;

¶Her verie silence, and per patience,

540Speake to the people, and they pittie her:

¶Thou art a foole, she robs thee of thy name,

¶And thou wilt show more bright, & seem more vertuous

¶When she is gone: then open not thy lips

¶Firme, and irreuocable is my doombe,

545Which I haue past vpon her, she is banish'd.

¶Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me my Leige,

¶I cannot liue out of her companie.

¶Duk. You are a foole: you Neice prouide your selfe,

¶If you out-stay the time, vpon mine honor,

550And in the greatnesse of my word you die.

Exit Duke, &c.

¶Cel. O my poore Rosaline, whether wilt thou goe?

¶Wilt thou change Fathers? I will giue thee mine:

¶I charge thee be not thou more grieu'd then I am.

555Ros. I haue more cause.

¶Cel. Thou hast not Cosen,

¶Prethee be cheerefull; know'st thou not the Duke

¶Hath banish'd me his daughter?

¶Ros. That he hath not.

560Cel. No, hath not? Rosaline lacks then the loue

¶Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one,

¶Shall we be sundred? shall we part sweete girle?

¶No, let my Father seeke another heire:

¶Therefore deuise with me how we may flie

565Whether to goe, and what to beare with vs,

¶And doe not seeke to take your change vpon you,

¶To beare your griefes your selfe, and leaue me out:

¶For by this heauen, now at our sorrowes pale;

¶Say what thou canst, Ile goe along with thee.

570Ros. Why, whether shall we goe?

¶Cel. To seeke my Vncle in the Forrest of Arden.

¶Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to vs,

¶(Maides as we are) to trauell forth so farre?

¶Beautie prouoketh theeues sooner then gold.

575Cel. Ile put my selfe in poore and meane attire,

¶And with a kinde of vmber smirch my face,

¶The like doe you, so shall we passe along,

¶And neuer stir assailants.

¶Ros. Were it not better,

580Because that I am more then common tall,

¶That I did suite me all points like a man,

¶A gallant curtelax vpon my thigh,

¶A bore-speare in my hand, and in my heart

¶Lye there what hidden womans feare there will,

585Weele haue a swashing and a marshall outside,

¶As manie other mannish cowards haue,

¶That doe outface it with their semblances.

¶Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

¶Ros. Ile haue no worse a name then Ioues owne Page,

590And therefore looke you call me Ganimed.

¶But what will you be call'd?

¶Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state:

¶No longer Celia, but Aliena.

¶Ros. But Cosen, what if we assaid to steale

595The clownish Foole out of your Fathers Court:

¶Would he not be a comfort to our trauaile?

¶Cel. Heele goe along ore the wide world with me,

¶Leaue me alone to woe him; Let's away

¶And get our Iewels and our wealth together,

600Deuise the fittest time, and safest way

¶To hide vs from pursuite that will be made

¶After my flight: now goe in we content

¶To libertie, and not to banishment.

Exennt.

Actus Secundus. Scœna Prima.

605

Enter Duke Senior: Amyens, and two or three Lords

¶like Forresters.

¶Duk.Sen. Now my Coe-mates, and brothers in exile:

¶Hath not old custome made this life more sweete

¶Then that of painted pompe? Are not these woods

610More free from perill then the enuious Court?

¶Heere feele we not the penaltie of Adam,

¶The seasons difference, as the Icie phange

¶And churlish chiding of the winters winde,

¶Which when it bites and blowes vpon my body

615Euen till I shrinke with cold, I smile, and say

¶This is no flattery: these are counsellors

¶That feelingly perswade me what I am:

¶Sweet are the vses of aduersitie

¶Which like the toad, ougly and venemous,

620Weares yet a precious Iewell in his head:

¶And this our life exempt from publike haunt,

¶Findes tongues in trees, bookes in the running brookes,

¶Sermons in stones, and good in euery thing.

¶Amien. I would not change it, happy is your Grace

625That can translate the stubbornnesse of fortune

¶Into so quiet and so sweet a stile.

¶ Du.Sen. Come, shall we goe and kill vs venison?

¶And yet it irkes me the poore dapled fooles

¶Being natiue Burgers of this desert City,

630Should in_their owne confines with forked heads

¶Haue their round hanches goard.

¶1. Lord. Indeed my Lord

¶The melancholy Iaques grieues at that,

¶And in that kinde sweares you doe more vsurpe

635Then doth your brother that hath banish'd you:

¶To day my Lord of Amiens, and my selfe,

¶Did steale behinde him as he lay along

¶Vnder an oake, whose anticke roote peepes out

¶Vpon the brooke that brawles along this wood,

640To the which place a poore sequestred Stag

¶That from the Hunters aime had tane a hurt,

¶Did come to languish; and indeed my Lord

¶The wretched annimall heau'd forth such groanes

¶That their discharge did stretch his leatherne coat

645Almost to bursting, and the big round teares

¶Cours'd one another downe his innocent nose

¶In pitteous chase: and thus the hairie foole,

¶Much marked of the melancholie Iaques,

¶Stood on th'extremest verge of the swift brooke,

650Augmenting it with teares.

¶Du.Sen. But what said Iaques?

¶Did he not moralize this spectacle?

¶1. Lord. O yes, into a thousand similies.

¶First, for his weeping into the needlesse streame;

655Poore Deere quoth he, thou mak'st a testament

¶As worldlings doe, giuing thy sum of more

¶To that which had too must: then being there alone,

¶Left and abandoned of his veluet friend;

¶'Tis right quoth he, thus miserie doth part

660The Fluxe of companie: anon a carelesse Heard

¶Full of the pasture, iumps along by him

¶And neuer staies to greet him: I quoth Iaques,

¶Sweepe on you fat and greazie Citizens,

¶'Tis iust the fashion; wherefore doe you looke

665Vpon that poore and broken bankrupt there?

¶Thus most inuectiuely he pierceth through

¶The body of Countrie, Citie, Court,

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

¶Are meere vsurpers, tyrants, and whats worse

670To fright the Annimals, and to kill them vp

¶In their assign'd and natiue dwelling place.

¶D.Sen. And did you leaue him in this contemplation?

¶2.Lord. We did my Lord, weeping and commenting

¶Vpon the sobbing Deere.

675Du.Sen. Show me the place,

¶I loue to cope him in these sullen fits,

¶For then he's full of matter.

¶1. Lor. Ile bring you to him strait.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

680

Enter Duke, with Lords.

¶Duk. Can it be possible that no man saw them?

¶It cannot be, some villaines of my Court

¶Are of consent and sufferance in this.

¶1. Lo. I cannot heare of any that did see her,

685The Ladies her attendants of her chamber

¶Saw her a bed, and in the morning early,

¶They found the bed vntreasur'd of their Mistris.

¶2. Lor. My Lord, the roynish Clown, at whom so oft,

¶Your Grace was wont to laugh is also missing,

690Hisperia the Princesse Centlewoman

¶Confesses that she secretly ore-heard

¶Your daughter and her Cosen much commend

¶The parts and graces of the Wrastler

¶That did but lately foile the synowie Charles,

695And she beleeues where euer they are gone

¶That youth is surely in their companie.

¶Duk. Send to his brother, fetch that gallant hither,

¶If he be absent, bring his Brother to me,

¶Ile make him finde him: do this sodainly;

700And let not search and inquisition quaile,

¶To bring againe these foolish runawaies.

Exunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Orlando and Adam.

¶Orl. Who's there?

705Ad. What my yong Master, oh my gentle master,

¶Oh my sweet master, O you memorie

¶Of old Sir Rowland; why, what make you here?

¶Why are you vertuous? Why do people loue you?

¶And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?

710Why would you be so fond to ouercome

¶The bonnie priser of the humorous Duke?

¶Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

¶Know you not Master, to seeme kinde of men,

¶Their graces serue them but as enemies,

715No more doe yours: your vertues gentle Master

¶Are sanctified and holy traitors to you:

¶Oh what a world is this, when what is comely

¶Enuenoms him that beares it?

¶Why, what's the matter?

720Ad. O vnhappie youth,

¶Come not within these doores: within this roofe

¶The enemie of all your graces liues

¶Your brother, no, no brother, yet the sonne

¶(Yet not the son, I will not call him son)

725Of him I was about to call his Father,

¶Hath heard your praises, and this night he meanes,

¶To burne the lodging where you vse to lye,

¶And you within it: if he faile of that

¶He will haue other meanes to cut you off;

730I ouerheard him: and his practises:

¶This is no place, this house is but a butcherie;

¶Abhorre it, feare it, doe not enter it.

¶Ad. Why whether Adam would'st thou haue me go?

¶Ad. No matter whether, so you come not here.

735Orl. What, would'st thou haue me go_& beg my food,

¶Or with a base and boistrous Sword enforce

¶A theeuish liuing on the common rode?

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

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

740I rather will subiect me to the malice

¶Of a diuerted blood, and bloudie brother.

¶Ad. But do not so: I haue fiue hundred Crownes,

¶The thriftie hire I saued vnder your Father,

¶Which I did store to be my foster Nurse,

745When seruice should in my old limbs lie lame,

¶And vnregarded age in corners throwne,

¶Take that, and he that doth the Rauens feede,

¶Yea prouidently caters for the Sparrow,

¶Be comfort to my age: here is the gold,

750All this I giue you, let me be your seruant,

¶Though I looke old, yet I am strong and lustie;

¶For in my youth I neuer did apply

¶Hot, and rebellious liquors in my bloud,

¶Nor did not with vnbashfull forehead woe,

755The meanes of weaknesse and debilitie,

¶Therefore my age is as a lustie winter,

¶Frostie, but kindely; let me goe with you,

¶Ile doe the seruice of a yonger man

¶In all your businesse and necessities.

760Orl. Oh good old man, how well in thee appeares

¶The constant seruice of the antique world,

¶When seruice sweate for dutie, not for meede:

¶Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

¶Where none will sweate, but for promotion,

765And hauing that do choake their seruice vp,

¶Euen with the hauing, it is not so with thee:

¶But poore old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,

¶That cannot so much as a blossome yeelde,

¶In lieu of all thy paines and husbandrie,

770But come thy waies, weele goe along together,

¶And ere we haue thy youthfull wages spent,

¶Weele light vpon some setled low content.

¶Ad. Master goe on, and I will follow thee

¶To the last gaspe with truth and loyaltie,

775From seauentie yeeres, till now almost fourescore

¶Here liued I, but now liue here no more

¶At seauenteene yeeres, many their fortunes seeke

¶But at fourescore, it is too late a weeke,

¶Yet fortune cannot recompence me better

780Then to die well, and not my Masters debter.

Exeunt.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Rosaline for Ganimed, Celia for Aliena, and

¶Clowne, alias Touchstone.

¶Ros. O Iupiter, how merry are my spirits?

785Clo. I care not for my spirits, if my legges were not

¶wearie.

¶Ros. I could finde in my heart to disgrace my mans

¶apparell, and to cry like a woman: but I must comfort

¶the weaker vessell, as doublet and hose ought to show it

790selfe coragious to petty-coate; therefore courage, good

¶Aliena.

¶Cel. I pray you beare with me, I cannot goe no fur-

¶ther.

¶Clo. For my part, I had rather beare with you, then

795beare you: yet I should beare no crosse if I did beare

¶you, for I thinke you haue no money in your purse.

¶Ros. Well, this is the Forrest of Arden.

¶Clo. I, now am I in Arden, the more foole I, when I

¶was at home I was in a better place, but Trauellers must

800be content.

Enter Corin and Siluius.

¶Ros. I, be so good Touchstone: Look you, who comes

¶here, a yong man and an old in solemne talke.

¶Cor. That is the way to make her scorne you still.

805Sil. Oh Corin, that thou knew'st how I do loue her.

¶Cor. I partly guesse: for I haue lou'd ere now.

¶Sil. No Corin, being old, thou canst not guesse,

¶Though in thy youth thou wast as true a louer

¶As euer sigh'd vpon a midnight pillow:

810But if thy loue were euer like to mine,

¶As sure I thinke did neuer man loue so:

¶How many actions most ridiculous,

¶Hast thou beene drawne to by thy fantasie?

¶Cor. Into a thousand that I haue forgotten.

815Sil. Oh thou didst then neuer loue so hartily,

¶If thou remembrest not the slightest folly,

¶That euer loue did make thee run into,

¶Thou hast not lou'd.

¶Or if thou hast not sat as I doe now,

820Wearing thy hearer in thy Mistris praise,

¶Thou hast not lou'd.

¶Or if thou hast not broke from companie,

¶Abruptly as my passion now makes me,

¶Thou hast not lou'd.

825O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe.

Exit.

¶Ros. Alas poore Shepheard searching of they would,

¶I haue by hard aduenture found mine owne.

¶Clo. And I mine: I remember when I was in loue, I

¶broke my sword vpon a stone, and bid him take that for

830comming a night to Iane Smile, and I remember the kis-

¶sing of her batler, and the Cowes dugs that her prettie

¶chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing

¶of a peascod instead of her, from whom I tooke two

¶cods, and giuing her them againe, said with weeping

835teares, weare these for my sake: wee that are true Lo-

¶uers, runne into strange capers; but as all is mortall in

¶nature, so is all nature in loue, mortall in folly.

¶Ros. Thou speak'st wiser then thou art ware of.

¶Clo. Nay, I shall nere be ware of mine owne wit, till

840I breake my shins against it.

¶Ros. Ioue, Ioue, this Shepherds passion,

¶Is much vpon my fashion.

¶Clo. And mine, but it growes something stale with

¶mee.

845Cel. I pray you, one of you question yon'd man,

¶If he for gold will giue vs any foode,

¶I faint almost to death.

¶Clo. Holla; you Clowne.

¶Ros. Peace foole, he's not thy kinsman.

850Cor. Who cals?

¶Clo. Your betters Sir.

¶Cor. Else are they very wretched.

¶Ros. Peace I say; good euen to your friend.

¶Cor. And to you gentle Sir, and to you all.

855Ros. I prethee Shepheard, if that loue or gold

¶Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

¶Bring vs where we may rest our selues, and feed:

¶Here's a yong maid with trauaile much oppressed,

¶And faints for succour.

860Cor. Faire Sir, I pittie her,

¶And wish for her sake more then for mine owne,

¶My fortunes were more able to releeue her:

¶But I am shepheard to another man,

¶And do not sheere the Fleeces that I graze:

865My master is of churlish disposition,

¶And little wreakes to finde the way to heauen

¶By doing deeds of hospitalitie.

¶Besides his Coate, his Flockes, and bounds of feede

¶Are now on sale, and at our sheep-coat now

870By 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.

¶Ros. What is he that shall buy his flocke and pasture?

¶Cor. That yong Swaine that you saw heere but ere-

875while,

¶That little cares for buying any thing.

¶Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honestie,

¶Buy thou the Cottage, pasture, and the flocke,

¶And thou shalt haue to pay for it of vs.

880Cel. And we will mend thy wages:

¶I like this place, and willingly could

¶Waste my time in it.

¶Cor. Assuredly the thing is to be sold:

¶Go with me, if you like vpon report,

885The soile, the profit, and this kinde of life,

¶I will your very faithfull Feeder be,

¶And buy it with your Gold right sodainly.

Exeunt.

Scena Quinta.

Enter, Amyens, Iaques, & others.

890

Song.

¶Vnder the greene wood tree,

¶_who loues to lye with mee,

¶And tnrne his merrie Note,

¶_vnto the sweet Birds throte:

895Come hither, come hither, come hither:

¶_Heere shall he see no enemie,

¶But Winter and rough Weather.

¶Iaq. More, more, I pre'thee more.

¶Amy. It will make you melancholly Monsieur Iaques

900Iaq. I thanke it: More, I prethee more,

¶I can sucke melancholly out of a song,

¶As a Weazel suckes egges: More, I pre'thee more.

¶Amy. My voice is ragged, I know I cannot please

¶you.

905Iaq. I do not desire you to please me,

¶I do desire you to sing:

¶Come, more, another stanzo: Cal you_'em stanzo's?

¶Amy. What you wil Monsieur Iaques.

¶Iaq. Nay, I care not for their names, they owe mee

910nothing. Wil you sing?

¶Amy. More at your request, then to please my selfe.

¶Iaq. Well then, if euer I thanke any man, Ile thanke

¶you: but that they cal complement is like th'encounter

¶of two dog-Apes. And when a man thankes me hartily,

915me thinkes I haue giuen him a penie, and he renders me

¶the beggerly thankes. Come sing; and you that wil not

¶hold your tongues.

¶Amy. Wel, Ile end the song. Sirs, couer the while,

¶the Duke wil drinke vnder this tree; he hath bin all this

920day to looke you.

¶Iaq. And I haue bin all this day to auoid him:

¶He is too disputeable for my companie:

¶I thinke of as many matters as he, but I giue

¶Heauen thankes, and make no boast of them.

925Come, warble, come.

Song._Altogether heere.

¶Who doth ambition shunne,

¶_and loues to liue i'th Sunne:

¶Seeking the food he eates,

930_and pleas'd with what he gets:

¶Come hither, come hither, come hither,

¶_Heere shall he see.&c.

¶Iaq. Ile giue you a verse to this note,

¶That I made yesterday in despight of my Inuention.

935Amy. And Ile sing it.

¶Amy. Thus it goes.

¶If it do come to passe, that any man turne Asse:

¶Leauing his wealth and ease,

¶A stubborne will to please,

940Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:

¶Heere shall he see, grosse fooles as he,

¶And if he will come to me.

¶Amy. What's that Ducdame?

¶Iaq. 'Tis a Greeke inuocation, to call fools into a cir-

945cle. Ile go sleepe if I can: if I cannot, Ile raile against all

¶the first borne of Egypt.

¶Amy. And Ile go seeke the Duke,

¶His banket is prepar'd.

Exeunt

Scena Sexta.

950

Enter Orlando, & Adam.

¶Adam. Deere Master, I can go no further:

¶O I die for food. Heere lie I downe,

¶And measure out my graue. Farwel kinde master.

¶Orl. Why how now Adam? No greater heart in thee:

955Liue a little, comfort a little, cheere thy selfe a little.

¶If this vncouth Forrest yeeld any thing sauage,

¶I wil either be food for it, or bring it for foode to thee:

¶Thy conceite is neerer death, then thy powers.

¶For my sake be comfortable, hold death a while

960At the armes end: I wil heere be with thee presently,

¶And if I bring thee not something to eate,

¶I wil giue thee leaue to die: but if thou diest

¶Before I come, thou art a mocker of my labor.

¶Wel said, thou look'st cheerely,

965And Ile be with thee quickly: yet thou liest

¶In the bleake aire. Come, I wil beare thee

¶To some shelter, and thou shalt not die

¶For lacke of a dinner,

¶If there liue any thing in this Desert.

970Cheerely good Adam.

Exeunt

Scena Septima.

Enter Duke Sen. & Lord, like Out-lawes.

¶Du.Sen. I thinke he be transform'd into a beast,

¶For I can no where finde him, like a man.

9751.Lord. My Lord, he is but euen now gone hence,

¶Heere was he merry, hearing of a Song.

¶Du.Sen. If he compact of iarres, grow Musicall,

¶We shall haue shortly discord in the Spheares:

¶Go seeke him, tell him I would speake with him.

980

Enter Iaques.

¶1.Lord. He saues my labor by his owne approach.

¶Du.Sen. Why how now Monsieur, what a life is this

¶That your poore friends must woe your companie,

¶What, you looke merrily.

985Iaq. A Foole, a foole: I met a foole i'th Forrest,

¶A motley Foole (a miserable world:)

¶As I do liue by foode, I met a foole,

¶Who laid him downe, and bask'd him in the Sun,

¶And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good termes,

990In good set termes, and yet a motley foole.

¶Good morrow foole (quoth I:) no Sir, quoth he,

¶Call me not foole, till heauen hath sent me fortune,

¶And then he drew a diall from his poake,

¶And looking on it, with lacke-lustre eye,

995Sayes, very wisely, it is ten a clocke:

¶Thus we may see (quoth he) how the world wagges:

¶'Tis but an houre agoe, since it was nine,

¶And after one houre more, 'twill be eleuen,

¶And so from houre to houre, we ripe, and ripe,

1000And then from houre to houre, we rot, and rot,

¶And thereby hangs a tale. When I did heare

¶The motley Foole, thus morall on the time,

¶My Lungs began to crow like Chanticleere,

¶That Fooles should be so deepe contemplatiue:

1005And I did laugh, sans intermission

¶An houre by his diall. Oh noble foole,

¶A worthy foole: Motley's the onely weare.

¶Du.Sen. What foole is this?

¶Iaq. O worthie Foole: One that hath bin a Courtier

1010And sayes, if Ladies be but yong, and faire,

¶They haue the gift to know it: and in his braiue,

¶Which is as drie as the remainder bisket

¶After a voyage: He hath strange places cram'd

¶With obseruation, the which he vents

1015In mangled formes. O that I were a foole,

¶I am ambitious for a motley coat.

¶Du.Sen. Thou shalt haue one.

¶Iaq. It is my onely suite,

¶Prouided that you weed your better iudgements

1020Of all opinion that growes ranke in them,

¶That I am wise. I must haue liberty

¶Wiithall, as large a Charter as the winde,

¶To blow on whom I please, for so fooles haue:

¶And they that are most gauled with my folly,

1025They most must laugh: And why sir must they so?

¶The why is plaine, as way to Parish Church:

¶Hee, that a Foole doth very wisely hit,

¶Doth very foolishly, although he smart

¶Seeme senselesse of the bob. If not,

1030The Wise-mans folly is anathomiz'd

¶Euen by the squandring glances of the foole.

¶Inuest me in my motley: Giue me leaue

¶To speake my minde, and I will through and through

¶Cleanse the foule bodie of th'infected world,

1035If they will patiently receiue my medicine.

¶Du.Sen. Fie on thee. I can tell what thou wouldst do.

¶Iaq. What, for a Counter, would I do, but good?

¶Du.Sen. Most mischeeuous foule sin, in chiding sin:

¶For thou thy selfe hast bene a Libertine,

1040As sensuall as the brutish sting it selfe,

¶And all th'imbossed sores, and headed euils,

¶That thou with license of free foot hast caught,

¶Would'st thou disgorge into the generall world.

¶Iaq. Why who cries out on pride,

1045That can therein taxe any priuate party:

¶Doth it not flow as hugely as the Sea,

¶Till that the wearie verie meanes do ebbe.

¶What woman in the Citie do I name,

¶When that I say the City woman beares

1050The cost of Princes on vnworthy shoulders?

¶Who can come in, and say that I meane her,

¶When such a one as shee, such is her neighbor?

¶Or what is he of basest function,

¶That sayes his brauerie is not on my cost,

1055Thinking that I meane him, but therein suites

¶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 himselfe: if he be free,

1060why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies

¶Vnclaim'd of any. Man But who come here?

Enter Orlando.

¶Orl. Forbeare, and eate no more.

¶Iaq. Why I haue eate none yet.

1065Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be seru'd.

¶Iaq. Of what kinde should this Cocke come of?

¶Du.Sen. Art thou thus bolden'd man by thy distres?

¶Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

¶That in ciuility thou seem'st so emptie?

1070Orl. You touch'd my veine at first, the thorny point

¶Of bare distresse, hath tane from me the shew

¶Of smooth ciuility: yet am I in-land bred,

¶And know some nourture: But forbeare, I say,

¶He dies that touches any of this fruite,

1075Till I, and my affaires are answered.

¶Iaq. And you will not be answer'd with reason,

¶I must dye.

¶Du.Sen. What would you haue?

¶Your gentlenesse shall force, more then your force

1080Moue vs to gentlenesse.

¶Orl. I almost die for food, and let me haue it.

¶Du.Sen. Sit downe and feed, & welcom to our table

¶Orl. Speake you so gently? Pardon me I pray you,

¶I thought that all things had bin sauage heere,

1085And therefore put I on the countenance

¶Of sterne command'ment. But what ere you are

¶That in this desert inaccessible,

¶Vnder the shade of melancholly boughes,

¶Loose, and neglect the creeping houres of time:

1090If euer you haue look'd on better dayes:

¶If euer beene where bels haue knoll'd to Church:

¶If euer sate at any good mans feast:

¶If euer from your eye-lids wip'd a teare,

¶And know what 'tis to pittie, and be pittied:

1095Let gentlenesse my strong enforcement be,

¶In the which hope, I blush, and hide my Sword.

¶Du.Sen. True is it, that we haue seene better dayes,

¶And haue with holy bell bin knowld to Church,

¶And sat at good mens feasts, and wip'd our eies

1100Of drops, that sacred pity hath engendred:

¶And therefore sit you downe in gentlenesse,

¶And take vpon command, what helpe we haue

¶That to your wanting may be ministred.

¶Orl. Then but forbeare your food a little while:

1105Whiles (like a Doe) I go to finde my Fawne,

¶And giue it food. There is an old poore man,

¶Who after me, hath many a weary steppe

¶Limpt in pure loue: till he be first suffic'd,

¶Opprest with two weake euils, age, and hunger,

1110I will not touch a bit.

¶Duke Sen. Go finde him out.

¶And we will nothing waste till you returne.

¶Orl. I thanke ye, and be blest for your good comfort.

¶Du Sen. Thou seest, we are not all alone vnhappie:

1115This wide and vniuersall Theater

¶Presents more wofull Pageants then the Sceane

¶Wherein we play in.

¶Ia. All the world's a stage,

¶And all the men and women, meerely Players;

1120They haue their Exits and their Entrances,

¶And one man in his time playes many parts,

¶His Acts being seuen ages. At first the Infant,

¶Mewling, and puking in the Nurses armes:

¶Then, the whining Schoole-boy with his Satchell

1125And shining morning face, creeping like snaile

¶Vnwillingly to schoole. And then the Louer,

¶Sighing like Furnace, with a wofull ballad

¶Made to his Mistresse eye-brow. Then, a Soldier,

¶Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the Pard,

1130Ielous in honor, sodaine, and quicke in quarrell,

¶Seeking the bubble Reputation

¶Euen in the Canons mouth: And then, the Iustice

¶In faire round belly, with good Capon lin'd,

¶With eyes seuere, and beard of formall cut,

1135Full of wise sawes, and moderne instances,

¶And so he playes his part. The sixt age shifts

¶Into the leane and slipper'd Pantaloone,

¶With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,

¶His youthfull hose well sau'd, a world too wide,

1140For his shrunke shanke, and his bigge manly voice,

¶Turning againe toward childish trebble pipes,

¶And whistles in his sound. Last Scene of all,

¶That ends this strange euentfull historie,

¶Is second childishnesse, and meere obliuion,

1145Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans euery thing.

Enter Orlando with Adam.

¶Du Sen. Welcome: set downe your venerable bur-

¶then, and let him feede.

¶Orl. I thanke you most for him.

1150Ad. So had you neede,

¶I scarce can speake to thanke you for my selfe.

¶Du.Sen. Welcome, fall too: I wil not trouble you,

¶As yet to question you about your fortunes:

¶Giue vs some Musicke, and good Cozen, sing.

1155

Song.

¶_Blow, blow, thou winter winde,

¶Thou art not so vnkinde, as mans ingratitude

¶Thy tooth is not so keene, because thou art not seene,

¶_although thy breath be rude.

1160Heigh ho, sing heigh ho, vnto the greene holly,

¶Most frendship, is fayning; most Louing, meere folly:

¶_The heigh ho, the holly,

¶_This Life is most iolly.

¶Freize, freize, thou bitter skie that dost not bight so nigh

1165_as benefitts forgot:

¶Though thou the waters warpe, thy sting is not so sharpe,

¶_as freind remembred not.

¶_Heigh ho, sing, &c.

¶Duke Sen. If that you were the good Sir Rowlands son,

1170As you haue whisper'd faithfully you were,

¶And as mine eye doth his effigies witnesse,

¶Most truly limn'd, and liuing in your face,

¶Be truly welcome hither: I am the Duke

¶That lou'd your Father, the residue of your fortune,

1175Go to my Caue, and tell mee. Good old man,

¶Thou art right welcome, as thy masters is:

¶Support him by the arme: giue me your hand,

¶And let me all your fortunes vnderstand.

Exeunt.

Actus Tertius. Scena Prima,

1180

Enter Duke, Lords, & Oliuer.

¶Du. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:

¶But were I not the better part made mercie,

¶I should not seeke an absent argument

¶Of my reuenge, thou present: but looke to it,

1185Finde out thy brother wheresoere he is,

¶Seeke him with Candle: bring him dead, or liuing

¶Within this tweluemonth, or turne thou no more

¶To seeke a liuing in our Territorie.

¶Thy Lands and all things that thou dost call thine,

1190Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,

¶Till thou canst quit thee by thy brothers mouth,

¶Of what we thinke against thee.

¶Ol. Oh that your Highnesse knew my heart in this:

¶I neuer lou'd my brother in my life.

1195Duke. More villaine thou. Well push him out of dores

¶And let my officers of such a nature

¶Make an extent vpon his house and Lands:

¶Do this expediently, and turne him going.

Exeunt

Scena Secunda.

1200

Enter Orlando.

¶Orl. Hang there my verse, in witnesse of my loue,

¶And thou thrice crowned Queene of night suruey

¶With thy chaste eye, from thy pale spheare aboue

¶Thy Huntresse name, that my full life doth sway.

1205O Rosalind, these Trees shall be my Bookes,

¶And in their_barkes my thoughts Ile charracter,

¶That euerie eye, which in this Forrest lookes,

¶Shall see thy vertue witnest euery where.

¶Run, run Orlando, carue on euery Tree,

1210The faire, the chaste, and vnexpressiue shee.

Exit

Enter Corin & Clowne.

¶Co. And how like you this shepherds life M^r Touchstone?

¶Clow. Truely Shepheard, in respect of it selfe, it is a

¶good life; but in respect that it is a shepheards life, it is

1215naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it verie well:

¶but in respect that it is priuate, it is a very vild life. Now

¶in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth mee well: but in

¶respect it is not in the Court, it is tedious. As it is a spare

¶life (looke you) it fits my humor well: but as there is no

1220more plentie in it, it goes much against my stomacke.

¶Has't any Philosophie in thee shepheard?

¶Cor. No more, but that I know the more one sickens,

¶the worse at ease he is: and that hee that wants money,

¶meanes, and content, is without three good frends. That

1225the propertie of raine is to wet, and fire to burne: That

¶pood pasture makes fat sheepe: and that a great cause of

¶the night, is lacke of the Sunne: That hee that hath lear-

¶ned no wit by Nature, nor Art, may complaine of good

¶breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

1230Clo. Such a one is a naturall Philosopher:

¶Was't euer in Court, Shepheard?

¶Cor. No truly.

¶Clo. Then thou art damn'd.

¶Cor. Nay, I hope.

1235Clo. Truly thou art damn'd, like an ill roasted Egge,

¶all on one side.

¶Cor. For not being at Court? your reason.

¶Clo. Why, if thou neuer was't at Court, thou neuer

¶saw'st good manners: if thou neuer saw'st good maners,

1240then thy manners must be wicked, and wickednes is sin,

¶and sinne is damnation: Thou art in a parlous state shep-

¶heard.

¶Cor. Not a whit Touchstone, those that are good ma-

¶ners at the Court, are as ridiculous in the Countrey, as

1245the behauiour of the Countrie is most mockeable at the

¶Court. You told me, you salute not at the Court, but

¶you kisse your hands; that courtesie would be vncleanlie

¶if Courtiers were shepheards.

¶Clo. Instance, briefly: come, instance.

1250Cor. Why we are still handling our Ewes, and their

¶Fels you know are greasie.

¶Clo. Why do not your Courtiers hands sweate? and

¶is not the grease of a Mutton, as wholesome as the sweat

¶of a man? Shallow, shallow: A better instance I say:

1255Come.

¶Cor. Besides, our hands are hard.

¶Clo. Your lips wil feele them the sooner. Shallow a-

¶gen: a more sounder instance, come.

¶Cor. And they are often tarr'd ouer, with the surgery

1260of our sheepe: and would you haue vs kisse Tarre? The

¶Courtiers hands are perfum'd with Ciuet.

¶Clo. Most shallow man: Thou wormes meate in re-

¶spect of a good peece of flesh indeed: learne of the wise

¶and perpend: Ciuet is of a baser birth then Tarre, the

1265verie vncleanly fluxe of a Cat. Mend the instance Shep-

¶heard.

¶Cor. You haue too Courtly a wit, for me, Ile rest.

¶Clo. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God helpe thee shallow

¶man: God make incision in thee, thou art raw.

1270Cor. Sir, I am a true Labourer, I earne that I eate: get

¶that I weare; owe no man hate, enuie no mans happi-

¶nesse: glad of other mens good content with my harme:

¶and the greatest of my pride, is to see my Ewes graze, &

¶my Lambes sucke.

1275Clo. That is another simple sinne in you, to bring the

¶Ewes and the Rammes together, and to offer to get your

¶liuing, by the copulation of Cattle, to be bawd to a Bel-

¶weather, and to betray a shee-Lambe of a tweluemonth

¶to a crooked-pated olde Cuckoldly Ramme, out of all

1280reasonable match. If thou bee'st not damn'd for this, the

¶diuell himselfe will haue no shepherds, I cannot see else

¶how thou shouldst scape.

¶Cor. Heere comes yong M^r Ganimed, my new Mistris-

¶ses Brother.

1285

Enter Rosalind.

¶Ros.From the east to westerne Inde,

¶_no iewel is like Rosalinde,

¶Hir worth being mounted on the winde,

¶_through all the world beares Rosalinde.

1290All the pictures fairest Linde,

¶_are but blacke to Rosalinde:

¶Let no face bee kept in mind,

¶_but the faire of Rosalinde.

¶Clo. Ile rime you so, eight yeares together; dinners,

1295and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is the right

¶Butter-womens ranke to Market.

¶Ros. Out Foole.

¶Clo. For a taste.

¶If a Hart doe lacke a Hinde,

1300_Let him seeke out Rosalinde:

¶If the Cat will after kinde,

¶_so be sure will Rosalinde:

¶Wintred garments must be linde,

¶_so must slender Rosalinde:

1305They that reap must sheafe and binde,

¶_then to cart with Rosalinde.

¶Sweetest nut, hath sowrest rinde,

¶_such a nut is Rosalinde.

¶He that sweetest rose will finde,

1310_must finde Loues pricke, & Rosalinde.

¶This is the verie false gallop of Verses, why doe you in-

¶fect your selfe with them?

¶Ros. Peace you dull foole, I found them on a tree.

¶Clo. Truely the tree yeelds bad fruite.

1315Ros. Ile graffe it with you, and then I shall graffe it

¶with a Medler: then it will be the earliest fruit i'th coun-

¶try: for you'l be rotten ere you bee halfe ripe, and that's

¶the right vertue of the Medler.

¶Clo. You haue said: but whether wisely or no, let the

1320Forrest iudge.

Enter Celia with a writing.

¶Ros. Peace, here comes my sister reading, stand aside.

¶Cel. Why should this Desert bee,

¶_for it is vnpeopled? Noe:

1325Tonges Ile hang on euerie tree,

¶_that shall ciuill sayings shoe.

¶Some, how briefe the Life of man

¶_runs his erring pilgrimage,

¶That the stretching of a span,

1330_buckles in his summe of age.

¶Some of violated vowes,

¶_twixt the soules of friend, and friend:

¶But vpon the fairest bowes,

¶_or at euerie sentence end;

1335Will I Rosalinda write,

¶_teaching all that reade, to know

¶The quintessence of euerie sprite,

¶_heauen would in little show.

¶Therefore heauen Nature charg'd,

1340_that one bodie shonld be fill'd

¶With all Graces wide enlarg'd,

¶_nature presently distill'd

¶Helens cheeke, but not his heart,

¶_Cleopatra's Maiestie:

1345Attalanta's better part,

¶_sad Lucrecia's Modestie.

¶Thus Rosalinde of manie parts,

¶_by Heauenly Synode was deuis'd,

¶Of manie faces, eyes, and hearts,

1350_to haue the touches deerest pris'd.

¶Heauen would that shee these gifts should haue,

¶_and I to liue and die her slaue.

¶Ros. O most gentle Iupiter, what tedious homilie of

¶Loue haue you wearied your parishioners withall, and

1355neuer cri'de, haue patience good people.

¶Cel. How now backe friends: Shepheard, go off a lit-

¶tle: go with him sirrah.

¶Clo. Come Shepheard, let vs make an honorable re-

¶treit, though not with bagge and baggage, yet with

1360scrip and scrippage.

Exit.

¶Cel. Didst thou heare these verses?

¶Ros. O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some

¶of them had in them more feete then the Verses would

¶beare.

1365Cel. That's no matter: the feet might beare y^e verses.

¶Ros. I, but the feet were lame, and could not beare

¶themselues without the verse, and therefore stood lame-

¶ly in the verse.

¶Cel. But didst thou heare without wondering, how

1370thy name should be hang'd and carued vpon these trees?

¶Ros. I was seuen of the nine daies out of the wonder,

¶before you came: for looke heere what I found on a

¶Palme tree; I was neuer so berimdsince Pythagoras time

¶that I was an Irish Rat, which I can hardly remember.

1375Cel. Tro you, who hath done this?

¶Ros. Is it a man?

¶Cel. And a chaine that you once wore about his neck:

¶change you colour?

¶Ros. I pre'thee who?

1380Cel. O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to

¶meete; but Mountaines may bee remoou'd with Earth-

¶quakes, and so encounter.

¶Ros. Nay, but who is it?

¶Cel. Is it possible?

1385Ros. Nay, I pre'thee

now, with most petitionary ve-

¶hemence, tell me who it is.

¶Cel. O wonderfull, wonderfull, and most wonderfull

¶wonderfull, and yet againe wonderful, and after that out

¶of all hooping.

1390Ros. Good my complection, dost thou think though

¶I am caparison'd like a man, I haue a doublet and hose in

¶my disposition? One inch of delay more, is a South-sea

¶of discouerie. I pre'thee tell me, who is it quickely, and

¶speake apace: I would thou couldst stammer, that thou

1395might'st powre this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as

¶Wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle: either too

¶much at once, or none at all. I pre'thee take the Corke

¶out of thy mouth, that I may drinke thy tydings.

¶Cel. So you may put a man in your belly.

1400Ros. Is he of Gods making? What manner of man?

¶Is his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a beard?

¶Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

¶Ros. Why God will send more, if the man will bee

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

1405delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

¶Cel. It is yong Orlando, that tript vp the Wrastlers

¶heeles, and your heart, both in an instant.

¶Ros. Nay, but the diuell take mocking: speake sadde

¶brow, and true maid.

1410Cel. I'faith (Coz) tis he.

¶Ros. Orlando?

¶Cel. Orlando.

¶Ros. Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet &

¶hose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What sayde

1415he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes hee

¶heere? Did he aske for me? Where remaines he ? How

¶parted he with thee ? And when shalt thou see him a-

¶gaine? Answer me in one vvord.

¶Cel. You must borrow me Gargantuas mouth first:

1420'tis a Word too great for any mouth of this Ages size, to

¶say I and no, to these particulars, is more then to answer

¶in a Catechisme.

¶Ros. But doth he know that I am in this Forrest, and

¶in mans apparrell? Looks he as freshly, as he did the day

1425he Wrastled?

¶Cel. It is as easie to count Atomies as to resolue the

¶propositions of a Louer: but take a taste of my finding

¶him, and rellish it with good obseruance. I found him

¶vnder a tree like a drop'd Acorne.

1430Ros. It may vvel be cal'd Ioues tree, when it droppes

¶forth fruite.

¶Cel. Giue me audience, good Madam.

¶Ros. Proceed.

¶Cel. There lay hee stretch'd along like a Wounded

1435knight.

¶Ros. Though it be pittie to see such a sight, it vvell

¶becomes the ground.

¶Cel. Cry holla, to the tongue, I prethee: it curuettes

¶vnseasonably. He was furnish'd like a Hunter.

1440Ros. O ominous, he comes to kill my Hart.

¶Cel. I would sing my song without a burthen, thou

¶bring'st me out of tune.

¶Ros. Do you not know I am a woman, when I thinke,

¶I must speake: sweet, say on.

1445

Enter Orlando & Iaques.

¶Cel. You bring me out. Soft, comes he not heere?

¶Ros. 'Tis he, slinke by, and note him.

¶Iaq I thanke you for your company, but good faith

¶I had as liefe haue beene my selfe alone.

1450Orl. And so had I: but yet for fashion sake

¶I thanke you too, for your societie.

¶Iaq. God buy you, let's meet as little as we can.

¶Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers.

¶Iaq. I pray you marre no more trees vvith Writing

1455Loue-songs in their barkes.

¶Orl. I pray you marre no moe of my verses with rea-

¶ding them ill-fauouredly.

¶Iaq. Rosalinde is your loues name?

Orl. Yes, Iust.

¶Iaq. I do not like her name.

1460Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you when she

¶was christen'd.

¶Iaq. What stature is she of?

¶Orl. Iust as high as my heart.

¶Iaq. You are ful of prety answers: haue you not bin ac-

1465quainted with goldsmiths wiues, & cond thē out of rings

¶Orl. Not so: but I answer you right painted cloath,

¶from whence you haue studied your questions.

¶Iaq. You haue a nimble wit; I thinke 'twas made of

¶Attalanta's heeles. Will you sitte downe with me, and

1470wee two, will raile against our Mistris the world, and all

¶our miserie.

¶Orl. I wil chide no breather in the world but my selfe

¶against whom I know mosl faults.

¶Iaq. The worst fault you haue, is to be in loue.

1475Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change, for your best ver-

¶tue: I am wearie of you.

¶Iaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a Foole, when I

¶found you.

¶Orl. He is drown'd in the brooke, looke but in, and

1480you shall see him.

¶Iaq. There I shal see mine owne figure.

¶Orl. Which I take to be either a foole, or a Cipher.

¶Iaq. Ile tarrie no longer with you, farewell good sig-

¶nior Loue.

1485Orl. I am glad of your departure: Adieu good Mon-

¶sieur Melancholly.

¶Ros. I wil speake to him like a sawcie Lacky. and vn-

¶der that habit play the knaue with him, do you hear For-

(rester.

¶Orl. Verie wel, what would you?

1490Ros. I pray you, what i'st a clocke?

¶Orl. You should aske me what time o'day: there's no

¶clocke in the Forrest.

¶Ros. Then there is no true Louer in the Forrest, else

¶sighing euerie minute, and groaning euerie houre wold

1495detect the lazie foot of time, as wel as a clocke.

¶Orl. And why not the swift foote of time? Had not

¶that bin as proper?

¶Ros. By no meanes sir; Time trauels in diuers paces,

¶with diuers persons: Ile tel you who Time ambles with-

1500all, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal,

¶and who he stands stil withall.

¶Orl. I prethee, who doth he trot withal?

¶Ros. Marry he trots hard with a yong maid, between

¶the contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnizd:

1505if the interim be but a sennight, Times pace is so hard,

¶that it seemes the length of seuen yeare.

¶Orl. Who ambles Time withal?

¶Ros. With a Priest that lacks Latine, and a rich man

¶that hath not the Gowt : for the one sleepes easily be-

1510cause he cannot study, and the other liues merrily, be-

¶cause he feeles no paine: the one lacking the burthen of

¶leane and wasteful Learning; the other knowing no bur-

¶then of heauie tedious penurie. These Time ambles

¶withal.

1515Orl. Who doth he gallop withal?

¶Ros. With a theefe to the gallowes : for though hee

¶go as softly as foot can fall, he thinkes himselfe too soon

¶there.

¶Orl. Who staies it stil withal?

1520Ros. With Lawiers in the vacation: for they sleepe

¶betweene Terme and Terme, and then they perceiue not

¶how time moues.

¶Orl. Where dwel you prettie youth?

¶Ros. With this Shepheardesse my sister : heere in the

1525skirts of the Forrest, like fringe vpon a petticoat.

¶Orl. Are you natiue of this place?

¶Ros. As the Conie that you see dwell where shee is

¶kindled.

¶Orl. Your accent is something finer, then you could

1530purchase in so remoued a dwelling.

¶Ros. I haue bin told so of many: but indeed, an olde

¶religious Vnckle of mine taught me to speake, who was

¶in his youth an inland man, one that knew Courtship too

¶well: for there he fel in loue. I haue heard him read ma-

1535ny Lectors against it, and I thanke God, I am not a Wo-

¶man to be touch'd with so many giddie offences as hee

¶hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.

¶Orl. Can you remember any of the principall euils,

¶that he laid to the charge of women?

1540Ros. There were none principal, they were all like

¶one another, as halfe pence are, euerie one fault seeming

¶monstrous, til his fellow-fault came to match it.

¶Orl. I prethee recount some of them.

¶Ros. No: I wil not cast away my physick, but on those

1545that are sicke. There is a man haunts the Forrest, that a-

¶buses our yong plants with caruing Rosalinde on their

¶barkes; hangs Oades vpon Hauthornes, and Elegies on

¶brambles; all (forsooth) defying the name of Rosalinde.

¶If I could meet that Fancie-monger, I would giue him

1550some good counsel, for he seemes to haue the Quotidian

¶of Loue vpon him.

¶Orl. I am he that is so Loue-shak'd, I pray you tel

¶me your remedie.

¶Ros. There is none of my Vnckles markes vpon you:

1555he taught me how to know a man in loue: in which cage

¶of rushes, I am sure you art not prisoner.

¶Orl. What were his markes?

¶Ros. A leane cheeke, which you haue not: a blew eie

¶and sunken, which you haue not: an vnquestionable spi-

1560rit, which you haue not: a beard neglected, which you

¶haue not: (but I pardon you for that, for simply your ha-

¶uing in beard, is a yonger brothers reuennew) then your

¶hose should be vngarter'd, your bonnet vnbanded, your

¶sleeue vnbutton'd, your shoo vnti'de, and euerie thing

1565about you, demonstrating a carelesse desolation: but you

¶are no such man; you are rather point deuice in your ac-

¶coustrements, as louing your selfe, then seeming the Lo-

¶uer of any other.

¶Orl. Faire youth, I would I could make thee beleeue

(I Loue.

1570Ros. Me beleeue it? You may assoone make her that

¶you Loue beleeue it, which I warrant she is apter to do,

¶then to confesse she do's: that is one of the points, in the

¶which women stil giue the lie to their consciences. But

¶in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the

1575Trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

¶Orl. I sweare to thee youth, by the white hand of

¶Rosalind, I am that he, that vnfortunate he.

¶Ros. But are you so much in loue, as your rimes speak?

¶Orl. Neither rime nor reason can expresse how much.

1580Ros: Loue is meerely a madnesse, and I tel you, de-

¶serues as wel a darke house, and a whip, as madmen do:

¶and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured, is

¶that the Lunacie is so ordinarie, that the whippers are in

¶loue too: yet I professe curing it by counsel.

1585Orl. Did you euer cure any so?

¶Ros. Yes one, and in this manner. Hee was to ima-

¶gine me his Loue, his Mistris: and I set him euerie day

¶to woe me. At which time would I, being but a moonish

¶youth, greeue, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and

1590liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, ful

¶of teares, full of smiles; for euerie passion something, and

¶for no passion truly any thing, as boyes and women are

¶for the most part, cattle of this colour: would now like

¶him, now loath him: then entertaine him, then forswear

1595him: now weepe for him, then spit at him; that I draue

¶my Sutor from his mad humor of loue, to a liuing humor

¶of madnes, w^c was to forsweare the ful stream of y^e world,

¶and to liue in a nooke meerly Monastick: and thus I cur'd

¶him, and this way wil I take vpon mee to wash your Li-

1600uer as cleane as a sound sheepes heart, that there shal not

¶be one spot of Loue in't.

¶Orl. I would not be cured, youth.

¶Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosa-

¶lind, and come euerie day to my Coat, and woe me.

1605Orlan. Now by the faith of my loue, I will ; Tel me

¶where it is.

¶Ros. Go with me to it, and Ile shew it you: and by

¶the way, you shal tell me, where in the Forrest you liue:

¶Wil you go?

1610Orl. With all my heart, good youth.

¶Ros. Nay, you must call mee Rosalind: Come sister,

¶will you go?

Exeunt.

Scœna Tertia.

Enter Clowne, Audrey, & Iaques.

1615Clo. Come apace good Audrey, I wil fetch vp your

¶Goates, Audrey : and how Audrey am I the man yet?

¶Doth my simple feature content you?

¶Aud. Your features, Lord warrant vs: what features?

¶Clo. I am heere with thee, and thy Goats, as the most

1620capricious Poet honest Ouid was among the Gothes.

¶Iaq. O knowledge ill inhabited, worse then Ioue in

¶a thatch'd house.

¶Clo. When a mans verses cannot be vnderstood, nor

¶a mans good wit seconded with the forward childe, vn-

1625derstanding: it strikes a man more dead then a great rec-

¶koning in a little roome: truly, I would the Gods hadde

¶made thee poeticall.

¶Aud. I do not know what Poetical is: is it honest in

¶deed and word: is it a true thing?

1630Clo. No trulie: for the truest poetrie is the most fai-

¶ning, and Louers are giuen to Poetrie: and what they

¶sweare in Poetrie, may be said as Louers, they do feigne.

¶Aud. Do you wish then that the Gods had made me

¶Poeticall?

1635Clow. I do truly: for thou swear'st to me thou art ho-

¶nest: Now if thou wert a Poet, I might haue some hope

¶thou didst feigne.

¶Aud. Would you not haue me honest?

¶Clo. No truly, vnlesse thou wert hard fauour'd: for

1640honestie coupled to beautie, is to haue Honie a sawce to

¶Sugar.

¶Iaq. A materiall foole.

¶Aud. Well, I am not faire, and therefore I pray the

¶Gods make me honest.

1645Clo. Truly, and to cast away honestie vppon a foule

¶slut, were to put good meate into an vncleane dish.

¶And. I am not a slut, though I thanke the Goddes I

¶am foule.

¶Clo. Well, praised be the Gods, for thy foulnesse; slut-

1650tishnesse may come heereafter. But be it, as it may bee,

¶I wil marrie thee: and to that end, I haue bin with Sir

¶Oliuer Mar-text, the Vicar of the next village, who hath

¶promis'd to meete me in this place of the Forrest, and to

¶couple vs.

1655Iaq. I would faine see this meeting.

¶Aud. Wel, the Gods giue vs ioy.

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

¶stagger in this attempt: for heere wee haue no Temple

¶but the wood, no assembly but horne-beasts. But what

1660though? Courage. As hornes are odious, they are neces-

¶sarie. It is said, many a man knowes no end of his goods;

¶right: Many a man has good Hornes, and knows no end

¶of them. Well, that is the dowrie of his wife, 'tis none

¶of his owne getting; hornes, euen so poore men alone:

1665No, no, the noblest Deere hath them as huge as the Ras-

¶call: Is the single man therefore blessed? No, as a wall'd

¶Towne is more worthier then a village, so is the fore-

¶head of a married man, more honourable then the bare

¶brow of a Batcheller: and by how much defence is bet-

1670ter then no skill, by so much is a horne more precious

¶then to want.

Enter Sir Oliuer Mar-text.

¶Heere comes Sir Oliuer: Sir Oliuer Mar-text you are

¶wel met. Will you dispatch vs heere vnder this tree, or

1675shal we go with you to your Chappell?

¶Ol. Is there none heere to giue the woman?

¶Clo. I wil not take her on guift of any man.

¶Ol. Truly she must be giuen, or the marriage is not

¶lawfull.

1680Iaq. Proceed, proceede: Ile giue her.

¶Clo. Good euen good M^r what ye cal't: how do you

¶Sir, you are verie well met: goddild you for your last

¶companie, I am verie glad to see you, euen a toy in hand

¶heere Sir: Nay, pray be couer'd.

1685Iaq. Wil you be married, Motley?

¶Clo. As the Oxe hath his bow sir, the horse his curb,

¶and the Falcon her bels, so man hath his desires, and as

¶Pigeons bill, so wedlocke would be nibling.

¶Iaq. And wil you (being a man of your breeding) be

1690married vnder a bush like a begger? Get you to church,

¶and haue a good Priest that can tel you what marriage is,

¶this fellow wil but ioyne you together, as they ioyne

¶Wainscot, then one of you wil proue a shrunke pannell,

¶and like greene timber, warpe, warpe.

1695Clo. I am not in the minde, but I were better to bee

¶married of him then of another, for he is not like to mar-

¶rie me wel: and not being wel married, it wil be a good

¶excuse for me heereafter, to leaue my wife.

¶Iaq. Goe thou with mee,

1700And let me counsel thee.

¶Ol. Come sweete Audrey,

¶We must be married, or we must liue in baudrey:

¶Farewel good |M^rOliuer: Not

O sweet Oliuer, O braue

¶Oliuer leaue me not behind thee:

But winde away, bee

1705gone I say, I wil not to wedding with thee.

¶Ol. 'Tis no matter; Ne're a fantastical knaue of them

¶all shal flout me out of my calling.

Exeunt

Scœna Quarta.

Enter Rosalind & Celia.

1710Ros. Neuer talke to me, I wil weepe.

¶Cel. Do I prethee, but yet haue the grace to consider,

¶that teares do not become a man.

¶Ros. But haue I not cause to weepe?

¶Cel. As good cause as one would desire,

1715Therefore weepe.

¶Ros. His very haire

¶Is of the dissembling colour.

¶Cel. Something browner then Iudasses:

¶Marrie his kisses are Iudasses owne children.

1720Ros. I'faith his haire is of a good colour.

¶Cel. An excellent colour:

¶Your Chessenut was euer the onely colour:

¶Ros. And his kissing is as ful of sanctitie,

¶As the touch of holy bread.

1725Cel. Hee hath bought a paire of cast lips of Diana: a

¶Nun of winters sisterhood kisses not more religiouslie,

¶the very yce of chastity is in them.

¶Rosa. But why did hee sweare hee would come this

¶morning, and comes not?

1730Cel. Nay certainly there is no truth in him.

¶Ros. Doe you thinke so?

¶Cel. Yes, I thinke he is not a picke purse, nor a horse-

¶stealer, but for his verity in loue, I doe thinke him as

¶concaue as a couered goblet, or a Worme-eaten nut.

1735Ros. Not true in loue?

¶Cel. Yes, when he is in, but I thinke he is not in.

¶Ros. You haue heard him sweare downright he was.

¶Cel. Was, is not is: besides, the oath of Louer is no

¶stronger then the word of a Tapster, they are both the

1740confirmer of false reckonings, he attends here in the for-

¶rest on the Duke your father.

¶Ros. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much que-

¶stion with him: he askt me of what parentage I was; I

¶told him of as good as he, so he laugh'd and let mee goe.

1745But what talke wee of Fathers, when there is such a man

¶as Orlando?

¶Cel. O that's a braue man, hee writes braue verses,

¶speakes braue words, sweares braue oathes, and breakes

¶them brauely, quite trauers athwart the heart of his lo-

1750uer, as a puisny Tilter, y^t spurs his horse but on one side,

¶breakes his staffe like a noble goose; but all's braue that

¶youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes heere?

Enter Corin.

¶Corin. Mistresse and Master, you haue oft enquired

1755After the Shepheard that complain'd of loue,

¶Who you saw sitting by me on the Turph,

¶Praising the proud disdainfull Shepherdesse

¶That was his Mistresse.

¶Cel. Well: and what of him?

1760Cor. If you will see a pageant truely plaid

¶Betweene the pale complexion of true Loue,

¶And the red glowe of scorne and prowd disdaine,

¶Goe hence a little, and I shall conduct you

¶If you will marke it.

1765Ros. O come, let vs remoue,

¶The sight of Louers feedeth those in loue:

¶Bring vs to this sight, and you shall say

¶Ile proue a busie actor in their play.

Exeunt.

Scena Quinta.

1770

Enter Siluius and Phebe.

¶Sil. Sweet Phebe doe not scorne me, do not Phebe

¶Say that you loue me not, but say not so

¶In bitternesse; the common executioner

¶Whose heart th'accustom'd sight of death makes hard

1775Falls not the axe vpon the humbled neck,

¶But first begs pardon: will you sterner be

¶Then he that dies and liues by bloody drops?

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

¶Phe. I would not be thy executioner,

1780I flye thee, for I would not iniure thee:

¶Thou tellst me there is murder in mine eye,

¶'Tis pretty sure, and very probable,

¶That eyes that are the frailst, and softest things,

¶Who shut their coward gates on atomyes,

1785Should be called tyrants, butchers, murtherers.

¶Now I doe frowne on thee with all my heart,

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

¶Now counterfeit to swound, why now fall downe,

¶Or if thou canst not, oh for shame, for shame,

1790Lye not, to say mine eyes are murtherers:

¶Now shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee,

¶Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remaines

¶Some scarre of it: Leane vpon a rush

¶The Cicatrice and capable impressure

1795Thy palme some moment keepes: but now mine eyes

¶Which I haue darted at thee, hurt thee not,

¶Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes

¶That can doe hurt.

¶Sil. O deere Phebe,

1800If euer (as that euer may be neere)

¶You meet in some fresh cheeke the power of fancie,

¶Then shall you know the wouuds inuisible

¶That Loues keene arrows make.

¶Phe. But till that time

1805Come not thou neere me: and when that time comes,

¶Afflict me with thy mockes, pitty me not,

¶As till that time I shall not pitty thee.

¶Ros. And why I pray you? who might be your mother

¶That you insult, exult, and all at once

1810Ouer the wretched? what though you hau no beauty

¶As by my faith, I see no more in you

¶Then without Candle may goe darke to bed:

¶Must you be therefore prowd and pittilesse?

¶Why what meanes this? why do you looke on me?

1815I see no more in you then in the ordinary

¶Of Natures sale-worke? 'ods my little life,

¶I thinke she meanes to tangle my eies too:

¶No faith proud Mistresse, hope not after it,

¶'Tis not your inkie browes, your blacke silke haire,

1820Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheeke of creame

¶That can entame my spirits to your worship:

¶You foolish Shepheard, wherefore do you follow her

¶Like foggy South, puffing with winde and raine,

¶You are a thousand times a properer man

1825Then she a woman. 'Tis such fooles as you

¶That makes the world full of ill-fauourd children:

¶'Tis not her glasse, but you that flatters her,

¶And out of you she sees her selfe more proper

¶Then any of her lineaments can show her:

1830But Mistris, know your selfe, downe on your knees

¶And thanke heauen, fasting, for a good mans loue;

¶For I must tell you friendly in your eare,

¶Sell when you can, you are not for all markets:

¶Cry the man mercy, loue him, take his offer,

1835Foule is most foule, being foule to be a scoffer.

¶So take her to thee Shepheard, fare_you_well.

¶Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a yere together,

¶I had rather here you chide, then this man wooe.

¶Ros. Hees falne in loue with your foulnesse, & shee'll

1840Fall in loue with my anger. If it be so, as fast

¶As she answeres thee with frowning lookes, ile sauce

¶Her with bitter words: why looke you so vpon me?

¶Phe. For no ill will I beare you.

¶Ros. I pray you do not fall in loue with mee,

1845For I am falser then vowes made in wine:

¶Besides, I like you not: if you will know my house,

¶'Tis at the tufft of Oliues, here hard by:

¶Will you goe Sister? Shepheard_ply her hard:

¶Come Sister: Shepheardesse, looke on him better

1850And be not proud, though all the world could see,

¶None could be so abus'd in sight as hee.

¶Come, to our flocke,

Exit.

¶Phe. Dead Shepheard, now I find thy saw of might,

¶Who euer lov'd, that lou'd not at first sight?

1855Sil. Sweet Phebe.

¶Phe. Hah: what saist thou Siluius?

¶Sil. Sweet Phebe pitty me.

¶Phe. Why I am sorry for thee gentle Siluius.

¶Sil. Where euer sorrow is, reliefe would be:

1860If you doe sorrow at my griefe in loue,

¶By giuing loue your sorrow, and my griefe

¶Were both extermin'd.

¶Phe. Thou hast my loue, is not that neighbourly?

¶Sil. I would haue you.

1865Phe. Why that were couetousnesse:

¶Siluius; the time was, that I hated thee;

¶And yet it is not, that I beare thee loue,

¶But since that thou canst talke of loue so well,

¶Thy company, which erst was irkesome to me

1870I will endure; and Ile employ thee too:

¶But doe not looke for further recompence

¶Then thine owne gladnesse, that thou art employd.

¶Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my loue,

¶And I in such a pouerty of grace,

1875That I shall thinke it a most plenteous crop

¶To gleane the broken eares after the man

¶That the maine haruest reapes: loose now and then

¶A scattred smile, and that Ile liue vpon.

¶Phe. Knowst thou the youth that spoke to mee yere-

(while?

1880Sil. Not very well, but I haue met him oft,

¶And he hath bought the Cottage and the bounds

¶That the old Carlot once was Master of.

¶Phe. Thinke not I loue him, though I ask for him,

¶'Tis but a peeuish boy, yet he talkes well,

1885But what care I for words? yet words do well

¶When he that speakes them pleases those that heare:

¶It is a pretty youth, not very prettie,

¶But sure hee's proud, and yet his pride becomes him;

¶Hee'll make a proper man: the best thing in him

1890Is his complexion: and faster then his tongue

¶Did make offence, his eye did heale it vp:

¶He is not very tall, yet for his yeeres hee's tall:

¶His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well:

¶There was a pretty rednesse in his lip,

1895A little riper, and more lustie red

¶Then that mixt in his cheeke: 'twas iust the difference

¶Betwixt the constant red, and mingled Damaske.

¶There be some women Siluius, had they markt him

¶In parcells as I did, would haue gone neere

1900To fall in loue with him: but for my part

¶I loue him not, nor hate him not: and yet

¶Haue more cause to hate him then to loue him,

¶For what had he to doe to chide at me?

¶He said mine eyes were black, and my haire blacke,

1905And now I am remembred, scorn'd at me:

¶I maruell why I answer'd not againe,

¶But that's all one: omittance is no quittance:

¶Ile write to him a very tanting Letter,

¶And thou shalt beare it, wilt thou Siluius?

1910Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.

¶Phe. Ile write it strait:

¶The matter's in my head, and in my heart,

¶I will be bitter with him, and passing short;

¶Goe with me Siluius.

Exeunt.

1915

Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.

Enter Rosalind, and Celia, and Iaques.

¶Iaq. I prethee, pretty youth, let me better acquainted

¶with thee.

¶Ros They say you are a melancholly fellow.

1920Iaq. I am so: I doe loue it better then laughing.

¶Ros. Those that are in extremity of either, are abho-

¶minable fellowes, and betray themselues to euery mo-

¶derne censure, worse then drunkards.

¶Iaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

1925Ros. Why then 'tis good to be a poste.

¶Iaq. I haue neither the Schollers melancholy, which

¶is emulation: nor the Musitians, which is fantasticall;

¶nor the Courtiers, which is proud: nor the Souldiers,

¶which is ambitious: nor the Lawiers, which is politick:

1930nor the Ladies, which is nice: nor the Louers, which

¶is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine owne, com-

¶pounded of many simples, extracted from many obiects,

¶and indeed the sundrie contemplation of my trauells, in

¶which by often rumination, wraps me in a most humo-

1935rous sadnesse.

¶Ros. A Traueller: by my faith you haue great rea-

¶son to be sad: I feare you haue sold your owne Lands,

¶to see other mens; then to haue seene much, and to haue

¶nothing, is to haue rich eyes and poore hands.

1940Iaq. Yes, I haue gain'd my experience.

Enter Orlando.

¶Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had ra-

¶ther haue a foole to make me merrie, then experience to

¶make me sad, and to trauaile for it too.

1945Orl. Good day, and happinesse, deere Rosalind.

¶Iaq. Nay then God buy you, and you talke in blanke

¶verse.

¶Ros. Farewell Mounsieur Trauellor: looke you

¶lispe, and weare strange suites; disable all the benefits

1950of your owne Countrie: be out of loue with your

¶natiuitie, and almost chide God for making you that

¶countenance you are; or I will scarce thinke you haue

¶swam in a Gundello. Why how now Orlando, where

¶haue you bin all this while? you a louer? and you

1955serue me such another tricke, neuer come in my sight

¶more.

¶Orl. My faire Rosalind, I come within an houre of my

¶promise.

¶Ros. Breake an houres promise in loue? hee that

1960will diuide a minute into a thousand parts, and breake

¶but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs

¶of loue, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapt

¶him oth' shoulder, but Ile warrant him heart hole.

¶Orl. Pardon me deere Rosalind.

1965Ros. Nay, and you be so tardie, come no more in my

¶sight, I had as liefe be woo'd of a Snaile.

¶Orl. Of a Snaile?

¶Ros. I, of a Snaile: for though he comes slowly, hee

¶carries his house on his head; a better ioyncture I thinke

1970then you make a woman: besides, he brings his destinie

¶with him.

¶Orl. What's that?

¶Ros. Why hornes: w^c such as you_are faine to be be-

¶holding to your wiues for: but he comes armed in his

1975fortune, and preuents the slander of his wife.

¶Orl. Vertue is no horne-maker: and my Rosalind is

¶vertuous.

¶Ros. And I am your Rosalind.

¶Cel. It pleases him to call you so: but he hath a Rosa-

1980lind of a better leere then you.

¶Ros. Come, wooe me, wooe mee: for now I am in a

¶holy-day humor, and like enough to consent: What

¶would you say to me now, and I were your verie, verie

¶Rosalind?

1985Orl. I would kisse before I spoke.

¶Ros. Nay,you were better speake first, and when you

¶were grauel'd, for lacke of matter, you might take oc-

¶casion to kisse: verie good Orators when they are out,

¶they will spit, and for louers, lacking (God warne vs)

1990matter, the cleanliest shift is to kisse.

¶Orl. How if the kisse be denide?

¶Ros. Then she puts you to entreatie, and there begins

¶new matter.

¶Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloued

1995Mistris?

¶Ros. Marrie that should you if I were your Mistris,

¶or I should thinke my honestie ranker then my wit.

¶Orl. What, of my suite?

¶Ros. Not out of your apparrell, and yet out of your

2000suite:

¶Am not I your Rosalind?

¶Orl. I take some ioy to say you are, because I would

¶be talking of her.

¶Ros. Well, in her person, I say I will not haue you.

2005Orl. Then in mine owne person, I die.

¶Ros. No faith, die by Attorney: the poore world is

¶almost six thousand yeeres old, and in all this time there

¶was not anie man died in his owne person (videlicet) in

¶a loue cause: Troilous had his braines dash'd out with a

2010Grecian club, yet he did what hee could to die before,

¶and he is one of the patternes of loue. Leander, he would

¶haue liu'd manie a faire yeere though Hero had turn'd

¶Nun; if it had not bin for a hot Midsomer-night, for

¶(good youth) he went but forth to wash him in the Hel-

2015lespont, and being taken with the crampe, was droun'd,

¶and the foolish Chronoclers of that age, found it was

¶Hero of Cestos. But these are all lies, men haue died

¶from time to time, and wormes haue eaten them, but not

¶for loue.

2020Orl. I would not haue my right Rosalind of this mind,

¶for I protest her frowne might kill me.

¶Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a flie: but come,

¶now I will be your Rosalind in a more comming-on dis-

¶position: and aske me what you will, I will grant it.

2025Orl. Then loue me Rosalind.

¶Ros. Yes faith will I, fridaies and saterdaies, and all.

¶Orl. And wilt thou haue me?

¶Ros. I, and twentie such.

¶Orl. What saiest thou?

2030Ros. Are you not good?

¶Orl. I hope so.

¶Rosalind. Why then, can one desire too much of a

¶good thing: Come sister, you shall be the Priest, and

¶marrie vs: giue me your hand Orlando: What doe you

2035say sister?

¶Orl. Pray thee marrie vs.

¶Cel. I cannot say the words.

¶Ros. You must begin, will you Orlando.

¶Cel. Goe too: wil you Orlando, haue to wife this Ro-

2040salind?

¶Orl. I will.

¶Ros. I, but when?

¶Orl. Why now, as fast as she can marrie vs.

¶Ros. Then you must say, I take thee Rosalind for

2045wife.

¶Orl. I take thee Rosalind for wife.

¶Ros. I might aske you for your Commission,

¶But I doe take thee Orlando for my husband : there's a

¶girle goes before the Priest, and certainely a Womans

2050thought runs before her actions.

¶Orl. So do all thoughts, they are wing'd.

¶Ros. Now tell me how long you would haue her, af-

¶ter you haue possest her?

¶Orl. For euer, and a day.

2055Ros. Say a day, without the euer: no, no Orlando, men

¶are Aprill when they woe, December when they wed:

¶Maides are May when they are maides, but the sky chan-

¶ges when they are wiues: I will bee more iealous of

¶thee, then a Barbary cocke-pidgeon ouer his hen, more

2060clamorous then a Parrat against raine, more new-fang-

¶led then an ape, more giddy in my desires, then a mon-

¶key: I will weepe for nothing, like Diana in the Foun-

¶taine, & I wil do that when you are dispos'd to be merry:

¶I will laugh like a Hyen, and that when thou art inclin'd

2065to sleepe.

¶Orl. But will my Rosalind doe so?

¶Ros. By my life, she will doe as I doe.

¶Orl. O but she is wise.

¶Ros. Or else shee could not haue the wit to doe this:

2070the wiser, the waywarder: make the doores vpon a wo-

¶mans wit, and it will out at the casement: shut that, and

¶'twill out at the key-hole: stop that, 'twill flie with the

¶smoake out at the chimney.

¶Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might

2075say, wit whether wil't?

¶Ros. Nay, you might keepe that checke for it, till you

¶met your wiues wit going to your neighbours bed.

¶Orl. And what wit could wit haue, to excuse that?

¶Rosa. Marry to say, she came to seeke you there: you

2080shall neuer take her without her answer, vnlesse you take

¶her without her tongue: ô that woman that cannot

¶make her fault her husbands occasion, let her neuer nurse

¶her childe her selfe, for she will breed it like a foole.

¶Orl. For these two houres Rosalinde, I wil leaue thee.

2085Ros. Alas, deere loue, I cannot lacke thee two houres.

¶Orl. I must attend the Duke at dinner, by two a clock

¶I will be with thee againe.

¶Ros. I, goe your waies, goe your waies: I knew what

¶you would proue, my friends told mee as much, and I

2090thought no lesse: that flattering tongue of yours wonne

¶me: 'tis but one cast away, and so come death: two o'

¶clocke is your howre.

¶Orl. I, sweet Rosalind.

¶Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God

2095mend mee, and by all pretty oathes that are not dange-

¶rous, if you breake one iot of your promise, or come one

¶minute behinde your houre, I will thinke you the most

¶patheticall breake-promise, and the most hollow louer,

¶and the most vnworthy of her you call Rosalinde, that

2100may bee chosen out of the grosse band of the vnfaith-

¶full: therefore beware my censure, and keep your pro-

¶mise.

¶Orl. With no lesse religion, then if thou wert indeed

¶my Rosalind: so adieu.

2105Ros. Well, Time is the olde Iustice that examines all

¶such offenders, and let time try: adieu.

Exit.

¶Cel. You haue simply misus'd our sexe in your loue-

¶prate: we must haue your doublet and hose pluckt ouer

¶your head, and shew the world what the bird hath done

2110to her owne neast.

¶Ros. O coz, coz, coz: my pretty little coz, that thou

¶didst know how many fathome deepe I am in loue: but

¶it cannot bee sounded: my affection hath an vnknowne

¶bottome, like the Bay of Portugall.

2115Cel. Or rather bottomlesse, that as fast as you poure

¶affection in, in runs out.

¶Ros. No, that same wicked Bastard of Venus, that was

¶begot of thought, conceiu'd of spleene, and borne of

¶madnesse, that blinde rascally boy, that abuses euery

2120ones eyes, because his owne are out, let him bee iudge,

¶how deepe I am in loue: ile tell thee Aliena, I cannot be

¶out of the sight of Orlando: Ile goe finde a shadow, and

¶sigh till he come.

¶Cel. And Ile sleepe.

Exeunt.

2125

Scena Secunda.

Enter Iaques and Lords, Forresters.

¶Iaq. Which is he that killed the Deare?

¶Lord. Sir, it was I.

¶Iaq. Let's present him to the Duke like a Romane

2130Conquerour, and it would doe well to set the Deares

¶horns vpon his head, for a branch of victory; haue you

¶no song Forrester for this purpose?

¶Lord. Yes Sir.

¶Iaq. Sing it: 'tis no matter how it bee in tune, so it

2135make noyse enough.

Musicke, Song.

¶What shall he haue that kild the Deare?

¶His Leather skin, and hornes to weare:

¶Then sing him home, the rest shall beare this burthen;

2140Take thou no scorne to weare the horne,

¶It was a crest ere thou wast borne,

¶Thy fathers father wore it,

¶And thy father bore it,

¶The horne, the horne, the lusty horne,

2145Is not a thing to laugh to scorne.

Exeunt.

Scœna Tertia.

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

¶Ros. How say you now, is it not past two a clock?

¶And heere much Orlando.

2150Cel. I warrant you, with pure loue, & troubled brain,

Enter Siluius.

¶He hath t'ane his bow and arrowes, and is gone forth

¶To sleepe: looke who comes heere.

¶Sil. My errand is to you, faire youth,

2155My gentle Phebe, did bid me giue you this:

¶I know not the contents, but as I guesse

¶By the sterne brow, and waspish action

¶Which she did vse, as she was writing of it,

¶It beares an angry tenure; pardon me,

2160I am but as a guiltlesse messenger.

¶Ros. Patience her selfe would startle at this letter,

¶And play the swaggerer, beare this, beare all:

¶Shee saies I am not faire, that I lacke manners,

¶She calls me proud, and that she could not loue me

2165Were man as rare as Phenix: 'od's my will,

¶Her loue is not the Hare that I doe hunt,

¶Why writes she so to me? well Shepheard, well,

¶This is a Letter of your owne deuice.

¶Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents,

2170Phebe did write it.

¶Ros. Come, come, you are a foole,

¶And turn'd into the extremity of loue.

¶I saw her hand, she has a leatherne hand,

¶A freestone coloured hand: I verily did thinke

2175That her old gloues were on, but twas her hands:

¶She has a huswiues hand, but that's no matter:

¶I say she neuer did inuent this letter,

¶This is a mans inuention, and his hand.

¶Sil. Sure it is hers.

2180Ros. Why, tis a boysterous and a cruell stile,

¶A stile for challengers: why, she defies me,

¶Like Turke to Christian: vvomens gentle braine

¶Could not drop forth such giant rude inuention,

¶Such Ethiop vvords, blacker in their effect

2185Then in their countenance: vvill you heare the letter?

¶Sil. So please you, for I neuer heard it yet:

¶Yet heard too much of Phebes crueltie.

¶Ros. She Phebes me: marke how the tyrant vvrites.

¶Read. Art thou god, to Shepherd turn'd?

2190That a maidens heart hath burn'd.

¶Can a vvoman raile thus?

¶Sil. Call you this railing?

¶Ros.Read. Why, thy godhead laid a part,

¶War'st thou with a womans heart?

2195Did you euer heare such railing?

¶Whiles the eye of man did wooe me,

¶That could do no vengeance to me.

¶Meaning me a beast.

¶If the scorne of your bright eine

2200Haue power to raise such loue in mine,

¶Alacke, in me, what strange effect

¶Would they worke in milde aspect?

¶Whiles you chid me, I did loue,

¶How then might your praiers moue?

2205He that brings this loue to thee,

¶Little knowes this Loue in me:

¶And by him seale vp thy minde,

¶Whether that thy youth and kinde

¶Will the faithfull offer take

2210Of me, and all that I can make,

¶Or else by him my loue denie,

¶And then Ile studie how to die.

¶Sil. Call you this chiding?

¶Cel. Alas poore Shepheard.

2215Ros. Doe you pitty him? No, he deserues no pitty:

¶wilt thou loue such a woman? what to make thee an in-

¶strument, and play false straines vpon thee? not to be en-

¶dur'd. Well, goe your way to her; (for I see Loue hath

¶made thee a tame snake) and say this to her; That if she

2220loue me, I charge her to loue thee: if she will not, I will

¶neuer haue her, vnlesse thou intreat for her: if you bee a

¶true louer hence, and not a word; for here comes more

¶company.

Exit. Sil.

Enter Oliuer.

2225Oliu. Good morrow, faire ones: pray you, (if you

know)

¶Where in the Purlews of this Forrest, stands

¶A sheep-coat, fenc'd about with Oliue-trees.

¶Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbor bottom

¶The ranke of Oziers, by the murmuring streame

2230Left on your right hand, brings you to the place:

¶But at this howre, the house doth keepe it selfe,

¶There's none within.

¶Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,

¶Then should I know you by description,

2235Such garments, and such yeeres: the boy is faire,

¶Of femall fauour, and bestowes himselfe

¶Like a ripe sister: the woman low

¶And browner then her brother: are not you

¶The owner of the house I did enquire for?

2240Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.

¶Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both,

¶And to that youth hee calls his Rosalind,

¶He sends this bloudy napkin; are you he?

¶Ros. I am: what must we vnderstand by this?

2245Oli. 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.

¶Cel. I pray you tell it.

¶Oli. When last the yong Orlando parted from you,

2250He left a promise to returne againe

¶Within an houre, and pacing through the Forrest,

¶Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancie,

¶Loe vvhat befell: he threw his eye aside,

¶And marke vvhat obiect did present it selfe

2255Vnder an old Oake, whose bows were moss'd with age

¶And high top, bald with drie antiquitie:

¶A wretched ragged man, ore-growne with haire

¶Lay sleeping on his back; about his necke

¶A greene and guilded snake had wreath'd it selfe,

2260Who with her head, nimble in threats approach'd

¶The opening of his mouth: but sodainly

¶Seeing Orlando, it vnlink'd it selfe,

¶And with indented glides, did slip away

¶Into a bush, vnder which bushes shade

2265A Lyonnesse, with vdders all drawne drie,

¶Lay cowching head on ground, with catlike watch

¶When that the sleeping man should stirre; for 'tis

¶The royall disposition of that beast

¶To prey on nothing, that doth seeme as dead:

2270This seene, Orlando did approach the man,

¶And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

¶Cel. O I haue heard him speake of that same brother,

¶And he did render him the most vnnaturall

¶That liu'd amongst men.

2275Oli. And well he might so doe,

¶For well I know he was vnnaturall.

¶Ros. But to Orlando: did he leaue him there

¶Food to the suck'd and hungry Lyonnesse?

¶Oli. Twice did he turne his backe, and purpos'd so:

2280But kindnesse, nobler euer then reuenge,

¶And Nature stronger then his iust occasion,

¶Made him giue battell to the Lyonnesse:

¶Who quickly fell before him, in which hurtling

¶From miserable slumber I awaked.

2285Cel. Are you his brother?

¶Ros. Was't you he rescu'd?

¶Cel. Was't you that did so oft contriue to kill him?

¶Oli. 'Twas I: but 'tis not I: I doe not shame

¶To tell you what I was, since my conuersion

2290So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

¶Ros. But for the bloody napkin?

¶Oli. By and by:

¶When from the first to last betwixt vs two,

¶Teares our recountments had most kindely bath'd,

2295As how I came into that Desert place.

¶I briefe, he led me to the gentle Duke,

¶Who gaue me fresh aray, and entertainment,

¶Committing me vnto my brothers loue,

¶Who led me instantly vnto his Caue,

2300There stript himselfe, and heere vpon his arme

¶The Lyonnesse had torne some flesh away,

¶Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,

¶And cride in fainting vpon Rosalinde.

¶Briefe, I recouer'd him, bound vp his wound,

2305And 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 giue this napkin

¶Died in this bloud, vnto the Shepheard youth,

2310That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

¶Cel. Why how now Ganimed, sweet Ganimed.

¶Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on bloud.

¶Cel. There is more in it; Cosen Ganimed.

¶Oli. Looke, he recouers.

2315Ros. I would I were at home.

¶Cel. Wee'll lead you thither:

¶I pray you will you take him by the arme.

¶Oli. Be of good cheere youth: you a man?

¶You lacke a mans heart.

2320Ros. I doe so, I confesse it:

¶Ah, sirra, a body would thinke this was well counterfei-

¶ted, I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfei-

¶ted: heigh-ho.

¶Oli. This was not counterfeit, there is too great te-

2325stimony in your complexion, that it was a passion of ear-

¶nest.

¶Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you.

¶Oli. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to

¶be a man.

2330Ros. So I doe: but yfaith, I should haue beene a wo-

¶man by right.

¶Cel. Come, you looke paler and paler: pray you draw

¶homewards: good sir, goe with vs.

¶Oli. That will I: for I must beare answere backe

2335How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

¶Ros. I shall deuise something: but I pray you com-

¶mend my counterfeiting to him: will you goe?

Exeunt.

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.

2340

Enter Clowne and Awdrie.

¶Clow. We shall finde a time Awdrie, patience gen-

¶tle Awdrie.

¶Awd. Faith the Priest was good enough, for all the

¶olde gentlemans saying.

2345Clow. A most wicked Sir Oliuer, Awdrie, a most vile

¶Mar-text. But Awdrie, there is a youth heere in the

¶Forrest layes claime to you.

¶Awd. I, I know who 'tis: he hath no interest in mee

¶in the world: here comes the man you meane.

2350

Enter William.

¶Clo. It is meat and drinke to me to see a Clowne, by

¶my troth, we that haue good wits, haue much to answer

¶for: we shall be flouting: we cannot hold.

¶Will. Good eu'n Audrey.

2355Aud. God ye good eu'n William.

¶Will. And good eu'n to you Sir.

¶Clo. Good eu'n gentle friend. Couer thy head, couer

¶thy head: Nay prethee bee eouer'd. How olde are you

¶Friend?

2360Will. Fiue and twentie Sir.

¶Clo. A ripe age: Is thy name William?

¶Will. William, sir.

¶Clo. A faire name. Was't borne i'th Forrest heere?

¶Will. I sir, I thanke God.

2365Clo. Thanke God: A good answer:

¶Art rich?

¶Will. 'Faith sir, so, so.

¶Cle. So, so, is good, very good, very excellent good:

¶and yet it is not, it is but so, so:

2370Art thou wise?

¶Will. I sir, I haue a prettie wit.

¶Clo. Why, thou saist well. I do now remember a say-

¶ing: The Foole doth thinke he is wise, but the wiseman

¶knowes himselfe to be a Foole. The Heathen Philoso-

2375pher, when he had a desire to eate a Grape, would open

¶his lips when he put it into his mouth, meaning there-

¶by, that Grapes were made to eate, and lippes to open.

¶You do loue this maid?

¶Will. I do sit.

2380Clo. Giue me your hand: Art thou Learned?

¶Will. No sir.

¶Clo. Then learne this of me, To haue, is to haue. For

¶it is a figure in Rhetoricke, that drink being powr'd out

¶of a cup into a glasse, by filling the one, doth empty the

2385other. For all your Writers do consent, that ipse is hee:

¶now you are not ipse, for I am he.

¶Will. Which he sir?

¶Clo. He sir, that must marrie this woman: Therefore

¶you Clowne, abandon: which is in the vulgar, leaue the

2390societie: which in the boorish, is companie, of this fe-

¶male: which in the common, is woman: which toge-

¶ther, is, abandon the society of this Female, or Clowne

¶thou perishest: or to thy better vnderstanding, dyest; or

¶(to wit) I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life in-

2395to death, thy libertie into bondage: I will deale in poy-

¶son with thee, or in bastinado, or in steele: I will bandy

¶with thee in faction, I will ore-run thee with police: I

¶will kill thee a hundred and fifty wayes, therefore trem-

¶ble and depart.

2400Aud. Do good William.

¶Will. God rest you merry sir.

Exit

Enter Corin.

¶Cor. Our Master and Mistresse seekes you: come a-

¶way, away.

2405Clo. Trip Audry, trip Audry, I attend,

¶I attend.

Exeunt

Scœna Secunda.

Enter Orlando & Oliuer.

¶Orl. Is't possible, that on so little acquaintance you

2410should like her? that, but seeing, you should loue her?

¶And louing woo? and wooing, she should graunt? And

¶will you perseuer to enioy her?

¶Ol. Neither call the giddinesse of it in question; the

¶pouertie of her, the small acquaintance, my sodaine wo-

2415ing, nor sodaine consenting: but say with mee, I loue

¶Aliena: say with her, that she loues mee; consent with

¶both, that we may enioy each other: it shall be to your

¶good: for my fathers house, and all the reuennew, that

¶was old Sir Rowlands will I estate vpon you, and heere

2420liue and die a Shepherd.

Enter Rosalind.

¶Orl. You haue my consent.

¶Let your Wedding be to morrow: thither will I

¶Inuite the Duke, and all's contented followers:

2425Go you, and prepare Aliena; for looke you,

¶Heere comes my Rosalinde.

¶Ros. God saue you brother.

¶Ol. And you faire sister.

¶Ros. Oh my deere Orlando, how it greeues me to see

2430thee weare thy heart in a scarfe.

¶Orl. It is my arme.

¶Ros. I thought thy heart had beene wounded with

¶the clawes of a Lion.

¶Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a Lady.

2435Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeyted

¶to sound, when he shew'd me your handkercher?

¶Orl. I, and greater wonders then that.

¶Ros. O, I know where you are: nay, tis true: there

¶was neuer any thing so sodaine, but the sight of two

2440Rammes, and Cesars Thrasonicall bragge of I came, saw,

¶and ouercome. For your brother, and my sister, no soo-

¶ner met, but they look'd: no sooner look'd, but they

¶lou'd; no sooner lou'd, but they sigh'd: no sooner sigh'd

¶but they ask'd one another the reason: no sooner knew

2445the reason, but they sought the remedie: and in these

¶degrees, haue they made a paire of staires to marriage,

¶which they will climbe incontinent, or else bee inconti-

¶nent before marriage; they are in the verie wrath of

¶loue, and they will together. Clubbes cannot part

2450them.

¶Orl. They shall be married to morrow : and I will

¶bid the Duke to the Nuptiall. But O, how bitter a thing

¶it is, to looke into happines through another mans eies:

¶by so much the more shall I to morrow be at the height

2455of heart heauinesse. by how much I shal thinke my bro-

¶ther happie, in hauing what he wishes for.

¶Ros. Why then to morrow, I cannot serue your turne

¶for Rosalind?

¶Orl. I can liue no longer by thinking.

2460Ros. I will wearie you then no longer with idle tal-

¶king. Know of me then (for now I speake to some pur-

¶pose) that I know you are a Gentleman of good conceit:

¶I speake not this, that you should beare a good opinion

¶of my knowledge: insomuch (I say) I know you are: nei-

2465ther do I labor for a greater esteeme then may in some

¶little measure draw a beleefe from you, to do your selfe

¶good, and not to grace me. Beleeue then, if you please,

¶that I can do strange things: I haue since I was three

¶yeare old conuerst with a Magitian, most profound in

2470his Art, and yet not damnable. If you do loue Rosalinde

¶so neere the hart, as your gesture cries it out: when your

¶brother marries Aliena, shall you marrie her. I know in-

¶to what straights of Fortune she is driuen, and it is not

¶impossible to me, if it appeare not inconuenient to you,

2475to set her before your eyes to morrow, humane as she is,

¶and without any danger.

¶Orl. Speak'st thou in sober meanings?

¶Ros. By my life I do, which I tender deerly, though

¶I say I am a Magitian: Therefore put you in your best a-

2480ray, bid your friends: for if you will be married to mor-

¶row, you shall: and to Rosalind if you will.

Enter Siluius & Phebe.

¶Looke, here comes a Louer of mine, and a louer of hers.

¶Phe. Youth, you haue done me much vngentlenesse,

2485To shew the letter that I writ to you.

¶Ros. I care not if I haue: it is my studie

¶To seeme despightfull and vngentle to you:

¶you are there followed by a faithful shepheard,

¶Looke vpon him, loue him: he worships you.

2490Phe. Good shepheard, tell this youth what 'tis to loue

¶Sil. It is to be all made of sighes and teares,

¶And so am I for Phebe.

¶Phe. And I for Ganimed.

¶Orl. And I for Rosalind.

2495Ros. And I for no woman.

¶Sil. It is to be all made of faith and seruice,

¶And so am I for Phebe.

¶Phe. And I for Ganimed.

¶Orl. And I for Rosalind.

2500Ros. And I for no woman.

¶Sil. It is to be all made of fantasie,

¶All made of passion, and all made of wishes,

¶All adoration, dutie, and obseruance,

¶All humblenesse, all patience, and impatience,

2505All puritie, all triall, all obseruance:

¶And so am I for Phebe.

¶Phe. And so am I for Ganimed.

¶Orl. And so am I for Rosalind.

¶Ros. And so am I for no woman.

2510Phe. If this be so, why blame you me to loue you?

¶Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to loue you?

¶Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to loue you?

¶Ros. Why do you speake too, Why blame you mee

¶to loue you.

2515Orl. To her, that is not heere, nor doth not heare.

¶Ros. Pray you no more of this, 'tis like the howling

¶of Irish Wolues against the Moone : I will helpe you

¶if I can : I would loue you if I could : To morrow meet

¶me altogether : I wil marrie you, if euer I marrie Wo-

2520man, and Ile be married to morrow : I will satisfie you,

¶if euer I satisfi'd man, and you shall bee married to mor-

¶row. I wil content you, if what pleases you contents

¶you, and you shal be married to morrow : As you loue

¶Rosalind meet, as you loue Phebe meet, and as I loue no

2525woman, Ile meet : so fare you wel: I haue left you com-

¶mands.

¶Sil. Ile not faile, if I liue.

¶Phe. Nor I.

¶Orl. Nor I.

Exeunt.

2530

Scœna Tertia.

Enter Clowne and Audrey.

¶Clo. To morrow is the ioyfull day Audrey, to morow

¶will we be married.

¶Aud. I do desire it with all my heart: and I hope it is

2535no dishonest desire, to desire to be a woman of y^e world?

¶Heere come two of the banish'd Dukes Pages.

Enter two Pages.

¶1. Pa. Wel met honest Gentleman.

¶Clo. By my troth well met : come, sit, sit, and a song.

25402. Pa. We are for you, sit i'th middle.

¶1. Pa. Shal we clap into't roundly, without hauking,

¶or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the onely

¶prologues to a bad voice.

¶2. Pa. I faith, y'faith, and both in a tune like two

2545gipsies on a horse.

Song.

¶It was a Louer, and his lasse,

¶_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

¶That o're the greene corne feild did passe,

2550_In the spring time, the onely pretty rang time.

¶When Birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.

¶Sweet Louers loue the spring,

¶And therefore take the present time.

¶With a hey, & a ho, and a hey nonino,

2555For loue is crowned with the prime.

¶_In spring time, &c.

¶Betweene the acres of the Rie,

¶With a hey, and a ho, & a hey nonino:

¶These prettie Country folks would lie.

2560_In spring time, &c.

¶This Carroll they began that houre,

¶With a hey and a ho, & a hey nonino:

¶How that a life was but a Flower,

¶_In spring time, &c.

2565Clo. Truly yong Gentlemen, though there vvas no

¶great matter in the dittie, yet y^e note was very vntunable

¶1 Pa. you are deceiu'd Sir, we kept time, we lost not

¶our time.

¶Clo. By my troth yes: I count it but time lost to heare

2570such a foolish song. God buy you, and God mend your

¶voices. Come Audrie.

Exeunt.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Duke Senior, Amyens, Iaques, Orlan-

¶do, Oliuer, Celia.

2575Du.Sen. Dost thou beleeue Orlando, that the boy

¶Can do all this that he hath promised?

¶Orl. I sometimes do beleeue, and somtimes do not,

¶As those that feare they hope, and know they feare.

Enter Rosalinde, Siluius, & Phebe.

2580Ros. Patience once more, whiles our |cōpact| is vrg'd:

¶You say, if I bring in your Rosalinde,

¶You wil bestow her on Orlando heere?

¶Du.Se. That would I, had I kingdoms to giue with hir.

¶Ros. And you say you wil haue her, when I bring hir?

2585Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdomes King.

¶Ros. You say, you'l marrie me, if I be willing.

¶Phe. That will I, should I die the houre after.

¶Ros. But if you do refuse to marrie me,

¶You'l giue your selfe to this most faithfull Shepheard.

2590Phe. So is the bargaine.

¶Ros. You say that you'l haue Phebe if she will.

¶Sil. Though to haue her and death, were both one

¶thing.

¶Ros. I have promis'd to make all this matter euen :

2595Keepe you your word, O Duke, to giue your daughter,

¶You yours Orlando, to receiue his daughter :

¶Keepe you your word Phebe, that you'l marrie me,

¶Or else refusing me to wed this shepheard :

¶Keepe your word Siluius, that you'l marrie her

2600If she refuse me, and from hence I go

¶To make these doubts all euen.

Exit Ros. and Celia.

¶Du.Sen. I do remember in this shepheard boy,

¶Some liuely touches of my daughters fauour.

¶Orl. My Lord, the first time that I euer saw him,

2605Me thought he was a brother to your daughrer:

¶But my good Lord, this Boy is Forrest borne,

¶And hath bin tutor'd in the rudiments

¶Of many desperate studies, by his vnckle,

¶Whom he reports to be a great Magitian.

2610

Enter Clowne and Audrey.

¶Obscured in the circle of this Forrest.

¶Iaq. There is sure another flood toward, and these

¶couples are comming to the Arke. Here comes a payre

¶of verie strange beasts, which in all tongues, are call'd

2615Fooles.

¶Clo. Salutation and greeting to you all.

¶Iaq. Good my Lord, bid him welcome : This is the

¶Motley-minded Gentleman, that I haue so often met in

¶the Forrest: he hath bin a Courtier he sweares.

2620Clo. If any man doubt that, let him put mee to my

¶purgation, I haue trod a measure, I haue flattred a Lady,

¶I haue bin politicke with my friend, smooth with mine

¶enemie, I haue vndone three Tailors, I haue had foure

¶quarrels, and like to haue fought one.

2625Iaq. And how was that tane vp?

¶Clo. 'Faith we met, and found the quarrel was vpon

¶the seuenth cause.

¶Iaq. How seuenth cause? Good my Lord, like this

¶fellow.

2630Du.Se. I like him very well.

¶Clo. God'ild you sir, I desire you of the like : I presse

¶in heere sir, amongst the rest of the Country copulatiues

¶to sweare, and to forsweare, according as mariage binds

¶and blood breakes: a poore virgin sir, an il-fauor'd thing

2635sir, but mine owne, a poore humour of mine sir, to take

¶that that no man else will : rich honestie dwels like a mi-

¶ser sir, in a poore house, as your Pearle in your foule oy-

¶ster.

¶Du.Se. By my faith, he is very swift, and sententious

2640Clo. According to the fooles bolt sir, and such dulcet

¶diseases.

¶Iaq. But for the seuenth cause. How did you finde

¶the quarrell on the seuenth cause?

¶Clo. Vpon a lye, seuen times remoued : (beare your

2645bodie more seeming Audry) as thus sir: I did dislike the

¶cut of a certaine Courtiers beard: he sent me word, if I

¶said his beard was not cut well, hee was in the minde it

¶was : this is call'd the retort courteous. If I sent him

¶word againe, it was not well cut, he wold send me word

2650he cut it to please himselfe: this is call'd the quip modest.

¶If againe, it was not well cut, he disabled my iudgment:

¶this is called, the reply churlish. If againe it was not well

¶cut, he would answer I spake not true : this is call'd the

¶reproofe valiant. If againe, it was not well cut, he wold

2655say, I lie : this is call'd the counter-checke quarrelsome :

¶and so ro lye circumstantiall, and the lye direct.

¶Iaq. And how oft did you say his beard was not well

¶cut?

¶Clo. I durst go no further then the lye circumstantial:

2660nor he durst not giue me the lye direct: and so wee mea-

¶sur'd swords, and parted.

¶Iaq. Can you nominate in order now, the degrees of

¶the lye.

¶Clo. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the booke: as you

2665haue bookes for good manners: I will name you the de-

¶grees. The first, the Retort courteous: the second, the

¶Quip-modest: the third, the reply Churlish: the fourth,

¶the Reproofe valiant: the fift, the Counterchecke quar-

¶relsome: the sixt, the Lye with circumstance: the sea-

2670uenth, the Lye direct: all these you may auoyd, but the

¶Lye direct : and you may auoide that too, with an If. I

¶knew when seuen Iustices could not take vp a Quarrell,

¶but when the parties were met themselues, one of them

¶thought but of an If; as if you saide so, then I saide so:

2675and they shooke hands, and swore brothers. Your If, is

¶the onely peace-maker: much vertue in if.

¶Iaq. Is not this a rare fellow my Lord? He's as good

¶at any thing, and yet a foole.

¶Du.Se. He vses his folly like a stalking-horse, and vn-

2680der the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia.

Still Musicke.

_Hymen. Then is there mirth in heauen,

¶_When earthly things made eauen

2685_attone together,

¶_Good Duke receiue thy daughter,

¶_Hymen from Heauen brought her,

¶_Yea brought her hether,

¶_That thou mightst ioyne his hand with his,

2690_Whose heart within his bosome is.

¶Ros. To you I giue my selfe, for I am yours.

¶To you I giue my selfe, for I am yours.

¶Du.Se. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

¶Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

2695Phe. If sight & shape be true, why then my loue adieu

¶Ros. Ile haue no Father, if you be not he:

¶Ile haue no Husband, if you be not he:

¶Nor ne're wed woman, if you be not shee.

¶Hy. Peace hoa: I barre confusion,

2700'Tis I must make conclusion

¶Of these most strange euents:

¶Here's eight that must take hands,

¶To ioyne in Hymens bands,

¶If truth holds true contents.

2705You and you, no crosse shall part;

¶You and you, are hart in hart:

¶You, to his loue must accord,

¶Or haue a Woman to your Lord.

¶You and you, are sure together,

2710As the Winter to fowle Weather:

¶Whiles a Wedlocke Hymne we sing,

¶Feede your selues with questioning:

¶That reason, wonder may diminish

¶How thus we met, and these things finish.

2715

Song.

¶_Wedding is great Iunos crowne,

¶_O blessed bond of boord and bed:

¶_'Tis Hymen peoples euerie towne,

¶_High wedlock then be honored:

2720_Honor, high honor and renowne

¶_To Hymen, God of euerie Towne.

¶Du.Se. O my deere Neece, welcome thou art to me,

¶Euen daughter welcome, in no lesse degree.

¶Phe. I wil not eate my word, now thou art mine,

2725Thy faith, my fancie to thee doth combine.

Enter Second Brother.

¶2. Bro. Let me haue audience for a word or two:

¶I am the second sonne of old Sir Rowland,

¶That bring these tidings to this faire assembly.

2730Duke Frederick hearing how that euerie day

¶Men of great worth resorted to this forrest,

¶Addrest a mightie power, which were on foote

¶In his owne conduct, purposely to take

¶His brother heere, and put him to the sword:

2735And to the skirts of this wilde Wood he came;

¶Where, meeting with an old Religious man,

¶After some question with him, was conuerted

¶Both from his enterprize, and from the world:

¶His crowne bequeathing to his banish'd Brother,

2740And all their Lands restor'd to him againe

¶That were with him exil'd. This to be true,

¶I do engage my life.

¶Du.Se. Welcome yong man:

¶Thou offer'st fairely to thy brothers wedding:

2745To one his lands with-held, and to the other

¶A land it selfe at large, a potent Dukedome.

¶First, in this Forrest, let vs do those ends

¶That heere vvete well begun, and wel begot:

¶And after, euery of this happie number

2750That haue endur'd shrew'd daies, and nights with vs,

¶Shal share the good of our returned fortune,

¶According to the measure of their states.

¶Meane time, forget this new-falne dignitie,

¶And fall into our Rusticke Reuelrie:

2755Play Musicke, and you Brides and Bride-groomes all,

¶With measure heap'd in ioy, to'th Measures fall.

¶Iaq. Sir, by your patience: if I heard you rightly,

¶The Duke hath put on a Religious life,

¶And throwne into neglect the pompous Court.

27602. Bro. He hath.

¶Iaq. To him will I: out of these conuertites,

¶There is much matter to be heard, and learn'd:

¶you to your former Honor, I bequeath

¶your patience, and your vertue, well deserues it.

2765you to a loue, that your true faith doth merit:

¶you to your land, and loue, and great allies:

¶you to a long, and well-deserued bed:

¶And you to wrangling, for thy louing voyage

¶Is but for two moneths victuall'd: So to your pleasures,

2770I am for other, then for dancing meazures.

¶Du.Se. Stay, Iaques, stay.

¶Iaq. To see no pastime, I: what you would haue,

¶Ile stay to know, at your abandon'd caue.

Exit.

¶Du.Se. Proceed, proceed: wee'l begin these rights,

2775As we do trust, they'l end in true delights.

Exit

¶Ros. It is not the fashion to see the Ladie the Epi-

¶logue: but it is no more vnhandsome, then to see the

¶Lord the Prologue. If it be true, that good wine needs

¶no bush, 'tis true, that a good play needes no Epilogue.

2780Yet to good wine they do vse good bushes : and good

¶playes proue the better by the helpe of good Epilogues:

¶What a case am I in then, that am neither a good Epi-

¶logue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalfe of a

¶good play? I am not furnish'd like a Begger, therefore

2785to begge will not become mee. My way is to coniure

¶you, and Ile begin with the Women. I charge you (O

¶women) for the loue you beare to men, to like as much

¶of this Play, as please you: And I charge you (O men)

¶for the loue you beare to women (as I perceiue by your

2790simpring, none of you hates them) that betweene you,

¶and the women, the play may please. If I were a Wo-

¶man, I would kisse as many of you as had beards that

¶pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that

¶I defi'de not : And I am sure, as many as haue good

2795beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will for my kind

¶offer, when I make curt'sie, bid me farewell.

Exit.

FINIS.

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As You Like It (Folio 1, 1623)

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As You Like It (Folio 1, 1623)