Читать книгу The Complete Comedies of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 4

Table of Contents

By William Shakespeare

Persons Represented

DUKE, living in exile

FREDERICK, Brother to the Duke, and Usurper of his Dominions

AMIENS, Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment

JAQUES, Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment

LE BEAU, a Courtier attending upon Frederick

CHARLES, his Wrestler

OLIVER, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois

JAQUES, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois

ORLANDO, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois

ADAM, Servant to Oliver

DENNIS, Servant to Oliver

TOUCHSTONE, a Clown

SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a Vicar

CORIN, Shepherd

SILVIUS, Shepherd

WILLIAM, a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey

A person representing HYMEN

ROSALIND, Daughter to the banished Duke

CELIA, Daughter to Frederick

PHEBE, a Shepherdess

AUDREY, a Country Wench

Lords belonging to the two Dukes; Pages, Foresters, and other Attendants.

The SCENE lies first near OLIVER’S house;

afterwards partly in the Usurper’s court

and partly in the Forest of Arden.

ACT I

SCENE I. An Orchard near OLIVER’S house

[Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.]

ORLANDO

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

ADAM

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

ORLANDO

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

[ADAM retires]

[Enter OLIVER.]

OLIVER

Now, sir! what make you here?

ORLANDO

Nothing: I am not taught to make anything.

OLIVER What mar you then, sir?

ORLANDO

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

OLIVER

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

ORLANDO

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

OLIVER

Know you where you are, sir?

ORLANDO

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

OLIVER

Know you before whom, sir?

ORLANDO

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

OLIVER

What, boy!

ORLANDO

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

OLIVER

Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

ORLANDO

I am no villain: I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois: he was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so: thou has railed on thyself.

ADAM

[Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father’s remembrance, be at accord.

OLIVER

Let me go, I say.

ORLANDO

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

OLIVER

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

ORLANDO

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

OLIVER

Get you with him, you old dog.

ADAM

Is “old dog” my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service.—God be with my old master! he would not have spoke such a word.

[Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM.]

OLIVER

Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!

[Enter DENNIS.]

DENNIS

Calls your worship?

OLIVER

Was not Charles, the duke’s wrestler, here to speak with me?

DENNIS

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

OLIVER

Call him in.

[Exit DENNIS.]

—‘Twill be a good way; and tomorrow the wrestling is.

[Enter CHARLES.]

CHARLES

Good morrow to your worship.

OLIVER

Good Monsieur Charles!—what’s the new news at the new court?

CHARLES

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

OLIVER

Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke’s daughter, be banished with her father?

CHARLES

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

OLIVER

Where will the old duke live?

CHARLES

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

OLIVER

What, you wrestle tomorrow before the new duke?

CHARLES

Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis’d against me to try a fall. Tomorrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come in: therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal; that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into; in that it is thing of his own search, and altogether against my will.

OLIVER

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

CHARLES

I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come tomorrow I’ll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again I’ll never wrestle for prize more: and so, God keep your worship!

[Exit.]

OLIVER

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

[Exit.]

SCENE II. A Lawn before the DUKE’S Palace

[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports: let me see; what think you of falling in love?

CELIA

Marry, I pr’ythee, do, to make sport withal: but love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.

ROSALIND

What shall be our sport, then?

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

‘Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

[Enter TOUCHSTONE.]

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work neither, but Nature’s, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone: for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.— How now, wit? whither wander you?

TOUCHSTONE

Mistress, you must come away to your father.

CELIA

Were you made the messenger?

TOUCHSTONE

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

ROSALIND

Where learned you that oath, fool?

TOUCHSTONE

Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught: now, I’ll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good: and yet was not the knight forsworn.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

Ay, marry; now unmuzzle your wisdom.

TOUCHSTONE

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

CELIA

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

TOUCHSTONE

By my knavery, if I had it, then I were: but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or that mustard.

CELIA

Pr’ythee, who is’t that thou mean’st?

TOUCHSTONE

One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

CELIA

My father’s love is enough to honour him enough: speak no more of him: you’ll be whipp’d for taxation one of these days.

TOUCHSTONE

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

With his mouth full of news.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

Then shall we be news-crammed.

CELIA

All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

[Enter LE BEAU.]

Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau. What’s the news?

LE BEAU

Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.

CELIA

Sport! of what colour?

LE BEAU

What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?

ROSALIND

As wit and fortune will.

TOUCHSTONE

Or as the destinies decrees.

CELIA Well said: that was laid on with a trowel.

TOUCHSTONE

Nay, if I keep not my rank,—

ROSALIND

Thou losest thy old smell.

LE BEAU

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

ROSALIND

Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.

LE BEAU

I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.

CELIA

Well,—the beginning, that is dead and buried.

LE BEAU

There comes an old man and his three sons,—

CELIA

I could match this beginning with an old tale.

LE BEAU

Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence, with bills on their necks,—

ROSALIND

“Be it known unto all men by these presents,”—

LE BEAU

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

ROSALIND

Alas!

TOUCHSTONE

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

LE BEAU

Why, this that I speak of.

TOUCHSTONE

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

CELIA

Or I, I promise thee.

ROSALIND

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

LE BEAU

You must, if you stay here: for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.

CELIA

Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it.

[Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, ORLANDO, CHARLES, and Attendants.]

DUKE FREDERICK

Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.

ROSALIND

Is yonder the man?

LE BEAU

Even he, madam.

CELIA

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

DUKE FREDERICK

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

ROSALIND

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

DUKE FREDERICK

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

CELIA

Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.

DUKE FREDERICK

Do so; I’ll not be by.

[DUKE FREDERICK goes apart.]

LE BEAU

Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you.

ORLANDO

I attend them with all respect and duty.

ROSALIND

Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?

ORLANDO

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised: we will make it our suit to the duke that the wrestling might not go forward.

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

And mine to eke out hers.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Your heart’s desires be with you.

CHARLES

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

ORLANDO

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

DUKE FREDERICK

You shall try but one fall.

CHARLES

No; I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!

CELIA

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

[CHARLES and ORLANDO wrestle.]

ROSALIND

O excellent young man!

CELIA

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

[CHARLES is thrown. Shout.]

DUKE FREDERICK

No more, no more.

ORLANDO

Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet well breathed.

DUKE FREDERICK

How dost thou, Charles?

LE BEAU

He cannot speak, my lord.

DUKE FREDERICK

Bear him away.

[CHARLES is borne out.]

What is thy name, young man?

ORLANDO

Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois.

DUKE FREDERICK

I would thou hadst been son to some man else.

The world esteem’d thy father honourable,

But I did find him still mine enemy:

Thou shouldst have better pleas’d me with this deed

Hadst thou descended from another house.

But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;

I would thou hadst told me of another father.

[Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK, Train, and LE BEAU.]

CELIA

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

ORLANDO

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

His youngest son;—and would not change that calling

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

ROSALIND

My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,

And all the world was of my father’s mind:

Had I before known this young man his son,

I should have given him tears unto entreaties

Ere he should thus have ventur’d.

CELIA

Gentle cousin,

Let us go thank him, and encourage him:

My father’s rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart.—Sir, you have well deserv’d:

If you do keep your promises in love

But justly, as you have exceeded promise,

Your mistress shall be happy.

ROSALIND

Gentleman,

[Giving him a chain from her neck.]

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

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

Shall we go, coz?

CELIA

Ay.—Fare you well, fair gentleman.

ORLANDO

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

Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.

ROSALIND

He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes:

I’ll ask him what he would.—Did you call, sir?—

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown

More than your enemies.

CELIA

Will you go, coz?

ROSALIND

Have with you.—Fare you well.

[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.]

ORLANDO

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her, yet she urg’d conference.

O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown:

Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.

[Re-enter LE BEAU.]

LE BEAU

Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you

To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv’d

High commendation, true applause, and love,

Yet such is now the duke’s condition,

That he miscónstrues all that you have done.

The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,

More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

ORLANDO

I thank you, sir: and pray you tell me this;

Which of the two was daughter of the duke

That here was at the wrestling?

LE BEAU

Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;

But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter:

The other is daughter to the banish’d duke,

And here detain’d by her usurping uncle,

To keep his daughter company; whose loves

Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.

But I can tell you that of late this duke

Hath ta’en displeasure ‘gainst his gentle niece,

Grounded upon no other argument

But that the people praise her for her virtues

And pity her for her good father’s sake;

And, on my life, his malice ‘gainst the lady

Will suddenly break forth.—Sir, fare you well!

Hereafter, in a better world than this,

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

ORLANDO

I rest much bounden to you: fare you well!

[Exit LE BEAU.]

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother:—

But heavenly Rosalind!

[Exit.]

SCENE III. A Room in the Palace

[Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.]

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

Not one to throw at a dog.

CELIA

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

But is all this for your father?

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.

CELIA

Hem them away.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite of a fall.—But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?

ROSALIND

The duke my father loved his father dearly.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

ROSALIND

Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do.—Look, here comes the duke.

CELIA

With his eyes full of anger.

[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with Lords.]

DUKE FREDERICK

Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste,

And get you from our court.

ROSALIND

Me, uncle?

DUKE FREDERICK

You, cousin:

Within these ten days if that thou be’st found

So near our public court as twenty miles,

Thou diest for it.

ROSALIND

I do beseech your grace,

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:

If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;

If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,—

As I do trust I am not,—then, dear uncle,

Never so much as in a thought unborn

Did I offend your highness.

DUKE FREDERICK

Thus do all traitors;

If their purgation did consist in words,

They are as innocent as grace itself:—

Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

ROSALIND

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

DUKE FREDERICK

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

ROSALIND

So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I when your highness banish’d him:

Treason is not inherited, my lord:

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,

What’s that to me? my father was no traitor!

Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much

To think my poverty is treacherous.

CELIA

Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

DUKE FREDERICK

Ay, Celia: we stay’d her for your sake,

Else had she with her father rang’d along.

CELIA

I did not then entreat to have her stay;

It was your pleasure, and your own remorse:

I was too young that time to value her;

But now I know her: if she be a traitor,

Why so am I: we still have slept together,

Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together;

And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans,

Still we went coupled and inseparable.

DUKE FREDERICK

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

Her very silence, and her patience

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;

And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous

When she is gone: then open not thy lips;

Firm and irrevocable is my doom

Which I have pass’d upon her;—she is banish’d.

CELIA

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

I cannot live out of her company.

DUKE FREDERICK

You are a fool.—You, niece, provide yourself:

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,

And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK and Lords.]

CELIA

O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?

Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

I charge thee be not thou more griev’d than I am.

ROSALIND

I have more cause.

CELIA

Thou hast not, cousin;

Pr’ythee be cheerful: know’st thou not the duke

Hath banish’d me, his daughter?

ROSALIND

That he hath not.

CELIA

No! hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:

Shall we be sund’red? shall we part, sweet girl?

No; let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go, and what to bear with us:

And do not seek to take your charge upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;

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

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

ROSALIND

Why, whither shall we go?

CELIA

To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.

ROSALIND

Alas! what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

CELIA

I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,

And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

The like do you; so shall we pass along,

And never stir assailants.

ROSALIND

Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,

That I did suit me all points like a man?

A gallant curtleaxe upon my thigh,

A boar spear in my hand; and,—in my heart

Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will,—

We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,

As many other mannish cowards have

That do outface it with their semblances.

CELIA

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

ROSALIND

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

And, therefore, look you call me Ganymede.

But what will you be call’d?

CELIA

Something that hath a reference to my state:

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

ROSALIND

But, cousin, what if we assay’d to steal

The clownish fool out of your father’s court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

CELIA

He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me;

Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away,

And get our jewels and our wealth together;

Devise the fittest time and safest way

To hide us from pursuit that will be made

After my flight. Now go we in content

To liberty, and not to banishment.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

[Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other LORDS, in the dress of foresters.]

DUKE SENIOR

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods

More free from peril than the envious court?

Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,—

The seasons’ difference: as the icy fang

And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,

Which when it bites and blows upon my body,

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

“This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.”

Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

I would not change it.

AMIENS

Happy is your grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

DUKE SENIOR

Come, shall we go and kill us venison?

And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,

Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should, in their own confines, with forked heads

Have their round haunches gor’d.

FIRST LORD

Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp

Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you.

To-day my lord of Amiens and myself

Did steal behind him as he lay along

Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:

To the which place a poor sequester’d stag,

That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt,

Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,

The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans,

That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat

Almost to bursting; and the big round tears

Cours’d one another down his innocent nose

In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool,

Much markèd of the melancholy Jaques,

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

Augmenting it with tears.

DUKE SENIOR

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle?

FIRST LORD

O, yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

“Poor deer,” quoth he “thou mak’st a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

To that which had too much:” then, being there alone,

Left and abandoned of his velvet friends;

“‘Tis right”; quoth he; “thus misery doth part

The flux of company:” anon, a careless herd,

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him

And never stays to greet him; “Ay,” quoth Jaques,

“Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

‘Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?”

Thus most invectively he pierceth through

The body of the country, city, court,

Yea, and of this our life: swearing that we

Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse,

To fright the animals, and to kill them up

In their assign’d and native dwelling-place.

DUKE SENIOR

And did you leave him in this contemplation?

SECOND LORD

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

DUKE SENIOR

Show me the place:

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he’s full of matter.

FIRST LORD

I’ll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. A Room in the Palace

[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and Attendants.]

DUKE FREDERICK

Can it be possible that no man saw them?

It cannot be: some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

FIRST LORD

I cannot hear of any that did see her.

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

Saw her a-bed; and in the morning early

They found the bed untreasur’d of their mistress.

SECOND LORD

My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft

Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

Hesperia, the princess’ gentlewoman,

Confesses that she secretly o’erheard

Your daughter and her cousin much commend

The parts and graces of the wrestler

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company.

DUKE FREDERICK

Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither:

If he be absent, bring his brother to me,

I’ll make him find him: do this suddenly;

And let not search and inquisition quail

To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Before OLIVER’S House

[Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.]

ORLANDO

Who’s there?

ADAM

What, my young master?—O my gentle master!

O my sweet master! O you memory

Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?

Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?

And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?

Why would you be so fond to overcome

The bonny prizer of the humorous duke?

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

Know you not, master, to some kind of men

Their graces serve them but as enemies?

No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.

O, what a world is this, when what is comely

Envenoms him that bears it!

ORLANDO

Why, what’s the matter?

ADAM

O unhappy youth,

Come not within these doors; within this roof

The enemy of all your graces lives:

Your brother,—no, no brother; yet the son—

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

Of him I was about to call his father,—

Hath heard your praises; and this night he means

To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

And you within it: if he fail of that,

He will have other means to cut you off;

I overheard him and his practices.

This is no place; this house is but a butchery:

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

ORLANDO

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

ADAM

No matter whither, so you come not here.

ORLANDO

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

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce

A thievish living on the common road?

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

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

I rather will subject me to the malice

Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

ADAM

But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,

The thrifty hire I sav’d under your father,

Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,

When service should in my old limbs lie lame,

And unregarded age in corners thrown;

Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed,

Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,

Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

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

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

For in my youth I never did apply

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;

Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo

The means of weakness and debility;

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,

Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;

I’ll do the service of a younger man

In all your business and necessities.

ORLANDO

O good old man; how well in thee appears

The constant service of the antique world,

When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

Where none will sweat but for promotion;

And having that, do choke their service up

Even with the having: it is not so with thee.

But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield

In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry:

But come thy ways, we’ll go along together;

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent

We’ll light upon some settled low content.

ADAM

Master, go on; and I will follow thee

To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.—

From seventeen years till now almost fourscore

Here lived I, but now live here no more.

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

But at fourscore it is too late a week:

Yet fortune cannot recompense me better

Than to die well and not my master’s debtor.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden

[Enter ROSALIND in boy’s clothes, CELIA dressed like a shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE.]

ROSALIND

O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!

TOUCHSTONE

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

I pray you bear with me; I can go no further.

TOUCHSTONE

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

ROSALIND

Well, this is the forest of Arden.

TOUCHSTONE

Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

ROSALIND

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

[Enter CORIN and SILVIUS.]

CORIN

That is the way to make her scorn you still.

SILVIUS

O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!

CORIN

I partly guess; for I have lov’d ere now.

SILVIUS

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

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow:

But if thy love were ever like to mine,—

As sure I think did never man love so,—

How many actions most ridiculous

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

CORIN

Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

SILVIUS

O, thou didst then never love so heartily:

If thou remember’st not the slightest folly

That ever love did make thee run into,

Thou hast not lov’d:

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise,

Thou hast not lov’d:

Or if thou hast not broke from company

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not lov’d: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

[Exit Silvius.]

ROSALIND

Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure found mine own.

TOUCHSTONE

And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chapp’d hands had milk’d: and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, “Wear these for my sake.” We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

ROSALIND

Thou speak’st wiser than thou art ‘ware of.

TOUCHSTONE

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

ROSALIND

Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion

Is much upon my fashion.

TOUCHSTONE

And mine: but it grows something stale with me.

CELIA

I pray you, one of you question yond man

If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

TOUCHSTONE

Holla, you clown!

ROSALIND

Peace, fool; he’s not thy kinsman.

CORIN

Who calls?

TOUCHSTONE

Your betters, sir.

CORIN

Else are they very wretched.

ROSALIND

Peace, I say.—

Good even to you, friend.

CORIN

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

ROSALIND

I pr’ythee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:

Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d,

And faints for succour.

CORIN

Fair sir, I pity her,

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

My fortunes were more able to relieve her:

But I am shepherd to another man,

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:

My master is of churlish disposition,

And little recks to find the way to heaven

By doing deeds of hospitality:

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

Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,

By reason of his absence, there is nothing

That you will feed on; but what is, come see,

And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

ROSALIND

What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

CORIN

That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

That little cares for buying anything.

ROSALIND

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,

Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,

And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

CELIA

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

And willingly could waste my time in it.

CORIN

Assuredly the thing is to be sold:

Go with me: if you like, upon report,

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

I will your very faithful feeder be,

And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V. Another part of the Forest

[Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others.]

AMIENS

[SONG]

Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES

More, more, I pr’ythee, more.

AMIENS

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES

I thank it. More, I pr’ythee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr’ythee, more.

AMIENS

My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.

JAQUES

I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more: another stanza. Call you them stanzas?

AMIENS

What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES

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

AMIENS

More at your request than to please myself.

JAQUES

Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank you: but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.

AMIENS

Well, I’ll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while: the duke will drink under this tree:—he hath been all this day to look you.

JAQUES

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

[SONG. All together here.]

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live i’ the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleas’d with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither.

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES

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

AMIENS

And I’ll sing it.

JAQUES

Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,

Leaving his wealth and ease

A stubborn will to please,

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to me.

AMIENS

What’s that “ducdame?”

JAQUES

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

AMIENS

And I’ll go seek the duke; his banquet is prepared.

[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE VI. Another part of the Forest

[Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.]

ADAM

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

ORLANDO

Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable: hold death awhile at the arm’s end: I will here be with thee presently; and if I bring thee not something to eat, I’ll give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou look’st cheerily: and I’ll be with thee quickly.—Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if there live anything in this desert. Cheerily, good Adam!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE VII. Another part of the Forest

[A table set. Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and others.]

DUKE SENIOR

I think he be transform’d into a beast;

For I can nowhere find him like a man.

FIRST LORD

My lord, he is but even now gone hence;

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

DUKE SENIOR

If he, compact of jars, grow musical,

We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.

Go, seek him; tell him I would speak with him.

FIRST LORD

He saves my labour by his own approach.

[Enter JAQUES.]

DUKE SENIOR

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

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What! you look merrily!

JAQUES

A fool, a fool!—I met a fool i’ the forest,

A motley fool;—a miserable world!—

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

Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,

And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms,

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

“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I: “No, sir,” quoth he,

“Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.”

And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock:

Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags;

‘Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;

And after one hour more ‘twill be eleven;

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

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

And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep contemplative;

And I did laugh sans intermission

An hour by his dial.—O noble fool!

A worthy fool!—Motley’s the only wear.

DUKE SENIOR

What fool is this?

JAQUES

O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier,

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,—

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm’d

With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms.-O that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

DUKE SENIOR

Thou shalt have one.

JAQUES

It is my only suit,

Provided that you weed your better judgments

Of all opinion that grows rank in them

That I am wise. I must have liberty

Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:

And they that are most gallèd with my folly,

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

The “why” is plain as way to parish church:

He that a fool doth very wisely hit

Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,

The wise man’s folly is anatomiz’d

Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

DUKE SENIOR

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

JAQUES

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

DUKE SENIOR

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all the embossèd sores and headed evils

That thou with license of free foot hast caught

Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

JAQUES

Why, who cries out on pride

That can therein tax any private party?

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

Till that the weary very means do ebb?

What woman in the city do I name

When that I say, The city-woman bears

The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?

Who can come in and say that I mean her,

When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?

Or what is he of basest function

That says his bravery is not on my cost,—

Thinking that I mean him,—but therein suits

His folly to the metal of my speech?

There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wrong’d him: if it do him right,

Then he hath wrong’d himself; if he be free,

Why then, my taxing like a wild-goose flies,

Unclaim’d of any man.—But who comes here?

[Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.]

ORLANDO

Forbear, and eat no more.

JAQUES

Why, I have eat none yet.

ORLANDO

Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv’d.

JAQUES

Of what kind should this cock come of?

DUKE SENIOR

Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by thy distress:

Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

That in civility thou seem’st so empty?

ORLANDO

You touch’d my vein at first: the thorny point

Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show

Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred,

And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;

He dies that touches any of this fruit

Till I and my affairs are answered.

JAQUES

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

DUKE SENIOR

What would you have? your gentleness shall force

More than your force move us to gentleness.

ORLANDO

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

DUKE SENIOR

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

ORLANDO

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

I thought that all things had been savage here;

And therefore put I on the countenance

Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are

That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;

If ever you have look’d on better days,

If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church,

If ever sat at any good man’s feast,

If ever from your eyelids wip’d a tear,

And know what ‘tis to pity and be pitied,

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

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

DUKE SENIOR

True is it that we have seen better days,

And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church,

And sat at good men’s feasts, and wip’d our eyes

Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d:

And therefore sit you down in gentleness,

And take upon command what help we have,

That to your wanting may be minister’d.

ORLANDO

Then but forbear your food a little while,

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

And give it food. There is an old poor man

Who after me hath many a weary step

Limp’d in pure love: till he be first suffic’d,—

Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger,—

I will not touch a bit.

DUKE SENIOR

Go find him out.

And we will nothing waste till you return.

ORLANDO

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

[Exit.]

DUKE SENIOR

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

JAQUES

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

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

[Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM.]

DUKE SENIOR

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,

And let him feed.

ORLANDO

I thank you most for him.

ADAM

So had you need;

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

DUKE SENIOR

Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you

As yet, to question you about your fortunes.—

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

[AMIENS sings.]

SONG

I.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man’s ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

II.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember’d not.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

DUKE SENIOR

If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,—

As you have whisper’d faithfully you were,

And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

Most truly limn’d and living in your face,—

Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke

That lov’d your father. The residue of your fortune,

Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,

Thou art right welcome as thy master is;

Support him by the arm.—Give me your hand,

And let me all your fortunes understand.

[Exeunt]

ACT III

SCENE I. A Room in the Palace

[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords and Attendants.]

DUKE FREDERICK

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

But were I not the better part made mercy,

I should not seek an absent argument

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

Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is:

Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living

Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

To seek a living in our territory.

Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine

Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,

Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth

Of what we think against thee.

OLIVER

O that your highness knew my heart in this!

I never lov’d my brother in my life.

DUKE FREDERICK

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

And let my officers of such a nature

Make an extent upon his house and lands:

Do this expediently, and turn him going.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. The Forest of Arden

[Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.]

ORLANDO

Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;

And thou, thrice-crownèd queen of night, survey

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,

Thy huntress’ name, that my full life doth sway.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,

And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,

That every eye which in this forest looks

Shall see thy virtue witness’d every where.

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

[Exit.]

[Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.]

CORIN

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

TOUCHSTONE

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

CORIN

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

TOUCHSTONE

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

CORIN

No, truly.

TOUCHSTONE

Then thou art damned.

CORIN

Nay, I hope,—

TOUCHSTONE

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

CORIN

For not being at court? Your reason.

TOUCHSTONE

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

CORIN

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

TOUCHSTONE

Instance, briefly; come, instance.

CORIN

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

TOUCHSTONE

Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: a better instance, I say; come.

CORIN

Besides, our hands are hard.

TOUCHSTONE

Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again: a more sounder instance; come.

CORIN

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

TOUCHSTONE

Most shallow man! thou worm’s-meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed!—Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar,—the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

CORIN

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

TOUCHSTONE

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

CORIN

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

TOUCHSTONE

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

CORIN

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

[Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper.]

ROSALIND

“From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind,

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lin’d

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind

But the fair of Rosalind.”

TOUCHSTONE

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

ROSALIND

Out, fool!

TOUCHSTONE

For a taste:—

If a hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat will after kind,

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lin’d,

So must slender Rosalind.

They that reap must sheaf and bind,—

Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalind.

He that sweetest rose will find

Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind.

This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you infect yourself with them?

ROSALIND

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

TOUCHSTONE

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

ROSALIND

I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit in the country: for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

TOUCHSTONE

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

[Enter CELIA, reading a paper.]

ROSALIND

Peace!

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

CELIA

“Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No;

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree

That shall civil sayings show:

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the streching of a span

Buckles in his sum of age.

Some, of violated vows

‘Twixt the souls of friend and friend;

But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence end,

Will I Rosalinda write,

Teaching all that read to know

The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show.

Therefore heaven nature charg’d

That one body should be fill’d

With all graces wide-enlarg’d:

Nature presently distill’d

Helen’s cheek, but not her heart;

Cleopatra’s majesty;

Atalanta’s better part;

Sad Lucretia’s modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis’d,

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest priz’d.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.”

ROSALIND

O most gentle Jupiter!—What tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried “Have patience, good people!”

CELIA

How now! back, friends; shepherd, go off a little:—go with him, sirrah.

TOUCHSTONE

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

[Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.]

CELIA

Didst thou hear these verses?

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Trow you who hath done this?

ROSALIND

Is it a man?

CELIA

And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?

ROSALIND

I pray thee, who?

CELIA

O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.

ROSALIND

Nay, but who is it?

CELIA

Is it possible?

ROSALIND

Nay, I pr’ythee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

CELIA

O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!

ROSALIND

Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery. I pr’ythee tell me who is it? quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth’d bottle; either too much at once or none at all. I pr’ythee take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

CELIA

So you may put a man in your belly.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Nay, he hath but a little beard.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak sad brow and true maid.

CELIA

I’ faith, coz, ‘tis he.

ROSALIND

Orlando?

CELIA

Orlando.

ROSALIND

Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?— What did he when thou saw’st him? What said he? How look’d he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover:—but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropp’d acorn.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Give me audience, good madam.

ROSALIND

Proceed.

CELIA

There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Cry, “holla!” to thy tongue, I pr’ythee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.

ROSALIND

O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

CELIA

I would sing my song without a burden: thou bring’st me out of tune.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

You bring me out.—Soft! comes he not here?

ROSALIND

‘Tis he: slink by, and note him.

[CELIA and ROSALIND retire.]

[Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.]

JAQUES

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

ORLANDO

And so had I; but yet, for fashion’s sake, I thank you too for your society.

JAQUES

God buy you: let’s meet as little as we can.

ORLANDO

I do desire we may be better strangers.

JAQUES

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

ORLANDO

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

JAQUES

Rosalind is your love’s name?

ORLANDO

Yes, just.

JAQUES

I do not like her name.

ORLANDO

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

JAQUES

What stature is she of?

ORLANDO

Just as high as my heart.

JAQUES

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

ORLANDO

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

JAQUES

You have a nimble wit: I think ‘twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery.

ORLANDO

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

JAQUES

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

ORLANDO

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

JAQUES

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

ORLANDO

He is drowned in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him.

JAQUES.

There I shall see mine own figure.

ORLANDO

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

JAQUES

I’ll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good Signior Love.

ORLANDO

I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

[Exit JAQUES.—CELIA and ROSALIND come forward.]

ROSALIND

I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him.—

Do you hear, forester?

ORLANDO

Very well: what would you?

ROSALIND

I pray you, what is’t o’clock?

ORLANDO

You should ask me what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

And why not the swift foot of time? had not that been as proper?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

I pr’ythee, who doth he trot withal?

ROSALIND

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized; if the interim be but a se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year.

ORLANDO

Who ambles time withal?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Who doth he gallop withal?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Who stays it still withal?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Are you native of this place?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

I pr’ythee recount some of them.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

ORLANDO

What were his marks?

ROSALIND

A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye and sunken; which you have not: an unquestionable spirit; which you have not: a beard neglected; which you have not: but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue:— then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Did you ever cure any so?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

I would not be cured, youth.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

With all my heart, good youth.

ROSALIND

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

[Exeunt.]