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  • Title: As You Like It (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editor: David Bevington

    • ISBN: 978-1-55058-369-4

    Copyright David Bevington. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: David Bevington
    Peer Reviewed

    As You Like It (Folio 1, 1623)

    199
    As you like it.
    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.


    1770Enter 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
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