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SCENE III. Another part of the Forest

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES at a distance observing them.]

TOUCHSTONE

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

AUDREY

Your features! Lord warrant us! what features?

TOUCHSTONE

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

JAQUES

[Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than Jove in a thatch’d house!

TOUCHSTONE

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

AUDREY

I do not know what “poetical” is: is it honest in deed and word? is it a true thing?

TOUCHSTONE

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

AUDREY

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

TOUCHSTONE

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

AUDREY

Would you not have me honest?

TOUCHSTONE

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

JAQUES

[Aside] A material fool!

AUDREY

Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest!

TOUCHSTONE

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

AUDREY

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

TOUCHSTONE

Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee: and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village; who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.

JAQUES

[Aside] I would fain see this meeting.

AUDREY

Well, the gods give us joy!

TOUCHSTONE

Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said,—“Many a man knows no end of his goods;” right! many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; ‘tis none of his own getting. Horns? Ever to poor men alone?—No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor: and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver.

[Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT.]

Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you despatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

MARTEXT

Is there none here to give the woman?

TOUCHSTONE

I will not take her on gift of any man.

MARTEXT

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

JAQUES

[Discovering himself.] Proceed, proceed; I’ll give her.

TOUCHSTONE

Good even, good Master “What-ye-call’t”: how do you, sir? You are very well met: God ‘ild you for your last company: I am very glad to see you:—even a toy in hand here, sir:—nay; pray be covered.

JAQUES

Will you be married, motley?

TOUCHSTONE

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

JAQUES

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

TOUCHSTONE

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

JAQUES

Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

TOUCHSTONE

Come, sweet Audrey; We must be married or we must live in bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver!—Not—

“O sweet Oliver,

O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee.”

But,—

“Wind away,—

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee.”

[Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY.]

MARTEXT

‘Tis no matter; ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.

[Exit.]

SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage

[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

ROSALIND

Never talk to me; I will weep.

CELIA

Do, I pr’ythee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.

ROSALIND

But have I not cause to weep?

CELIA

As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

ROSALIND

His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

CELIA

Something browner than Judas’s: marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.

ROSALIND

I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.

CELIA

An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

ROSALIND

Do you think so?

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

Not true in love?

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

You have heard him swear downright he was.

CELIA

“Was” is not “is”: besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke, your father.

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

O, that’s a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose: but all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. —Who comes here?

[Enter CORIN.]

CORIN

Mistress and master, you have oft enquired

After the shepherd that complain’d of love,

Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

That was his mistress.

CELIA

Well, and what of him?

CORIN

If you will see a pageant truly play’d

Between the pale complexion of true love

And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,

If you will mark it.

ROSALIND

O, come, let us remove:

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V. Another part of the Forest

[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]

SILVIUS

Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:

Say that you love me not; but say not so

In bitterness. The common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes hard,

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck

But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be

Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

[Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance.]

PHEBE

I would not be thy executioner:

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye:

‘Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

That eyes,—that are the frail’st and softest things,

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,—

Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers!

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

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

Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;

Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes

That can do hurt.

SILVIUS

O dear Phebe,

If ever,—as that ever may be near,—

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love’s keen arrows make.

PHEBE

But till that time

Come not thou near me; and when that time comes

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As till that time I shall not pity thee.

ROSALIND

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

That you insult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,—

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

Than without candle may go dark to bed,—

Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?

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

I see no more in you than in the ordinary

Of nature’s sale-work:—Od’s my little life,

I think she means to tangle my eyes too!—

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;

‘Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

That can entame my spirits to your worship.—

You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?

You are a thousand times a properer man

Than she a woman. ‘Tis such fools as you

That makes the world full of ill-favour’d children:

‘Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

And out of you she sees herself more proper

Than any of her lineaments can show her;—

But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,

And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love:

For I must tell you friendly in your ear,—

Sell when you can; you are not for all markets:

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

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

So take her to thee, shepherd;—fare you well.

PHEBE

Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together:

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

ROSALIND

He’s fall’n in love with your foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words.—Why look you so upon me?

PHEBE

For no ill-will I bear you.

ROSALIND

I pray you do not fall in love with me,

For I am falser than vows made in wine:

Besides, I like you not.—If you will know my house,

‘Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.—

Will you go, sister?—Shepherd, ply her hard.—

Come, sister.—Shepherdess, look on him better,

And be not proud; though all the world could see,

None could be so abused in sight as he.

Come to our flock.

[Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN.]

PHEBE

Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;

“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”

SILVIUS

Sweet Phebe,—

PHEBE

Ha! what say’st thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS

Sweet Phebe, pity me.

PHEBE

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

SILVIUS

Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:

If you do sorrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your sorrow and my grief

Were both extermin’d.

PHEBE

Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

SILVIUS

I would have you.

PHEBE

Why, that were covetousness.

Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;

And yet it is not that I bear thee love:

But since that thou canst talk of love so well,

Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,

I will endure; and I’ll employ thee too:

But do not look for further recompense

Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.

SILVIUS

So holy and so perfect is my love,

And I in such a poverty of grace,

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: lose now and then

A scatter’d smile, and that I’ll live upon.

PHEBE

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

SILVIUS

Not very well; but I have met him oft;

And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

That the old carlot once was master of.

PHEBE

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

‘Tis but a peevish boy:—yet he talks well;—

But what care I for words? yet words do well

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

It is a pretty youth:—not very pretty:—

But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him:

He’ll make a proper man: the best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.

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

His leg is but so-so; and yet ‘tis well:

There was a pretty redness in his lip;

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix’d in his cheek; ‘twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him: but, for my part,

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

I have more cause to hate him than to love him:

For what had he to do to chide at me?

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

And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me:

I marvel why I answer’d not again:

But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance.

I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS

Phebe, with all my heart.

PHEBE

I’ll write it straight,

The matter’s in my head and in my heart:

I will be bitter with him and passing short:

Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

[Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.]

JAQUES

I pr’ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

ROSALIND

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

JAQUES

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

ROSALIND

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

JAQUES

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

ROSALIND

Why then, ‘tis good to be a post.

JAQUES

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

ROSALIND

A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

JAQUES

Yes, I have gained my experience.

ROSALIND

And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it too.

[Enter ORLANDO.]

ORLANDO

Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

JAQUES

Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.

ROSALIND

Farewell, monsieur traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.

[Exit JAQUES.]

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Of a snail!

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

What’s that?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

And I am your Rosalind.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent.—What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?

ORLANDO

I would kiss before I spoke.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

How if the kiss be denied?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

What, of my suit?

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Then, in mine own person, I die.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Then love me, Rosalind.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

And wilt thou have me?

ROSALIND

Ay, and twenty such.

ORLANDO

What sayest thou?

ROSALIND

Are you not good?

ORLANDO

I hope so.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Pray thee, marry us.

CELIA

I cannot say the words.

ROSALIND

You must begin,—“Will you, Orlando”—

CELIA

Go to:—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

ORLANDO

I will.

ROSALIND

Ay, but when?

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

Then you must say,—“I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”

ORLANDO

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

ROSALIND

I might ask you for your commission; but,—I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband:—there’s a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman’s thought runs before her actions.

ORLANDO

So do all thoughts; they are winged.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

For ever and a day.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

But will my Rosalind do so?

ROSALIND

By my life, she will do as I do.

ORLANDO

O, but she is wise.

ROSALIND

Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and it will out at the keyhole; stop that, ‘twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

ORLANDO

A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,—“Wit, whither wilt?”

ROSALIND

Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.

ORLANDO

And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

ROSALIND

Marry, to say,—she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

I must attend the duke at dinner; by two o’clock I will be with thee again.

ROSALIND

Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less:—that flattering tongue of yours won me:—‘tis but one cast away, and so,—come death!—Two o’clock is your hour?

ORLANDO

Ay, sweet Rosalind.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so, adieu!

ROSALIND

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try: adieu!

[Exit ORLANDO.]

CELIA

You have simply misus’d our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

ROSALIND

O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.

CELIA

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

ROSALIND

No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every one’s eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love.—I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I’ll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come.

CELIA

And I’ll sleep.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. Another part of the Forest

[Enter JAQUES and Lords, in the habit of Foresters.]

JAQUES

Which is he that killed the deer?

LORD

Sir, it was I.

JAQUES

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

LORD

Yes, sir.

JAQUES

Sing it; ‘tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.

SONG

1. What shall he have that kill’d the deer?

2. His leather skin and horns to wear.

1. Then sing him home:

[The rest shall bear this burden.]

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;

It was a crest ere thou wast born.

1. Thy father’s father wore it;

2. And thy father bore it;

All. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,

Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Another part of the Forest

[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

ROSALIND

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

CELIA

I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth—to sleep. Look, who comes here.

[Enter SILVIUS.]

SILVIUS

My errand is to you, fair youth;—

My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this:

[Giving a letter.]

I know not the contents; but, as I guess

By the stern brow and waspish action

Which she did use as she was writing of it,

It bears an angry tenor: pardon me,

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

ROSALIND

Patience herself would startle at this letter,

And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:

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

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

Were man as rare as Phoenix. Od’s my will!

Her love is not the hare that I do hunt;

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

This is a letter of your own device.

SILVIUS

No, I protest, I know not the contents:

Phebe did write it.

ROSALIND

Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn’d into the extremity of love.

I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,

A freestone-colour’d hand: I verily did think

That her old gloves were on, but ‘twas her hands;

She has a huswife’s hand: but that’s no matter:

I say she never did invent this letter:

This is a man’s invention, and his hand.

SILVIUS

Sure, it is hers.

ROSALIND

Why, ‘tis a boisterous and a cruel style;

A style for challengers: why, she defies me,

Like Turk to Christian: women’s gentle brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,

Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect

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

SILVIUS

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty.

ROSALIND

She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.

[Reads]

“Art thou god to shepherd turn’d,

That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d?”

Can a woman rail thus?

SILVIUS

Call you this railing?

ROSALIND

“Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart?”

Did you ever hear such railing?

“Whiles the eye of man did woo me,

That could do no vengeance to me.”—

Meaning me a beast.—

“If the scorn of your bright eyne

Have power to raise such love in mine,

Alack, in me what strange effect

Would they work in mild aspéct?

Whiles you chid me, I did love;

How then might your prayers move?

He that brings this love to thee

Little knows this love in me:

And by him seal up thy mind;

Whether that thy youth and kind

Will the faithful offer take

Of me and all that I can make;

Or else by him my love deny,

And then I’ll study how to die.”

SILVIUS

Call you this chiding?

CELIA

Alas, poor shepherd!

ROSALIND

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

[Exit SILVIUS.]

[Enter OLIVER.]

OLIVER

Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

A sheepcote fenc’d about with olive trees?

CELIA

West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom:

The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,

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

But at this hour the house doth keep itself;

There’s none within.

OLIVER

If that an eye may profit by a tongue,

Then should I know you by description;

Such garments, and such years: “The boy is fair,

Of female favour, and bestows himself

Like a ripe sister: the woman low,

And browner than her brother.” Are not you

The owner of the house I did inquire for?

CELIA

It is no boast, being ask’d, to say we are.

OLIVER

Orlando doth commend him to you both;

And to that youth he calls his Rosalind

He sends this bloody napkin:—are you he?

ROSALIND

I am: what must we understand by this?

OLIVER

Some of my shame; if you will know of me

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

This handkerchief was stain’d.

CELIA

I pray you, tell it.

OLIVER

When last the young Orlando parted from you,

He left a promise to return again

Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,

Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside,

And, mark, what object did present itself!

Under an oak, whose boughs were moss’d with age,

And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair,

Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck

A green and gilded snake had wreath’d itself,

Who, with her head nimble in threats, approach’d

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,

Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself,

And with indented glides did slip away

Into a bush: under which bush’s shade

A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,

Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch,

When that the sleeping man should stir; for ‘tis

The royal disposition of that beast

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:

This seen, Orlando did approach the man,

And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

CELIA

O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;

And he did render him the most unnatural

That liv’d amongst men.

OLIVER

And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.

ROSALIND

But, to Orlando:—did he leave him there,

Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness?

OLIVER

Twice did he turn his back, and purpos’d so;

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,

And nature, stronger than his just occasion,

Made him give battle to the lioness,

Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling

From miserable slumber I awak’d.

CELIA

Are you his brother?

ROSALIND

Was it you he rescued?

CELIA

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

OLIVER

‘Twas I; but ‘tis not I: I do not shame

To tell you what I was, since my conversion

So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

ROSALIND

But, for the bloody napkin?—

OLIVER

By and by.

When from the first to last, betwixt us two,

Tears our recountments had most kindly bath’d,

As, how I came into that desert place;—

In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,

Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,

Committing me unto my brother’s love,

Who led me instantly unto his cave,

There stripp’d himself, and here upon his arm

The lioness had torn some flesh away,

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

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.

Brief, I recover’d him, bound up his wound,

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

He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

To tell this story, that you might excuse

His broken promise, and to give this napkin,

Dy’d in his blood, unto the shepherd-youth

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

[ROSALIND faints.]

CELIA

Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

OLIVER

Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

CELIA

There is more in it:—Cousin—Ganymede!

OLIVER

Look, he recovers.

ROSALIND

I would I were at home.

CELIA

We’ll lead you thither:—

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

OLIVER

Be of good cheer, youth:—you a man?—You lack a man’s heart.

ROSALIND

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

OLIVER

This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.

ROSALIND

Counterfeit, I assure you.

OLIVER

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

ROSALIND

So I do: but, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right.

CELIA

Come, you look paler and paler: pray you draw homewards.— Good sir, go with us.

OLIVER

That will I, for I must bear answer back

How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

ROSALIND

I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him.—Will you go?

[Exeunt.]

ACT V

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE

We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

AUDREY

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

TOUCHSTONE

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

AUDREY

Ay, I know who ‘tis: he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean.

[Enter WILLIAM.]

TOUCHSTONE

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

WILLIAM

Good even, Audrey.

AUDREY

God ye good even, William.

WILLIAM

And good even to you, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, pr’ythee, be covered. How old are you, friend?

WILLIAM

Five and twenty, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

A ripe age. Is thy name William?

WILLIAM

William, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

A fair name. Wast born i’ the forest here?

WILLIAM

Ay, sir, I thank God.

TOUCHSTONE

“Thank God;”—a good answer. Art rich?

WILLIAM

Faith, sir, so-so.

TOUCHSTONE

“So-so” is good, very good, very excellent good:—and yet it is not; it is but so-so. Art thou wise?

WILLIAM

Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

TOUCHSTONE

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

WILLIAM

I do, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

Give me your hand. Art thou learnèd?

WILLIAM

No, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

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

WILLIAM

Which he, sir?

TOUCHSTONE

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

AUDREY

Do, good William.

WILLIAM

God rest you merry, sir.

[Exit.]

[Enter CORIN.]

CORIN

Our master and mistress seek you; come away, away!

TOUCHSTONE

Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey;—I attend, I attend.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. Another part of the Forest

[Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER.]

ORLANDO

Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? that but seeing you should love her? and loving woo? and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoy her?

OLIVER

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

ORLANDO

You have my consent. Let your wedding be tomorrow: thither will I invite the duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

[Enter ROSALIND.]

ROSALIND

God save you, brother.

OLIVER

And you, fair sister.

[Exit.]

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

It is my arm.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he show’d me your handkercher?

ORLANDO

Ay, and greater wonders than that.

ROSALIND

O, I know where you are:—nay, ‘tis true: there was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar’s thrasonical brag of “I came, saw, and overcame:” for your brother and my sister no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked, but they loved; no sooner loved, but they sighed; no sooner sighed, but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason, but they sought the remedy: and in these degrees have they made pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage: they are in the very wrath of love, and they will together: clubs cannot part them.

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

I can live no longer by thinking.

ROSALIND

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

ORLANDO

Speak’st thou in sober meanings?

ROSALIND

By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your friends; for if you will be married tomorrow, you shall; and to Rosalind, if you will. Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.

[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]

PHEBE

Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,

To show the letter that I writ to you.

ROSALIND

I care not if I have: it is my study

To seem despiteful and ungentle to you:

You are there follow’d by a faithful shepherd;

Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

PHEBE

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

SILVIUS

It is to be all made of sighs and tears;—

And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE

And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO

And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND

And I for no woman.

SILVIUS

It is to be all made of faith and service;—

And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE

And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO

And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND

And I for no woman.

SILVIUS

It is to be all made of fantasy,

All made of passion, and all made of wishes;

All adoration, duty, and observance,

All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,

All purity, all trial, all observance;—

And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE

And so am I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO

And so am I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND

And so am I for no woman.

PHEBE

[To ROSALIND.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

SILVIUS

[To PHEBE.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

Why do you speak too,—“Why blame you me to love you?”

ORLANDO

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

ROSALIND

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

[to SILVIUS] I will help you if I can;—

[to PHEBE] I would love you if I could.—

Tomorrow meet me all together.—

[to PHEBE] I will marry you if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married tomorrow:—

[to ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married tomorrow:—

[to SILVIUS] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married tomorrow.

[to ORLANDO] As you love Rosalind, meet.

[to SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;—

and as I love no woman, I’ll meet.—So, fare you well; I have left you commands.

SILVIUS

I’ll not fail, if I live.

PHEBE

Nor I.

ORLANDO

Nor I.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Another part of the Forest

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE

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

AUDREY

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

[Enter two Pages.]

FIRST PAGE

Well met, honest gentleman.

TOUCHSTONE

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

SECOND PAGE

We are for you: sit i’ the middle.

FIRST PAGE

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

SECOND PAGE

I’faith, i’faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse.

SONG

I.

It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

That o’er the green corn-field did pass

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

II.

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

These pretty country folks would lie,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

III.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

How that a life was but a flower,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

IV.

And therefore take the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

For love is crownèd with the prime,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

TOUCHSTONE

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

FIRST PAGE

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

TOUCHSTONE

By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be with you; and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest

[Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA.]

DUKE SENIOR

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

Can do all this that he hath promised?

ORLANDO

I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not:

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

[Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE.]

ROSALIND

Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg’d:—

[To the Duke.]

You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,

You will bestow her on Orlando here?

DUKE SENIOR

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

ROSALIND

[To Orlando.] And you say you will have her when I bring her?

ORLANDO

That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

ROSALIND

[To Phebe.] You say you’ll marry me, if I be willing?

PHEBE

That will I, should I die the hour after.

ROSALIND

But if you do refuse to marry me,

You’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

PHEBE

So is the bargain.

ROSALIND

[To Silvius.] You say that you’ll have Phebe, if she will?

SILVIUS

Though to have her and death were both one thing.

ROSALIND

I have promis’d to make all this matter even.

Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;—

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter;—

Keep your word, Phebe, that you’ll marry me;

Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd:—

Keep your word, Silvius, that you’ll marry her

If she refuse me:—and from hence I go,

To make these doubts all even.

[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.]

DUKE SENIOR

I do remember in this shepherd-boy

Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.

ORLANDO

My lord, the first time that I ever saw him

Methought he was a brother to your daughter:

But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,

And hath been tutor’d in the rudiments

Of many desperate studies by his uncle,

Whom he reports to be a great magician,

Obscurèd in the circle of this forest.

JAQUES

There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts which in all tongues are called fools.

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE

Salutation and greeting to you all!

JAQUES

Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears.

TOUCHSTONE

If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.

JAQUES

And how was that ta’en up?

TOUCHSTONE

Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.

JAQUES

How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow?

DUKE SENIOR

I like him very well.

TOUCHSTONE

God ‘ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear; according as marriage binds and blood breaks:—A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will; rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor-house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

DUKE SENIOR

By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

TOUCHSTONE

According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.

JAQUES

But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?

TOUCHSTONE

Upon a lie seven times removed;—bear your body more seeming, Audrey:—as thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard; he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was: this is called the Retort courteous. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself: this is called the Quip modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: this is called the Reply churlish. If again, it was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true: this is called the Reproof valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he would say I lie: this is called the Countercheck quarrelsome: and so, to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct.

JAQUES

And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?

TOUCHSTONE

I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie direct; and so we measured swords and parted.

JAQUES

Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?

TOUCHSTONE

O, sir, we quarrel in print by the book, as you have books for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort courteous; the second, the Quip modest; the third, the Reply churlish; the fourth, the Reproof valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with circumstance; the seventh, the Lie direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too with an “If”. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an “If”, as: “If you said so, then I said so;” and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your “If” is the only peacemaker;—much virtue in “If.”

JAQUES

Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he’s as good at anything, and yet a fool.

DUKE SENIOR

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

[Enter HYMEN, leading ROSALIND in woman’s clothes; and CELIA.]

[Still MUSIC.]

HYMEN

Then is there mirth in heaven,

When earthly things made even

Atone together.

Good duke, receive thy daughter;

Hymen from heaven brought her,

Yea, brought her hither,

That thou mightst join her hand with his,

Whose heart within his bosom is.

ROSALIND

[To DUKE SENIOR.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

[To ORLANDO.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

DUKE SENIOR

If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

ORLANDO

If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

PHEBE

If sight and shape be true,

Why then, my love, adieu!

ROSALIND

[To DUKE SENIOR.] I’ll have no father, if you be not he;—

[To ORLANDO.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not he;—

[To PHEBE.] Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.

HYMEN

Peace, ho! I bar confusion:

‘Tis I must make conclusion

Of these most strange events:

Here’s eight that must take hands

To join in Hymen’s bands,

If truth holds true contents.

[To ORLANDO and ROSALIND.] You and you no cross shall part:

[To OLIVER and CELIA.] You and you are heart in heart;

[To PHEBE.] You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord:—

[To TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.] You and you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,

Feed yourselves with questioning,

That reason wonder may diminish,

How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG

Wedding is great Juno’s crown;

O blessed bond of board and bed!

‘Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High wedlock then be honourèd;

Honour, high honour, and renown,

To Hymen, god of every town!

DUKE SENIOR

O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me!

Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

PHEBE

[To SILVIUS.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

[Enter JAQUES DE BOIS.]

JAQUES DE BOIS

Let me have audience for a word or two;

I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,

That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:—

Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day

Men of great worth resorted to this forest,

Address’d a mighty power; which were on foot,

In his own conduct, purposely to take

His brother here, and put him to the sword:

And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;

Where, meeting with an old religious man,

After some question with him, was converted

Both from his enterprise and from the world;

His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother,

And all their lands restored to them again

That were with him exil’d. This to be true

I do engage my life.

DUKE SENIOR

Welcome, young man:

Thou offer’st fairly to thy brother’s wedding:

To one, his lands withheld; and to the other,

A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.

First, in this forest, let us do those ends

That here were well begun and well begot:

And after, every of this happy number,

That have endur’d shrewd days and nights with us,

Shall share the good of our returnèd fortune,

According to the measure of their states.

Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,

And fall into our rustic revelry:—

Play, music!—and you brides and bridegrooms all,

With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall.

JAQUES

Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,

The duke hath put on a religious life,

And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

JAQUES DE BOIS

He hath.

JAQUES

To him will I: out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learn’d.—

[To DUKE SENIOR] You to your former honour I bequeath;

Your patience and your virtue well deserves it:—

[To ORLANDO] You to a love that your true faith doth merit:—

[To OLIVER] You to your land, and love, and great allies:—

[To SILVIUS] You to a long and well-deservèd bed:—

[To TOUCHSTONE] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage

Is but for two months victuall’d.—So to your pleasures;

I am for other than for dancing measures.

DUKE SENIOR

Stay, Jaques, stay.

JAQUES

To see no pastime I; what you would have

I’ll stay to know at your abandon’d cave.

[Exit.]

DUKE SENIOR

Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,

As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.

[A dance.]

EPILOGUE

ROSALIND

It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ‘tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in, then, that am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me: my way is to conjure you; and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women;—as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them,—that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.

[Exeunt.]

THE END