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 school-boy, 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! &c.

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-crowned 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.]



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 new-fangled 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 aspect?
   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 sheep-cote 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?