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?