As You Like It

4As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion 5bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand 6crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, 7on his blessing, to breed me well; and 8there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps 9at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit. 10For my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak 11more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call 12you that "keeping" for a gentleman of my birth that differs 13not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred 14better, for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, 15they are taught their manège, and to that end riders 16dearly hired; but I, his brother, gain nothing under 17him but growth, for the which his animals on his 18dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing 19that he so plentifully gives me, the something that 20nature gave me his countenance seems to take from 21me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the 22place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my 23gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that 24grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think 25is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. 26I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise 27remedy how to avoid it.

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how 31he will shake me up.

Now, sir, what make you here?

Nothing. I am not taught to make anything.

What mar you then, sir?

Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which 36God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with 37idleness.

Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile.39

Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with 41them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should 42come to such penury?

Know you where you are, sir?

Oh, sir, very well: here in your orchard.

Know you before whom, sir?

Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I 47know you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle condition 48of blood you should so know me. The courtesy of nations49 allows you my better in that you are the first 50born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, 51were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much 52of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming 53before me is nearer to his reverence.

What, boy!

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

Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

I am no villain. I am the youngest son of 58Sir Rowland de Boys. He was my father, and he is thrice a villain 59that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou 60not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy 61throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying 62so. Thou hast railed on thyself.

Sweet masters, be patient! For your father's remembrance64, be at accord.

Let me go, I say.

I will not, till I please. You shall hear me. My 67father charged you in his will to give me good education. 68You have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and 69hiding from me all gentlemanlike qualities. The spirit 70of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer 71endure it; therefore allow me such exercises as may become 72a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my 73father left me by testament. With that I will go buy my 74fortunes.

And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? 76Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with 77you; you shall have some part of your will. I pray you 78leave me.

I will no further offend you than becomes me 80for my good.

Get you with him, you old dog.

Is "old dog" my reward? Most true, I have 83lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master! 84He would not have spoke such a word.

Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will 86physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand 87crowns neither. [Calling] Holla, Dennis!

Calls Your Worship?

Was not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to 91speak with me?

So please you, he is here at the door and importunes 93access to you.

Call him in.

'Twill be a good way; and tomorrow 95the wrestling is.

Good morrow to Your Worship.

Good Monsieur Charles, what's the new news 99at the new court?

There's no news at the court, sir, but the 101old news: that is, the old Duke is banished by his younger 102brother the new Duke, and three or four loving 103lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with 104him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; 105therefore he gives them good leave to wander.

Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be 107banished with her father?

Oh, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so 109loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, 110that she would have followed her exile or have died to 111stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved 112of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies 113loved as they do.

Where will the old Duke live?

They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, 116and a many merry men with him; and there they live 117like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young 118gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time 119carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

What, you wrestle tomorrow before the new 121Duke?

Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you 123with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that 124your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come 125in disguised against me to try a fall. Tomorrow, sir, 126I wrestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without 127some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother 128is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be 129loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honor, if he 130come in. Therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither 131to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him 132from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he 133shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search 134and altogether against my will.

Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which 136thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself 137notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have by 138underhand means labored to dissuade him from it; 139but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest 140young fellow of France, full of ambition, an envious emulator 141of every man's good parts, a secret and villainous 142contriver against me his natural brother. Therefore use 143thy discretion. I had as lief thou didst break his neck 144as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou 145dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily 146grace himself on thee, he will practice against thee by 147poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never 148leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect 149means or other; for, I assure thee, and almost with 150tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so villainous 151this day living. I speak but brotherly of him, 152but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must 153blush and weep, and thou must look pale and 154wonder.

I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he 156come tomorrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he 157go alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more. And 158so, God keep Your Worship!

Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. 160I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet 161I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he's 162gentle, never schooled and yet learned, full of noble 163device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed 164so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my 165own people, who best know him, that I am altogether 166misprized. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall 167clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy 168thither, which now I'll go about.

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

Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; 173and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you 174could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not 175learn me how to remember any extraordinary 176pleasure.

Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full 178weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, 179had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father, so thou 180hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love 181to take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the truth 182of thy love to me were so righteously tempered as mine 183is to thee.

Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, 185to rejoice in yours.

You know my father hath no child but I, nor 187none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt 188be his heir, for what he hath taken away from thy father 189perforce I will render thee again in affection. By 190mine honor, I will; and when I break that oath, let me 191turn monster. Therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, 192be merry.

From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. 194Let me see, what think you of falling in love?

Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but 196love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither 197than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honor 198come off again.

What shall be our sport, then?

Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune 201from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be 202bestowed equally.

I would we could do so, for her benefits are 204mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman 205doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

'Tis true, for those that she makes fair she scarce 207makes honest, and those that she makes honest she makes 208very ill-favoredly.

Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's: 210Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the 211lineaments of Nature.

No? When Nature hath made a fair creature, 214may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature 215hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune 216sent in this fool to cut off the argument?

Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when 218Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.219

Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, 221but Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull 222to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for 223our whetstone; for always the dullness of the fool is 224the whetstone of the wits. -- How now, wit, whither wander you?225

Mistress, you must come away to your father.

Were you made the messenger?

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

Where learned you that oath, fool?

Of a certain knight that swore by his honor 231they were good pancakes, and swore by his honor the 232mustard was naught. Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes 233were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was 234not the knight forsworn.

How prove you that, in the great heap of your 236knowledge?

Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.

Stand you both forth now. Stroke your chins, 239and swear by your beards that I am a knave.

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

By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; but if 242you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn. No 243more was this knight, swearing by his honor, for he never 244had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before 245ever he saw those pancakes or that mustard.

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

One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

My father's love is enough to honor him. Enough, 249speak no more of him; you'll be whipped for taxation one 250of these days.

The more pity that fools may not speak wisely252what wise men do foolishly.

By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little 254wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that 255wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur 256Le Beau.

With his mouth full of news.

Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their 260young.

Then shall we be news-crammed.

All the better; we shall be the more marketable. -- 263Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news?

Fair princess, 265you have lost much good sport.

Sport? Of what color?

What color, madam? How shall I answer 268you?

As wit and fortune will.

Or as the Destinies decrees.

Well said. That was laid on with a trowel.

Nay, if I keep not my rank --

Thou loosest thy old smell.

You amaze me, ladies. I would have told 275you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.

Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.

I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please 278Your Ladyships, you may see the end, for the best is yet to do, 279and here, where you are, they are coming to 280perform it.

Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.

There comes an old man and his three sons --

I could match this beginning with an old tale.

Three proper young men, of excellent growth 285and presence.

With bills on their necks: "Be it known unto 287all men by these presents --"

The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, 289the Duke's wrestler, which Charles in a moment threw 290him and broke three of his ribs, that there is little 291hope of life in him. So he served the second, and so the 292third. Yonder they lie, the poor old man their father 293making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders 294take his part with weeping.

Alas!

But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies 297have lost?

Why, this that I speak of.

Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the 300first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport 301for ladies.

Or I, I promise thee.

But is there any else longs to see this broken music 304in his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon 305rib-breaking? -- Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?

1.2.58306Le BeauYou must, if you stay here, for here is the 307place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to 308perform it.

Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us now stay 310and see it.

Come on. Since the youth will not be entreated, 314his own peril on his forwardness.

Is yonder the man?

Even he, madam.

Alas, he is too young; yet he looks successfully.

How now, daughter and cousin? 319Are you crept hither to see the wrestling?

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

You will take little delight in it, I can tell you, 322there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's 323 youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not 324be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can 325move him.

Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.

Do so. I'll not be by.

Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls 329for you.

I attend them with all respect and duty.

Young man, have you challenged Charles the 332wrestler?

No, fair princess, he is the general challenger. 334I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength 335of my youth.

Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for 337your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's 338strength. If you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew 339yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure 340would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We 341pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own safety 342 and give over this attempt.

Do, young sir. Your reputation shall not therefore 344be misprized. We will make it our suit to the Duke that 345the wrestling might not go forward.

I beseech you, punish me not with your hard 347thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny 348so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your 349fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, 350wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was 351never gracious; if killed, but one dead that is willing to 352be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to 353lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing. 354Only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better 355supplied when I have made it empty.

The little strength that I have, I would it were 357with you.

And mine, to eke out hers.

Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceived in you!

Your heart's desires be with you!

Come, where is this young gallant that is so 362desirous to lie with his mother earth?

Ready, sir, but his will hath in it a more modest 364working.

You shall try but one fall.

No, I warrant Your Grace you shall not entreat 367him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him 368from a first.

You mean to mock me after; you should not 370have mocked me before. But come your ways.

Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!

I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow 373by the leg.

Oh, excellent young man!

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who 376should down.

No more, no more.

Yes, I beseech Your Grace. I am not yet 379well breathed.

How dost thou, Charles?

How dost thou, Charles? He cannot speak, my lord.

Bear him away.

What is thy name, young man?

Orlando, my liege, the youngest son of Sir Rowland 385de Boys.

I would thou hadst been son to some man else.

1.2.95387The world esteemed thy father honorable,

1.2.96388But I did find him still mine enemy.

1.2.97389Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed

1.2.98390Hadst thou descended from another house.

1.2.99391But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth.

1.2.100392I would thou hadst told me of another father.

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

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

1.2.103396His youngest son, and would not change that calling

1.2.104397To be adopted heir to Frederick.

My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,

1.2.106399And all the world was of my father's mind.

1.2.107400Had I before known this young man his son,

1.2.108401I should have given him tears unto entreaties

1.2.109402Ere he should thus have ventured.

Ere he should thus have ventured. Gentle cousin,

1.2.110404Let us go thank him, and encourage him.

1.2.111405My father's rough and envious disposition

1.2.112406Sticks me at heart.[To Orlando]Sir, you have well deserved.

1.2.113407If you do keep your promises in love

1.2.114408But justly as you have exceeded all promise,

1.2.115409Your mistress shall be happy.

Your mistress shall be happy. Gentleman,

1.2.116411Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,

1.2.117412That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.

1.2.118413Shall we go, coz?

Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

Can I not say "I thank you"? My better parts

1.2.121416Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up

1.2.122417Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.

He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes;

1.2.124419I'll ask him what he would. -- Did you call, sir?

1.2.125420Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown

1.2.126421More than your enemies.

Will you go, coz?

Have with you. -- Fare you well.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

1.2.130425I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.

1.2.131427O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown!

1.2.132428Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you

1.2.134430To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved

1.2.135431High commendation, true applause, and love,

1.2.136432Yet such is now the Duke's condition

1.2.137433That he misconsters all that you have done.

1.2.138434The Duke is humorous. What he is indeed

1.2.139435More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

I thank you, sir. And pray you tell me this:

1.2.141437Which of the two was daughter of the Duke

1.2.142438That here was at the wrestling?

Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners,

1.2.144440But yet indeed the taller is his daughter.

1.2.145441The other is daughter to the banished Duke,

1.2.146442And here detained by her usurping uncle

1.2.147443To keep his daughter company, whose loves

1.2.148444Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.

1.2.149445But I can tell you that of late this Duke

1.2.150446Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,

1.2.151447Grounded upon no other argument

1.2.152448But that the people praise her for her virtues

1.2.153449And pity her for her good father's sake;

1.2.154450And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady

1.2.155451Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well.

1.2.156452Hereafter, in a better world than this,

1.2.157453I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

I rest much bounden to you. Fare you well.

1.2.159455Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

1.2.160456From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.

1.2.161457But heavenly Rosalind!

Why, cousin, why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! 461Not a word?

Not one to throw at a dog.

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away 464upon curs. Throw some of them at me. Come, lame me 465with reasons.

Then there were two cousins laid up, when the 467one should be lamed with reasons and the other 468mad without any.

But is all this for your father?

No, some of it is for my child's father. Oh, 471how full of briers is this working-day world!

They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee 473in holiday foolery. If we walk not in the trodden paths, 474our very petticoats will catch them.

I could shake them off my coat. These burs are 476in my heart.

Hem them away.

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

Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

Oh, they take the part of a better wrestler than 481myself.

Oh, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, 483in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, 484let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, 485you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir 486Rowland's youngest son?

The Duke my father loved his father dearly.

Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his 489son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate 490him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate 491not Orlando.

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

Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?

Let me love him for that, and do you love him 496because I do. Look, here comes the Duke.

With his eyes full of anger.

Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,

1.3.21499And get you from our court.

And get you from our court. Me, uncle?

And get you from our court. Me, uncle? You, cousin.

1.3.22502Within these ten days if that thou be'st found

1.3.23503So near our public court as twenty miles,

1.3.24504Thou diest for it.

Thou diest for it. I do beseech Your Grace,

1.3.25506Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.

1.3.26507If with myself I hold intelligence

1.3.27508Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,

1.3.28509If that I do not dream, or be not frantic --

1.3.29510As I do trust I am not -- then, dear uncle,

1.3.30511Never so much as in a thought unborn

1.3.31512Did I offend Your Highness.

Did I offend Your Highness. Thus do all traitors.

1.3.32514If their purgation did consist in words,

1.3.33515They are as innocent as grace itself.

1.3.34516Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.

1.3.36518Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

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

So was I when Your Highness took his dukedom;

1.3.39521So was I when Your Highness banished him.

1.3.40522Treason is not inherited, my lord;

1.3.41523Or, if we did derive it from our friends,

1.3.42524What's that to me? My father was no traitor.

1.3.43525Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much

1.3.44526To think my poverty is treacherous.

Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake,

1.3.47529Else had she with her father ranged along.

I did not then entreat to have her stay;

1.3.49531It was your pleasure, and your own remorse.

1.3.50532I was too young that time to value her,

1.3.51533But now I know her. If she be a traitor,

1.3.52534Why so am I. We still have slept together,

1.3.53535Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together,

1.3.54536And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans

1.3.55537Still we went coupled and inseparable.

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

1.3.57539Her very silence and her patience,

1.3.58540Speak to the people, and they pity her.

1.3.59541Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name,

1.3.60542And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous

1.3.61543When she is gone. Then open not thy lips.

1.3.62544Firm and irrevocable is my doom

1.3.63545Which I have passed upon her; she is banished.

Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege!

1.3.65547I cannot live out of her company.

You are a fool. -- You, niece, provide yourself.

1.3.67549If you outstay the time, upon mine honor,

1.3.68550And in the greatness of my word, you die.

O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?

1.3.70553Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

1.3.71554I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.

I have more cause.

I have more cause. Thou hast not, cousin.

1.3.73557Prithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke

1.3.74558Hath banished me, his daughter?

Hath banished me, his daughter? That he hath not.

No? "Hath not"? Rosalind lacks, then, the love

1.3.76561Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.

1.3.77562Shall we be sundered? Shall we part, sweet girl?

1.3.78563No; let my father seek another heir.

1.3.79564Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

1.3.80565Whither to go, and what to bear with us.

1.3.81566And do not seek to take your change upon you,

1.3.82567To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;

1.3.83568For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

1.3.84569Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.

Why, whither shall we go?

To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.

Alas, what danger will it be to us,

1.3.88573Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!

1.3.89574Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,

1.3.91576And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

1.3.92577The like do you. So shall we pass along,

1.3.93578And never stir assailants.

And never stir assailants. Were it not better,

1.3.94580Because that I am more than common tall,

1.3.95581That I did suit me all points like a man?

1.3.96582A gallant curtal-ax upon my thigh,

1.3.97583A boar-spear in my hand, and -- in my heart

1.3.98584Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will --

1.3.99585We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,

1.3.100586As many other mannish cowards have

1.3.101587That do outface it with their semblances.

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

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

1.3.104590And therefore look you call me Ganymede.

1.3.105591But what will you be called?

Something that hath a reference to my state:

1.3.107593No longer Celia, but Aliena.

But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal

1.3.109595The clownish fool out of your father's court?

1.3.110596Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

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

1.3.112598Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,

1.3.113599And get our jewels and our wealth together,

1.3.114600Devise the fittest time and safest way

1.3.115601To hide us from pursuit that will be made

1.3.116602After my flight. Now go we in content

1.3.117603To liberty, and not to banishment.

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

2.1.2608Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

2.1.3609Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods

2.1.4610More free from peril than the envious court?

2.1.5611Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,

2.1.6612The seasons' difference, as the icy fang

2.1.7613And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,

2.1.8614Which when it bites and blows upon my body

2.1.9615Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say

2.1.10616"This is no flattery; these are counselors

2.1.11617That feelingly persuade me what I am."

2.1.12618Sweet are the uses of adversity,

2.1.13619Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

2.1.14620Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

2.1.15621And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

2.1.16622Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

2.1.17623Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

I would not change it. Happy is Your Grace,

2.1.19625That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

2.1.20626Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Come, shall we go and kill us venison?

2.1.22628And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,

2.1.23629Being native burghers of this desert city,

2.1.24630Should in their own confines with forkèd heads

2.1.25631Have their round haunches gored.

Have their round haunches gored. Indeed, my lord,

2.1.26633The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,

2.1.27634And in that kind swears you do more usurp

2.1.28635Than doth your brother that hath banished you.

2.1.29636Today my Lord of Amiens and myself

2.1.30637Did steal behind him as he lay along

2.1.31638Under an oak whose antique root peeps out

2.1.32639Upon the brook that brawls along this wood,

2.1.33640To the which place a poor sequestered stag

2.1.34641That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt

2.1.35642Did come to languish. And indeed, my lord,

2.1.36643The wretched animal heaved forth such groans

2.1.37644That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat

2.1.38645Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

2.1.39646Coursed one another down his innocent nose

2.1.40647In piteous chase. And thus the hairy fool,

2.1.41648Much markèd of the melancholy Jaques,

2.1.42649Stood on th'extremest verge of the swift brook,

2.1.43650Augmenting it with tears.

Augmenting it with tears. But what said Jaques?

2.1.44652Did he not moralize this spectacle?

Oh, yes, into a thousand similes.

2.1.46654First, for his weeping into the needless stream:

2.1.47655"Poor deer," quoth he, "thou mak'st a testament

2.1.48656As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

2.1.49657To that which had too much." Then, being there alone,

2.1.50658Left and abandoned of his velvet friends:

2.1.51659"'Tis right," quoth he, "thus misery doth part

2.1.52660The flux of company." Anon, a careless herd,

2.1.53661Full of the pasture, jumps along by him

2.1.54662And never stays to greet him. "Ay," quoth Jaques,

2.1.55663"Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

2.1.56664'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look

2.1.57665Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?"

2.1.58666Thus most invectively he pierceth through

2.1.59667The body of the country, city, court,

2.1.60668Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we

2.1.61669Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,

2.1.62670To fright the animals and to kill them up

2.1.63671In their assigned and native dwelling place.

And did you leave him in this contemplation?

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

2.1.66674Upon the sobbing deer.

Upon the sobbing deer. Show me the place.

2.1.67676I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

2.1.68677For then he's full of matter.

I'll bring you to him straight.

Can it be possible that no man saw them?

2.2.2682It cannot be. Some villains of my court

2.2.3683Are of consent and sufferance in this.

I cannot hear of any that did see her.

2.2.5685The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

2.2.6686Saw her abed, and in the morning early

2.2.7687They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.

My lord, the roinish clown, at whom so oft

2.2.9689Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

2.2.10690Hisperia, the princess' gentlewoman,

2.2.11691Confesses that she secretly o'erheard

2.2.12692Your daughter and her cousin much commend

2.2.13693The parts and graces of the wrestler

2.2.14694That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles,

2.2.15695And she believes, wherever they are gone,

2.2.16696That youth is surely in their company.

Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither.

2.2.18698If he be absent, bring his brother to me;

2.2.19699I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly,

2.2.20700And let not search and inquisition quail

2.2.21701To bring again these foolish runaways.

Who's there?

What, my young master? Oh, my gentle master!

2.3.3706Oh, my sweet master, oh, you memory

2.3.4707Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?

2.3.5708Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?

2.3.6709And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?

2.3.7710Why would you be so fond to overcome

2.3.8711The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?

2.3.9712Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

2.3.10713Know you not, master, to some kind of men

2.3.11714Their graces serve them but as enemies?

2.3.12715No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master,

2.3.13716Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.

2.3.14717Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely

2.3.15718Envenoms him that bears it!

Why, what's the matter?

Why, what's the matter? O unhappy youth,

2.3.17721Come not within these doors! Within this roof

2.3.18722The enemy of all your graces lives.

2.3.19723Your brother -- no, no brother; yet the son --

2.3.20724Yet not the son; I will not call him son

2.3.21725Of him I was about to call his father --

2.3.22726Hath heard your praises, and this night he means

2.3.23727To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

2.3.24728And you within it. If he fail of that,

2.3.25729He will have other means to cut you off.

2.3.26730I overheard him and his practices.

2.3.27731This is no place; this house is but a butchery.

2.3.28732Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

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

No matter whither, so you come not here.

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

2.3.32736Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce

2.3.33737A thievish living on the common road?

2.3.34738This I must do, or know not what to do;

2.3.35739Yet this I will not do, do how I can.

2.3.36740I rather will subject me to the malice

2.3.37741Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,

2.3.39743The thrifty hire I saved under your father,

2.3.40744Which I did store to be my foster nurse

2.3.41745When service should in my old limbs lie lame

2.3.42746And unregarded age in corners thrown.

2.3.43747Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,

2.3.44748Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,

2.3.45749Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

2.3.46750All this I give you. Let me be your servant.

2.3.47751Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty,

2.3.48752For in my youth I never did apply

2.3.49753Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,

2.3.50754Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo

2.3.51755The means of weakness and debility;

2.3.52756Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,

2.3.53757Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;

2.3.54758I'll do the service of a younger man

2.3.55759In all your business and necessities.

Oh, good old man, how well in thee appears

2.3.57761The constant service of the antique world,

2.3.58762When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

2.3.59763Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

2.3.60764Where none will sweat but for promotion,

2.3.61765And having that do choke their service up

2.3.62766Even with the having. It is not so with thee.

2.3.63767But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree

2.3.64768That cannot so much as a blossom yield

2.3.65769In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.

2.3.66770But come thy ways. We'll go along together,

2.3.67771And ere we have thy youthful wages spent

2.3.68772We'll light upon some settled low content.

Master, go on, and I will follow thee

2.3.70774To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.

2.3.71775From seventeen years till now almost fourscore

2.3.72776Here livèd I, but now live here no more.

2.3.73777At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,

2.3.74778But at fourscore it is too late a week;

2.3.75779Yet fortune cannot recompense me better

2.3.76780Than to die well and not my master's debtor.

Oh, Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!

I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not 786weary.

I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's 788apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort 789the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself 790courageous to petticoat. Therefore, courage, good 791Aliena!

I pray you, bear with me; I cannot go no further.793

For my part, I had rather bear with you than 795bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear 796you, for I think you have no money in your purse.

Well, this is the Forest of Arden.

Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I. When I 799was at home I was in a better place, but travelers must 800be content.

Ay, be so, good Touchstone. -- Look you, who comes 803here, a young man and an old in solemn talk.

That is the way to make her scorn you still.

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

I partly guess; for I have loved ere now.

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

2.4.13808Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

2.4.14809As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow.

2.4.15810But if thy love were ever like to mine --

2.4.16811As sure I think did never man love so --

2.4.17812How many actions most ridiculous

2.4.18813Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

Oh, thou didst then never love so heartily!

2.4.21816If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly

2.4.22817That ever love did make thee run into,

2.4.23818Thou hast not loved.

2.4.24819Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

2.4.25820Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,

2.4.26821Thou hast not loved.

2.4.27822Or if thou hast not broke from company

2.4.28823Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

2.4.29824Thou hast not loved.

2.4.30825O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe!

Alas, poor shepherd! Searching of thy wound,

2.4.32827I have by hard adventure found mine own.

And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, 829I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for 830coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing 831of her batler, and the cow's dugs that her pretty 832chapped hands had milked; and I remember the 833wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two 834cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping 835tears, "Wear these for my sake." We that are true lovers 836run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in 837nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.

Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till 840I break my shins against it.

Jove, Jove! This shepherd's passion

2.4.37842Is much upon my fashion.

And mine; but it grows something stale with 844me.

I pray you, one of you question yond man

2.4.40846If he for gold will give us any food.

2.4.41847I faint almost to death.

Holla, you clown!

Peace, fool! He's not thy kinsman.

Peace, fool! He's not thy kinsman. Who calls?

Your betters, sir.

Your betters, sir. Else are they very wretched.

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

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

I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

2.4.47856Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

2.4.48857Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.

2.4.49858Here's a young maid with travel much oppressed,

2.4.50859And faints for succor.

And faints for succor. Fair sir, I pity her,

2.4.51861And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,

2.4.52862My fortunes were more able to relieve her;

2.4.53863But I am shepherd to another man,

2.4.54864And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.

2.4.55865My master is of churlish disposition,

2.4.56866And little recks to find the way to heaven

2.4.57867By doing deeds of hospitality.

2.4.58868Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed

2.4.59869Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,

2.4.60870By reason of his absence, there is nothing

2.4.61871That you will feed on. But what is, come see,

2.4.62872And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

That young swain that you saw here 875but erewhile,

2.4.65876That little cares for buying anything.

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,

2.4.67878Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,

2.4.68879And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

And we will mend thy wages. 881I like this place,

2.4.70And willingly could 882waste my time in it.

Assuredly the thing is to be sold.

2.4.72884Go with me. If you like upon report

2.4.73885The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,

2.4.74886I will your very faithful feeder be,

2.4.75887And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

More, more, I prithee, more.

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

I thank it. More, I prithee, more. 901I can suck melancholy out of a song 902as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.

My voice is ragged. I know I cannot please904 you.

I do not desire you to please me, 906I do desire you to sing. 907Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em "stanzos"?

What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me 910nothing. Will you sing?

More at your request than to please myself.

Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank 913you. But that they call "compliment" is like th'encounter 914of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, 915methinks I have given him a penny, and he renders me 916the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, 917hold your tongues.

Well, I'll end the song. -- Sirs, cover the while; 919the Duke will drink under this tree. -- He hath been all this 920day to look you.

And I have been all this day to avoid him. 922He is too disputable for my company. 923I think of as many matters as he, but I give 924heaven thanks and make no boast of them. 925Come, warble, come.

I'll give you a verse to this note 934that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

And I'll sing it.

Thus it goes:

What's that "ducdame"?

'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. 945I'll go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all 946the first-born of Egypt.

And I'll go seek the Duke. 948His banquet is prepared.

Dear master, I can go no further. 952Oh, I die for food! Here lie I down, 953and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.

Why, how now, Adam? No greater heart in thee? 955Live a little, comfort a little, cheer thyself a little. 956If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, 957I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee. 958Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. 959For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile 960at the arm's end. I will here be with thee presently, 961and if I bring thee not something to eat, 962I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest 963before I come, thou art a mocker of my labor. 964Well said! Thou look'st cheerly, 965and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest 966in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee 967to some shelter; and thou shalt not die 968for lack of a dinner, 969if there live anything in this desert.

970Cheerly, good Adam!

I think he be transformed into a beast,

2.7.2974For I can nowhere find him like a man.

My lord, he is but even now gone hence.

2.7.4976Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

If he, compact of jars, grow musical,

2.7.6978We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.

2.7.7979Go seek him. Tell him I would speak with him.

He saves my labor by his own approach.

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

2.7.10983That your poor friends must woo your company?

2.7.11984What, you look merrily.

A fool, a fool! I met a fool i'th'forest,

2.7.13986A motley fool. A miserable world!

2.7.14987As I do live by food, I met a fool,

2.7.15988Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,

2.7.16989And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms,

2.7.17990In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

2.7.18991"Good morrow, fool," quoth I; "No, sir," quoth he,

2.7.19992"Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune."

2.7.20993And then he drew a dial from his poke,

2.7.21994And, looking on it with lack-luster eye,

2.7.22995Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock.

2.7.23996Thus we may see," quoth he, "how the world wags:

2.7.24997'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,

2.7.25998And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;

2.7.26999And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

2.7.271000And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,

2.7.281001And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear

2.7.291002The motley fool thus moral on the time,

2.7.301003My lungs began to crow like Chanticleer

2.7.311004That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

2.7.321005And I did laugh sans intermission

2.7.331006An hour by his dial. Oh, noble fool!

2.7.341007A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

What fool is this?

Oh, worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,

2.7.371010And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

2.7.381011They have the gift to know it. And in his brain,

2.7.391012Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

2.7.401013After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed

2.7.411014With observation, the which he vents

2.7.421015In mangled forms. Oh, that I were a fool!

2.7.431016I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Thou shalt have one.

Thou shalt have one. It is my only suit,

2.7.451019Provided that you weed your better judgments

2.7.461020Of all opinion that grows rank in them

2.7.471021That I am wise. I must have liberty

2.7.481022Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

2.7.491023To blow on whom I please, for so fools have.

2.7.501024And they that are most gallèd with my folly,

2.7.511025They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?

2.7.521026The "why" is plain as way to parish church:

2.7.531027He that a fool doth very wisely hit

2.7.541028Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

2.7.551029Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,

2.7.561030The wise man's folly is anatomized

2.7.571031Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool.

2.7.581032Invest me in my motley; give me leave

2.7.591033To speak my mind, and I will through and through

2.7.601034Cleanse the foul body of th'infected world,

2.7.611035If they will patiently receive my medicine.

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

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

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin.

2.7.651039For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

2.7.661040As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

2.7.671041And all th'embossèd sores and headed evils

2.7.681042That thou with license of free foot hast caught

2.7.691043Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

Why, who cries out on pride

2.7.711045That can therein tax any private party?

2.7.721046Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

2.7.731047Till that the weary very means do ebb?

2.7.741048What woman in the city do I name

2.7.751049When that I say the city woman bears

2.7.761050The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?

2.7.771051Who can come in and say that I mean her,

2.7.781052When such a one as she, such is her neighbor?

2.7.791053Or what is he of basest function

2.7.801054That says his bravery is not on my cost,

2.7.811055Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits

2.7.821056His folly to the mettle of my speech?

2.7.831057There then, how then? What then? Let me see wherein

2.7.841058My tongue hath wronged him: if it do him right,

2.7.851059Then he hath wronged himself; if he be free,

2.7.861060Why then my taxing like a wild goose flies,

2.7.871061Unclaimed of any man. But who come here?

Forbear, and eat no more!

Why, I have eat none yet.

Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.

Of what kind should this cock come of?

Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress?

2.7.931068Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

2.7.941069That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

You touched my vein at first. The thorny point

2.7.961071Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show

2.7.971072Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred,

2.7.981073And know some nurture. But forbear, I say.

2.7.991074He dies that touches any of this fruit

2.7.1001075Till I and my affairs are answerèd.

An you will not be answered with reason, 1077I must die.

What would you have? 1079Your gentleness shall force

2.7.103More than your force 1080move us to gentleness.

I almost die for food, and let me have it!

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you.

2.7.1071084I thought that all things had been savage here,

2.7.1081085And therefore put I on the countenance

2.7.1091086Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are

2.7.1101087That in this desert inaccessible,

2.7.1111088Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

2.7.1121089Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;

2.7.1131090If ever you have looked on better days,

2.7.1141091If ever been where bells have knolled to church,

2.7.1151092If ever sat at any good man's feast,

2.7.1161093If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear,

2.7.1171094And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,

2.7.1181095Let gentleness my strong enforcement be;

2.7.1191096In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

True is it that we have seen better days,

2.7.1211098And have with holy bell been knolled to church,

2.7.1221099And sat at good men's feasts, and wiped our eyes

2.7.1231100Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered;

2.7.1241101And therefore sit you down in gentleness,

2.7.1251102And take upon command what help we have

2.7.1261103That to your wanting may be ministered.

Then but forbear your food a little while,

2.7.1281105Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,

2.7.1291106And give it food. There is an old poor man

2.7.1301107Who after me hath many a weary step

2.7.1311108Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed,

2.7.1321109Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,

2.7.1331110I will not touch a bit.

I will not touch a bit. Go find him out,

2.7.1341112And we will nothing waste till you return.

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

Thou see'st we are not all alone unhappy:

2.7.1371115This wide and universal theater

2.7.1381116Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

2.7.1391117Wherein we play in.

Wherein we play in. All the world's a stage,

2.7.1401119And all the men and women merely players.

2.7.1411120They have their exits and their entrances,

2.7.1421121And one man in his time plays many parts,

2.7.1431122His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

2.7.1441123Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

2.7.1451124Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

2.7.1461125And shining morning face, creeping like snail

2.7.1471126Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

2.7.1481127Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

2.7.1491128Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

2.7.1501129Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

2.7.1511130Jealous in honor, sudden, and quick in quarrel,

2.7.1521131Seeking the bubble reputation

2.7.1531132Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

2.7.1541133In fair round belly with good capon lined,

2.7.1551134With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

2.7.1561135Full of wise saws and modern instances;

2.7.1571136And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

2.7.1581137Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

2.7.1591138With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

2.7.1601139His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

2.7.1611140For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

2.7.1621141Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

2.7.1631142And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

2.7.1641143That ends this strange eventful history,

2.7.1651144Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

2.7.1661145Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,

2.7.1681148And let him feed.

I thank you most for him.

So had you need;

2.7.1711151I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Welcome. Fall to. I will not trouble you

2.7.1731153As yet to question you about your fortunes. --

2.7.1741154Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

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

2.7.1961170As you have whispered faithfully you were,

2.7.1971171And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

2.7.1981172Most truly limned and living in your face,

2.7.1991173Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke

2.7.2001174That loved your father. The residue of your fortune,

2.7.2011175Go to my cave and tell me. [To Adam] Good old man,

2.7.2021176Thou art right welcome as thy master is. [To the others]

2.7.2031177Support him by the arm.[To Orlando] Give me your hand,

2.7.2041178And let me all your fortunes understand.

"Not see him since?" Sir, sir, that cannot be.

3.1.21182But were I not the better part made mercy,

3.1.31183I should not seek an absent argument

3.1.41184Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:

3.1.51185Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is;

3.1.61186Seek him with candle. Bring him dead or living

3.1.71187Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

3.1.81188To seek a living in our territory.

3.1.91189Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine

3.1.101190Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,

3.1.111191Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth

3.1.121192Of what we think against thee.

Oh, that Your Highness knew my heart in this!

3.1.141194I never loved my brother in my life.

More villain thou. -- Well, push him out of doors,

3.1.161196And let my officers of such a nature

3.1.171197Make an extent upon his house and lands.

3.1.181198Do this expediently, and turn him going.

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

Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a 1214good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is 1215naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; 1216but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now 1217in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect 1218it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare 1219life, look you, it fits my humor well; but as there is no 1220more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. 1221Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

No more but that I know the more one sickens 1223the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, 1224means, and content is without three good friends; that 1225the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that 1226good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great cause of 1227the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned 1228no wit by nature nor art may complain of good 1229breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

Such a one is a natural philosopher. 1231Wast ever in court, shepherd?

No, truly.

Then thou art damned.

Nay, I hope.

Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, 1236all on one side.

For not being at court? Your reason.

Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never 1239saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, 1240then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, 1241and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, 1242shepherd.

Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners 1244at the court are as ridiculous in the country as 1245the behavior of the country is most mockable at the 1246court. You told me you salute not at the court but 1247you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly 1248if courtiers were shepherds.

Instance, briefly; come, instance.

Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their 1251fells, you know, are greasy.

Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And 1253is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat 1254of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say. 1255Come.

Besides, our hands are hard.

Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. 1258A more sounder instance. Come.

And they are often tarred over with the surgery 1260of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The 1261courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.

Most shallow man! Thou worm's meat in respect 1263of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, 1264and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the 1265very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, 1266shepherd.

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

Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow1269 man! God make incision in thee! Thou art raw.

Sir, I am a true laborer: I earn that I eat, get 1271that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, 1272glad of other men's good, content with my harm, 1273and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and 1274my lambs suck.

That is another simple sin in you, to bring the 1276ewes and the rams together and to offer to get your 1277living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bellwether, 1278and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth 1279to crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all 1280reasonable match. If thou beest not damned for this, 1281the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else 1282how thou shouldst scape.

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's 1284brother.

I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, 1295and suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right 1296butter-women's rank to market.

Out, fool!

For a taste:

3.2.571311This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect 1312yourself with them?

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

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

I'll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it 1316with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i'th' country; 1317for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's 1318the right virtue of the medlar.

You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the 1320forest judge.

Peace! Here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.

O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of 1354love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and 1355never cried "Have patience, good people!"

How now? Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little.1357[To Touchstone]Go with him, sirrah.

Come, shepherd, let us make an honorable retreat, 1359though not with bag and baggage, yet with 1360scrip and scrippage.

Didst thou hear these verses?

Oh, yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some 1363of them had in them more feet than the verses would 1364bear.

That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.

Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear 1367themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely 1368in the verse.

But didst thou hear without wondering how 1370thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder 1372before you came; for look here what I found on a 1373palm tree. I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras' 1374time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

Trow you who hath done this?

Is it a man?

And a chain that you once wore about his neck. 1378Change you color?

I prithee, who?

Oh, Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to 1381meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, 1382and so encounter.

Nay, but who is it?

Is it possible?

Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, 1386tell me who it is.

Oh, wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful 1388wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, 1389out of all hooping!

Good my complexion! Dost thou think, though 1391I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in 1392my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery1393. I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and 1394speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou 1395mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth as 1396wine comes out of narrow-mouthed bottle -- either too 1397much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork 1398out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.

So you may put a man in your belly.

Is he of God's making? What manner of man? 1401Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Why, God will send more, if the man will be 1404thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou 1405delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's 1407heels and your heart both in an instant.

Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad 1409brow and true maid.

I' faith, coz, 'tis he.

Orlando?

Orlando.

Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and 1414hose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What said 1415he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? 1416Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How 1417parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? 1418Answer me in one word.

You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first; 1420'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size. 1421To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer 1422in a catechism.

But doth he know that I am in this forest, and 1424in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day 1425he wrestled?

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions 1427of a lover. But take a taste of my finding 1428him, and relish it with good observance. I found him 1429under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

It may well be called Jove's tree, when it 1431drops forth such fruit.

Give me audience, good madam.

Proceed.

There lay he, stretched along like a wounded 1435knight.

Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well 1437becomes the ground.

Cry "Holla" to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets 1439unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.

Oh, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.

I would sing my song without a burden. 1442Thou bring'st me out of tune.

Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, 1444I must speak. Sweet, say on.

You bring me out. -- Soft, comes he not here?

'Tis he. Slink by, and note him.

I thank you for your company, but, good faith, 1449I had as lief have been myself alone.

And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake,

3.2.1381451I thank you too for your society.

God b'wi' you. Let's meet as little as we can.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

I pray you, mar no more trees with writing 1455love songs in their barks.

I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading 1457them ill-favoredly.

Rosalind is your love's name?

Yes, just.

I do not like her name.

There was no thought of pleasing you when she 1461was christened.

What stature is she of?

Just as high as my heart.

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted 1465with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?

Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, 1467from whence you have studied your questions.

You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of 1469Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? And 1470we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all 1471our misery.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, 1473against whom I know most faults.

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. 1476I am weary of you.

By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I 1478found you.

He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and 1480you shall see him.

There I shall see mine own figure.

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

I'll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior 1484Love.

I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur 1486Melancholy.

I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and 1488under that habit play the knave with him. -- Do you hear, forester?

Very well. What would you?

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

You should ask me what time o' day. There's no 1492clock in the forest.

Then there is no true lover in the forest, else 1494sighing every minute and groaning every hour would 1495detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not 1497that been as proper?

By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces 1499with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, 1500who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, 1501and who he stands still withal.

I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between 1504the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized. 1505If the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard 1506that it seems the length of seven year.

Who ambles Time withal?

With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man 1509that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because 1510he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because 1511he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of 1512lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden 1513of heavy tedious penury. These Time 1514ambles withal.

Who doth he gallop withal?

With a thief to the gallows, for though he 1517go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon 1518there.

Who stays it still withal?

With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep 1521between term and term, and then they perceive not 1522how Time moves.

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the 1525skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Are you native of this place?

As the coney that you see dwell where she is 1528kindled.

Your accent is something finer than you could 1530purchase in so removed a dwelling.

I have been told so of many. But indeed an old 1532religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was 1533in his youth an inland man, one that knew courtship too 1534well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures 1535against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, 1536to be touched with so many giddy offences as he 1537hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

Can you remember any of the principal evils 1539that he laid to the charge of women?

There were none principal; they were all like 1541one another as halfpence are, every one fault seeming 1542monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.

I prithee, recount some of them.

No; I will not cast away my physic but on those 1545that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses 1546our young plants with carving "Rosalind" on their 1547barks, hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on 1548brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. 1549If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him 1550some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian 1551of love upon him.

I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell 1553me your remedy.

There is none of my uncle's marks upon you. 1555He taught me how to know a man in love, in which 1556cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

What were his marks?

A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye 1559and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, 1560which you have not; a beard neglected, which you 1561have not -- but I pardon you for that, for simply your having 1562in beard is a younger brother's revenue. Then your 1563hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your 1564sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything 1565about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you 1566are no such man. You are rather point-device in your accoutrements, 1567as loving yourself, than seeming the lover 1568of any other.

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

Me believe it? You may as soon make her that 1571you love believe it -- which, I warrant, she is apter to do 1572than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the 1573which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, 1574in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the 1575trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of 1577Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

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

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves 1581as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; 1582and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is 1583that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in 1584love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Did you ever cure any so?

Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine 1587me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day 1588to woo me. At which time would I, being but a moonish 1589youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and 1590liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full 1591of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and 1592for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are 1593for the most part cattle of this color; would now like 1594him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; 1595now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave 1596my suitor from his mad humor of love to a living 1597humor of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world 1598and to live in a nook, merely monastic. And thus I cured 1599him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver 1600as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not 1601be one spot of love in't.

I would not be cured, youth.

I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, 1604and come every day to my cote and woo me.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me 1606where it is.

Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and by 1608the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. 1609Will you go?

With all my heart, good youth.

Nay, you must call me Rosalind. -- Come, sister, 1612will you go?

Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your 1616goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? 1617Doth my simple feature content you?

Your features! Lord warrant us, what features?

I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most 1620capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

Oh, knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than 1622Jove in a thatched house!

When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor 1624a man's good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding, 1625it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning 1626in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had 1627made thee poetical.

I do not know what "poetical" is. Is it honest in 1629deed and word? Is it a true thing?

No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, 1631and lovers are given to poetry, and what they 1632swear in poetry it may be said as lovers they do feign.

Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me 1634poetical?

I do, truly; for thou swear'st to me thou art honest. 1636Now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope 1637thou didst feign.

Would you not have me honest?

No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favored; for 1640honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to 1641sugar.

A material fool!

Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the 1644gods make me honest.

Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul 1646slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I 1648am foul.

Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! Sluttishness 1650may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, 1651I will marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir 1652Oliver Mar-text, the vicar of the next village, who hath 1653promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to 1654couple us.

I would fain see this meeting.

Well, the gods give us joy!

Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, 1658stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple 1659but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But 1660what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. 1661It is said, "Many a man knows no end of his goods." 1662Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. 1663Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none 1664of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? 1665No, no, the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. 1666Is the single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled 1667town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead 1668of a married man more honorable than the bare 1669brow of a bachelor; and by how much defense is better 1670than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious 1671than to want.

3.3.201673Here comes Sir Oliver. -- Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are 1674well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or 1675shall we go with you to your chapel?

Is there none here to give the woman?

I will not take her on gift of any man.

Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not 1679lawful.

Proceed, proceed. I'll give her.

Good even, good Master What-ye-call't. How do you, 1682sir? You are very well met. God 'ild you for your last company. 1683I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand 1684here, sir. -- Nay, pray be covered.

Will you be married, motley?

As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, 1687and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as 1688pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.

And will you, being a man of your breeding, be 1690married under a bush like a beggar? Get you to church, 1691and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is. 1692This fellow will but join you together as they 1693join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, 1694and, like green timber warp, warp.

I am not in the mind but I were better to be 1696married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry 1697me well; and not being well married, it will be a good 1698excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

Go thou with me, 1700and let me counsel thee.

Come, sweet Audrey.

3.3.321702We must be married or we must live in bawdry. --

3.3.331703Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not

3.3.37but

'Tis no matter. Ne'er a fantastical knave of them 1707all shall flout me out of my calling.

Never talk to me. I will weep.

Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider 1712that tears do not become a man.

But have I not cause to weep?

As good cause as one would desire; 1715therefore weep.

His very hair 1717is of the dissembling color.

Something browner than Judas's. 1719Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

I'faith, his hair is of a good color.

An excellent color. 1722Your chestnut was ever the only color.

And his kissing is as full of sanctity 1724as the touch of holy bread.

He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A 1726nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; 1727the very ice of chastity is in them.

But why did he swear he would come this 1729morning, and comes not?

Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

Do you think so?

Yes. I think he is not a pickpurse nor a horse-stealer, 1733but for his verity in love, I do think him as 1734concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.

Not true in love?

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

You have heard him swear downright he was.

"Was" is not "is." Besides, the oath of a lover is no 1739stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the 1740confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest 1741on the Duke, your father.

I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question 1743with him. He asked me of what parentage I was. I 1744told him, of as good as he; so he laughed and let me go. 1745But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man 1746as Orlando?

Oh, that's a brave man! He writes brave verses, 1748speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks 1749them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover, 1750as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, 1751breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all's brave that 1752youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?

Mistress and master, you have oft inquired

3.4.221755After the shepherd that complained of love,

3.4.231756Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

3.4.241757Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

3.4.251758That was his mistress.

That was his mistress. Well, and what of him?

If you will see a pageant truly played

3.4.271761Between the pale complexion of true love

3.4.281762And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

3.4.291763Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,

3.4.301764If you will mark it.

If you will mark it. Oh, come, let us remove!

3.4.311766The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

3.4.321767Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

3.4.331768I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe!

3.5.21772Say that you love me not, but say not so

3.5.31773In bitterness. The common executioner,

3.5.41774Whose heart th'accustomed sight of death makes hard,

3.5.51775Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck

3.5.61776But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be

3.5.71777Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

I would not be thy executioner;

3.5.91780I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

3.5.101781Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye.

3.5.111782'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

3.5.121783That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,

3.5.131784Who shut their coward gates on atomies,

3.5.141785Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers!

3.5.151786Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,

3.5.161787And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.

3.5.171788Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down,

3.5.181789Or, if thou canst not, oh, for shame, for shame,

3.5.191790Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers!

3.5.201791Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.

3.5.211792Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

3.5.221793Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,

3.5.231794The cicatrice and capable impressure

3.5.241795Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,

3.5.251796Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.

3.5.261797Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

3.5.271798That can do hurt.

3.5.28O dear Phoebe,

3.5.291800If ever -- as that "ever" may be near --

3.5.301801You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

3.5.311802Then shall you know the wounds invisible

3.5.321803That love's keen arrows make.

That love's keen arrows make. But till that time

3.5.331805Come not thou near me; and when that time comes,

3.5.341806Afflict me with thy mocks; pity me not,

3.5.351807As till that time I shall not pity thee.

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

3.5.371809That you insult, exult, and all at once,

3.5.381810Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty --

3.5.391811As, by my faith, I see no more in you

3.5.401812Than without candle may go dark to bed --

3.5.411813Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?

3.5.421814Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?

3.5.431815I see no more in you than in the ordinary

3.5.441816Of nature's sale-work. -- 'Od's my little life,

3.5.451817I think she means to tangle my eyes too! --

3.5.461818No faith, proud mistress, hope not after it.

3.5.471819'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

3.5.481820Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream

3.5.491821That can entame my spirits to your worship.

3.5.501822You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

3.5.511823Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?

3.5.521824You are a thousand times a properer man

3.5.531825Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you

3.5.541826That makes the world full of ill-favored children.

3.5.551827'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her,

3.5.561828And out of you she sees herself more proper

3.5.571829Than any of her lineaments can show her.

3.5.581830But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees,

3.5.591831And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love!

3.5.601832For I must tell you friendly in your ear:

3.5.611833Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.

3.5.621834Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;

3.5.631835Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

3.5.641836So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together.

3.5.661838I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

He's fallen in love with your foulness, [To Silvius]and she'll 1840fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast 1841as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce 1842her with bitter words. [To Phoebe]Why look you so upon me?

For no ill will I bear you.

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

3.5.701845For I am falser than vows made in wine.

3.5.711846Besides, I like you not. [To Silvius] If you will know my house,

3.5.721847'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. --

3.5.731848Will you go, sister? -- Shepherd, ply her hard. --

3.5.741849Come, sister. -- Shepherdess, look on him better,

3.5.751850And be not proud. Though all the world could see,

3.5.761851None could be so abused in sight as he. --

3.5.771852Come, to our flock.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:

3.5.791854"Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?"

Sweet Phoebe --

Sweet Phoebe -- Ha! What say'st thou, Silvius?

Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.

3.5.841860If you do sorrow at my grief in love,

3.5.851861By giving love, your sorrow and my grief

3.5.861862Were both extermined.

Thou hast my love. Is not that neighborly?

I would have you.

I would have you. Why, that were covetousness.

3.5.891866Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,

3.5.901867And yet it is not that I bear thee love;

3.5.911868But since that thou canst talk of love so well,

3.5.921869Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,

3.5.931870I will endure; and I'll employ thee too.

3.5.941871But do not look for further recompense

3.5.951872Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.

So holy and so perfect is my love,

3.5.971874And I in such a poverty of grace,

3.5.981875That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

3.5.991876To glean the broken ears after the man

3.5.1001877That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then

3.5.1011878A scattered smile, and that I'll live upon.

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

Not very well, but I have met him oft,

3.5.1041881And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

3.5.1051882That the old carlot once was master of.

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

3.5.1071884'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well.

3.5.1081885But what care I for words? Yet words do well

3.5.1091886When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

3.5.1101887It is a pretty youth -- not very pretty;

3.5.1111888But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him.

3.5.1121889He'll make a proper man. The best thing in him

3.5.1131890Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

3.5.1141891Did make offense, his eye did heal it up.

3.5.1151892He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall;

3.5.1161893His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well.

3.5.1171894There was a pretty redness in his lip,

3.5.1181895A little riper and more lusty red

3.5.1191896Than that mixed in his cheek; 'twas just the difference

3.5.1201897Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

3.5.1211898There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him

3.5.1221899In parcels as I did, would have gone near

3.5.1231900To fall in love with him; but, for my part,

3.5.1241901I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

3.5.1251902I have more cause to hate him than to love him.

3.5.1261903For what had he to do to chide at me?

3.5.1271904He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black,

3.5.1281905And, now I am remembered, scorned at me.

3.5.1291906I marvel why I answered not again.

3.5.1301907But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.

3.5.1311908I'll write to him a very taunting letter,

3.5.1321909And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?

Phoebe, with all my heart.

Phoebe, with all my heart. I'll write it straight;

3.5.1341912The matter's in my head and in my heart.

3.5.1351913I will be bitter with him and passing short.

3.5.1361914Go with me, Silvius.

I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted 1918with thee.

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

I am so. I do love it better than laughing.

Those that are in extremity of either are abominable 1922fellows, and betray themselves to every modern 1923censure worse than drunkards.

Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which 1927is emulation, nor the musician's, which is fantastical, 1928nor the courtier's, which is proud, nor the soldier's, 1929which is ambitious, nor the lawyer's, which is politic, 1930nor the lady's, which is nice, nor the lover's, which 1931is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded 1932of many simples, extracted from many objects, 1933and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in 1934which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous 1935sadness.

A traveler! By my faith, you have great reason 1937to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands 1938to see other men's. Then to have seen much and to have 1939nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

And your experience makes you sad. I had rather 1943have a fool to make me merry than experience to 1944make me sad -- and to travel for it too!

Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Nay, then, God b'wi' you, an you talk in blank 1947verse.

Farewell, Monsieur Traveler. Look you lisp 1949and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits 1950of your own country, be out of love with 1951your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that 1952countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have 1953swam in a gondola.

Why, how now, Orlando, where 1954have you been all this while? You a lover? An you 1955serve me such another trick, never come in my sight 1956more.

My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my 1958promise.

Break an hour's promise in love? He that 1960will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break 1961but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs 1962of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped 1963him o'th' shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my 1966sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

Of a snail?

Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he 1969carries his house on his head -- a better jointure, I think, 1970than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny 1971with him.

What's that?

Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding 1974to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune, 1975and prevents the slander of his wife.

Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is 1977virtuous.

And I am your Rosalind.

It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind 1980 of a better leer than you.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a 1982holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What 1983would you say to me now, an I were your very very 1984Rosalind?

I would kiss before I spoke.

Nay, you were better speak first, and when you 1987were graveled for lack of matter, you might take occasion 1988to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, 1989they will spit; and for lovers lacking -- God warn us! -- 1990matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

How if the kiss be denied?

Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins 1993new matter.

Who could be out, being before his beloved 1995mistress?

Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, 1997or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

What, of my suit?

Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your 2000suit. 2001Am not I your Rosalind?

I take some joy to say you are, because I would 2003be talking of her.

Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.

Then, in mine own person, I die.

No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is 2007almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there 2008was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in 2009a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a 2010Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, 2011and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would 2012have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned 2013nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, 2014good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, 2015and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; 2016and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was -- 2017Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. Men have died 2018from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not 2019for love.

I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, 2021for, I protest, her frown might kill me.

By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, 2023now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; 2024and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

Then love me, Rosalind.

Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.

And wilt thou have me?

Ay, and twenty such.

What sayest thou?

Are you not good?

I hope so.

Why then, can one desire too much of a 2033good thing? -- Come, sister, you shall be the priest, 2034and marry us. -- Give me your hand, Orlando. -- What do you 2035say, sister?

Pray thee, marry us.

I cannot say the words.

You must begin "Will you, Orlando --"

Go to. -- Will you, Orlando, have to wife this 2040Rosalind?

I will.

Ay, but when?

Why, now, as fast as she can marry us.

Then you must say, "I take thee, Rosalind, for 2045wife."

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

I might ask you for your commission; 2048but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There's a 2049girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman's 2050thought runs before her actions.

So do all thoughts; they are winged.

Now tell me how long you would have her, after 2053you have possessed her.

For ever and a day.

Say "a day" without the "ever." No, no, Orlando, men 2056are April when they woo, December when they wed; 2057maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes 2058when they are wives. I will be more jealous of 2059thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous 2060than a parrot against rain, more newfangled 2061than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. 2062I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, 2063and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; 2064I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined 2065to sleep.

But will my Rosalind do so?

By my life, she will do as I do.

Oh, but she is wise.

Or else she could not have the wit to do this. 2070The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman's 2071wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 2072'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the 2073smoke out at the chimney.

A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might 2075say, "Wit, whither wilt?'"

Nay, you might keep that check for it till you 2077met your wife's wit going to your neighbor's bed.

And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You 2080shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her2081 without her tongue. Oh, that woman that cannot 2082make her fault her husband's occasion, let her never nurse 2083her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool!

For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!

I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o'clock 2087I will be with thee again.

Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what 2089you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I 2090thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won 2091me. 'Tis but one cast away, and so, come death! Two o'clock 2092is your hour?

Ay, sweet Rosalind.

By my troth, and in good earnest, and 2095so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, 2096if you break one jot of your promise, or come one 2097minute behind your hour, I will think you the most 2098pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, 2099and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that 2100may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. 2101Therefore beware my censure, and keep your 2102promise.

With no less religion than if thou wert indeed 2104my Rosalind. So, adieu.

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all 2106such offenders, and let Time try. Adieu.

You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate. 2108We must have your doublet and hose plucked over 2109your head, and show the world what the bird hath done 2110to her own nest.

Oh, coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou 2112didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But 2113it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown 2114bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.

Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour 2116affection in, it runs out.

No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was 2118begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of 2119madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses everyone's 2120eyes because his own are out, let him be judge 2121how deep I am in love. I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be 2122out of the sight of Orlando. I'll go find a shadow, and 2123sigh till he come.

And I'll sleep.

Which is he that killed the deer?

Sir, it was I.

Let's present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; 2130and it would do well to set the deer's 2131horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you 2132no song, forester, for this purpose?

Yes, sir.

Sing it. 'Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it 2135make noise enough.

How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? 2149And here much Orlando!

I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain

2152he hath ta'en his bow and arrows and is gone forth -- 2153to sleep. Look who comes here.

My errand is to you, fair youth.

4.3.42155My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.

4.3.52156I know not the contents, but, as I guess,

4.3.62157By the stern brow and waspish action

4.3.72158Which she did use as she was writing of it,

4.3.82159It bears an angry tenor. Pardon me,

4.3.92160I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Patience herself would startle at this letter

4.3.112162And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all!

4.3.122163She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;

4.3.132164She calls me proud, and that she could not love me

4.3.142165Were man as rare as Phoenix. 'Od's my will!

4.3.152166Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.

4.3.162167Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,

4.3.172168This is a letter of your own device.

No, I protest, I know not the contents.

4.3.192170Phoebe did write it.

Phoebe did write it. Come, come, you are a fool,

4.3.202172And turned into the extremity of love.

4.3.212173I saw her hand; she has a leathern hand,

4.3.222174A freestone-colored hand. I verily did think

4.3.232175That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;

4.3.242176She has a huswife's hand -- but that's no matter.

4.3.252177I say she never did invent this letter;

4.3.262178This is a man's invention, and his hand.

Sure it is hers.

Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style,

4.3.292181A style for challengers. Why, she defies me,

4.3.302182Like Turk to Christian. Women's gentle brain

4.3.312183Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,

4.3.322184Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect

4.3.332185Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

4.3.352187Yet heard too much of Phoebe's cruelty.

She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.

4.3.392191Can a woman rail thus?

Call you this railing?

4.3.432195Did you ever hear such railing?

4.3.462198Meaning me a beast.

Call you this chiding?

Alas, poor shepherd!

Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity. 2216Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument, 2217and play false strains upon thee! Not to be endured! 2218Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath 2219made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she 2220love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will 2221never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a 2222true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more 2223company.

Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know,

4.3.652226Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

4.3.662227A sheepcote fenced about with olive trees?

West of this place, down in the neighbor bottom,

4.3.682229The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream

4.3.692230Left on your right hand brings you to the place.

4.3.702231But at this hour the house doth keep itself;

4.3.712232There's none within.

If that an eye may profit by a tongue,

4.3.732234Then should I know you by description,

4.3.742235Such garments, and such years: "The boy is fair,

4.3.752236Of female favor, and bestows himself

4.3.762237Like a ripe sister; the woman, low

4.3.772238And browner than her brother." Are not you

4.3.782239The owner of the house I did inquire for?

It is no boast, being asked, to say we are.

Orlando doth commend him to you both,

4.3.812242And to that youth he calls his Rosalind

4.3.822243He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

I am. What must we understand by this?

Some of my shame, if you will know of me

4.3.852246What man I am, and how, and why, and where

4.3.862247This handkerchief was stained.

This handkerchief was stained. I pray you, tell it.

When last the young Orlando parted from you,

4.3.882250He left a promise to return again

4.3.892251Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,

4.3.902252Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,

4.3.912253Lo, what befell! He threw his eye aside,

4.3.922254And mark what object did present itself.

4.3.932255Under an old oak, whose boughs were mossed with age

4.3.942256And high top bald with dry antiquity,

4.3.952257A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,

4.3.962258Lay sleeping on his back. About his neck

4.3.972259A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,

4.3.982260Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached

4.3.992261The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,

4.3.1002262Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself

4.3.1012263And with indented glides did slip away

4.3.1022264Into a bush, under which bush's shade

4.3.1032265A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,

4.3.1042266Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,

4.3.1052267When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis

4.3.1062268The royal disposition of that beast

4.3.1072269To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.

4.3.1082270This seen, Orlando did approach the man,

4.3.1092271And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

Oh, I have heard him speak of that same brother,

4.3.1112273And he did render him the most unnatural

4.3.1122274That lived amongst men.

That lived amongst men. And well he might so do,

4.3.1132276For well I know he was unnatural.

But to Orlando: did he leave him there,

4.3.1152278Food to the sucked and hungry lioness?

Twice did he turn his back, and purposed so;

4.3.1172280But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,

4.3.1182281And nature, stronger than his just occasion,

4.3.1192282Made him give battle to the lioness,

4.3.1202283Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling

4.3.1212284From miserable slumber I awaked.

Are you his brother?

Are you his brother? Was't you he rescued?

Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

'Twas I; but 'tis not I. I do not shame

4.3.1252289To tell you what I was, since my conversion

4.3.1262290So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

But for the bloody napkin?

But for the bloody napkin? By and by.

4.3.1282293When from the first to last, betwixt us two,

4.3.1292294Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed,

4.3.1302295As how I came into that desert place,

4.3.1312296In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke,

4.3.1322297Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,

4.3.1332298Committing me unto my brother's love;

4.3.1342299Who led me instantly unto his cave,

4.3.1352300There stripped himself, and here upon his arm

4.3.1362301The lioness had torn some flesh away,

4.3.1372302Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,

4.3.1382303And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.

4.3.1392304Brief, I recovered him, bound up his wound,

4.3.1402305And after some small space, being strong at heart,

4.3.1412306He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

4.3.1422307To tell this story, that you might excuse

4.3.1432308His broken promise, and to give this napkin,

4.3.1442309Dyed in this blood, unto the shepherd youth

4.3.1452310That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede!

Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

There is more in it. -- Cousin Ganymede!

Look, he recovers.

I would I were at home.

We'll lead you thither. --

4.3.1522317I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

Be of good cheer, youth. You a man? 2319You lack a man's heart.

I do so, I confess it. 2321Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited. 2322I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited. 2323Heigh-ho!

This was not counterfeit. There is too great testimony 2325in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.2326

Counterfeit, I assure you.

Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to 2329be a man.

So I do; but, i'faith, I should have been a 2331woman by right.

Come, you look paler and paler. Pray you, draw 2333homewards. -- Good sir, go with us.

That will I, for I must bear answer back

2335How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

I shall devise something. But, I pray you, commend 2337my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?

We shall find a time, Audrey. Patience, gentle 2342Audrey.

Faith, the priest was good enough, for all 2344the old gentleman's saying.

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile 2346Mar-text. But Audrey, there is a youth here in the 2347forest lays claim to you.

Ay, I know who 'tis. He hath no interest in me 2349in the world. Here comes the man you mean.

It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By 2352my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer 2353for. We shall be flouting; we cannot hold.

Good ev'n, Audrey.

God ye good ev'n, William.

And good ev'n to you, sir.

Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover 2358thy head. Nay, prithee be covered. How old are you, 2359friend?

Five-and-twenty, sir.

A ripe age. Is thy name William?

William, sir.

A fair name. Wast born i'th'forest here?

Ay, sir, I thank God.

"Thank God" -- a good answer. 2366Art rich?

Faith, sir, so-so.

"So-so" is good, very good, very excellent good; 2369and yet it is not; it is but so-so. 2370Art thou wise?

Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying: 2373"The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man 2374knows himself to be a fool." The heathen philosopher, 2375when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open 2376his lips when he put it into his mouth, meaning thereby 2377that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. 2378You do love this maid?

I do, sir.

Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

No, sir.

Then learn this of me: to have is to have. For 2383it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out 2384of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the 2385other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he. 2386Now, you are not ipse, for I am he.

Which he, sir?

He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, 2389you clown, abandon -- which is in the vulgar "leave" -- the 2390society -- which in the boorish is "company" -- of this female -- 2391which in the common is "woman"; which together 2392is: abandon the society of this female, or, clown, 2393thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, 2394to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into 2395death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison 2396with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy 2397with thee in faction, I will o'er-run thee with policy; I 2398will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways. Therefore tremble 2399and depart.

Do, good William.

God rest you merry, sir.

Our master and mistress seeks you. Come away, 2404away!

Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey! -- I attend, 2406I attend.

Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you 2410should like her? That, but seeing, you should love her? 2411And loving, woo? And, wooing, she should grant? And 2412will you persevere to enjoy her?

Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the 2414poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, 2415nor her sudden consenting; but say with me, "I love 2416Aliena"; say with her that she loves me; consent with both 2417that we may enjoy each other. It shall be to your 2418good; for my father's house and all the revenue that 2419was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and here 2420live and die a shepherd.

You have my consent. 2423Let your wedding be tomorrow. Thither will I 2424invite the Duke and all 's contented followers. 2425Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, 2426here comes my Rosalind.

God save you, brother.

And you, fair sister.

O my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see 2430thee wear thy heart in a scarf!

It is my arm.

I thought thy heart had been wounded with 2433the claws of a lion.

Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.

Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited 2436to swoon when he showed me your handkerchief?

Ay, and greater wonders than that.

Oh, I know where you are. Nay, 'tis true. There 2439was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams 2440and Caesar's thrasonical brag of "I came, saw, 2441and overcame." For your brother and my sister no sooner met 2442but they looked; no sooner looked but they 2443loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed 2444but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew 2445the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these 2446degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage, 2447which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent 2448before marriage. They are in the very wrath of 2449love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part 2450them.

They shall be married tomorrow; and I will 2452bid the Duke to the nuptial. But, oh, how bitter a thing 2453it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes! 2454By so much the more shall I tomorrow be at the height 2455of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother 2456happy in having what he wishes for.

Why, then, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn 2458for Rosalind?

I can live no longer by thinking.

I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking. 2461Know of me, then -- for now I speak to some purpose -- 2462that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit. 2463I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion 2464of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are; neither 2465do I labor for a greater esteem than may in some 2466little measure draw a belief from you to do yourself 2467good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, 2468that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three 2469year old, conversed with a magician, most profound in 2470his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind 2471so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your 2472brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I know into 2473what straits of fortune she is driven, and it is not impossible 2474to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, 2475to set her before your eyes tomorrow, human as she is, 2476and without any danger.

Speak'st thou in sober meanings?

By my life, I do, which I tender dearly, though 2479I say I am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, 2480bid your friends; for if you will be married tomorrow, 2481you shall; and to Rosalind, if you will.

2483Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.

Youth, you have done me much ungentleness

5.2.202485To show the letter that I writ to you.

I care not if I have. It is my study

5.2.222487To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.

5.2.232488You are there followed by a faithful shepherd;

5.2.242489Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

It is to be all made of sighs and tears;

5.2.272492And so am I for Phoebe.

And I for Ganymede.

And I for Rosalind.

And I for no woman.

It is to be all made of faith and service;

5.2.322497And so am I for Phoebe.

And I for Ganymede.

And I for Rosalind.

And I for no woman.

It is to be all made of fantasy,

5.2.372502All made of passion, and all made of wishes;

5.2.382503All adoration, duty, and observance,

5.2.392504All humbleness, all patience and impatience,

5.2.402505All purity, all trial, all obedience;

5.2.412506And so am I for Phoebe.

And so am I for Ganymede.

And so am I for Rosalind.

And so am I for no woman.

If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

Why do you speak too, "Why blame you me 2514to love you?"

To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.

Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling 2517of Irish wolves against the moon.

[To Silvius]I will help you 2518if I can.[To Phoebe]I would love you if I could. -- Tomorrow meet 2519me all together.[To Phoebe]I will marry you if ever I marry woman, 2520and I'll be married tomorrow.[To Orlando]I will satisfy you 2521if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married tomorrow.2522[To Silvius]I will content you if what pleases you contents 2523you, and you shall be married tomorrow.[To Orlando]As you love 2524Rosalind, meet.[To Silvius]As you love Phoebe, meet. And as I love no 2525woman, I'll meet. So, fare you well. I have left you 2526commands.

I'll not fail, if I live.

Nor I.

Nor I.

Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey; tomorrow 2533will we be married.

I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is 2535no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. 2536Here come two of the banished Duke's pages.

Well met, honest gentleman.

By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song.

We are for you. Sit i'th' middle.

Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, 2542or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to 2543a bad voice?

I'faith, i'faith, and both in a tune, like two 2545gypsies on a horse.

Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no 2566great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.

You are deceived, sir; we kept time, we lost not 2568our time.

By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear 2570such a foolish song. God b'wi' you, and God mend your 2571voices. -- Come, Audrey.

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

5.4.22576Can do all this that he hath promised?

I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not,

5.4.42578As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.

Patience once more, whiles our compact is urged.

5.4.62581You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,

5.4.72582You will bestow her on Orlando here?

That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.

And you say you will have her when I bring her?

That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

You say you'll marry me, if I be willing?

That will I, should I die the hour after.