Original subtitles

Laudamus te.

Benedicimus te.

Adoramus te.

Gloria Dei Patris.

As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion

bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns,

and as thou sayest, charged my brother

on his blessing to breed me well;

and there begins my sadness.

My brother Jaques he keeps at school,

and report speaks goldenly of his profit;

for my part, he keeps me rustically at home,

or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept

for call you that "keeping"

for a gentleman of my birth,

that differs not from the stalling of an ox?

I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth,

for the which his animals on his dunghills

are as much bound to him as I.

Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me,

the something that nature gave me,

his countenance seems to take from me:

he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother,

and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education.

This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father,

which I think is within me,

begins to mutiny against this servitude:

I will no longer endure it,

though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

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

Now, sir, what make you here?

Nothing: I am not taught to make anything.

What mar you, then, sir?

Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made,

a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.

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

Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with them?

Know you where you are, sir?

- O sir, very well. - Know you before whom, sir?

Ay, better than him I am before knows me:

I know you are my eldest brother,

in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know me.

I have as much of my father in me as you.

Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

I am...

I am no villain.

I am the youngest son of Sir Roland de Boys;

he was my father,

and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains.

Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat,

till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so.

Sweet masters, be patient, for your father's remembrance.

My father charged you in his will to give me good education;

you have trained me like a peasant,

obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities.

The spirit of my father grows strong in me and I will no longer endure it;

therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman,

or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament;

with that I will go buy my fortunes.

And what wilt thou do, beg when that is spent?

I will not long be troubled with you:

you shall have some part of your will.

Well, sir,

get you in.

Get you with him, you old dog.

Is "old dog" my reward?

Most true I have lost my teeth in your service.

God be with my old master.

He would not have spoke such a word.

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

Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of

and would you yet I were merrier?

Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father,

you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.

Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee.

If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle,

the duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me,

I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine;

so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me

were so righteously tempered, as mine is for thee.

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

You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have;

and truly when he dies thou shalt be his heir:

for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce,

I will render thee again with affection; by mine honour I will;

and when I break that oath, let me turn monster.

Therefore, my sweet Ros, my dear Ros, be merry.

From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports.

Let me see; what think you of falling in love?

Marry, I prithee do, to make sport withal;

but love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither

than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.

What shall be our sport, then?

Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel,

that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.

I would we could do so, for her benefits are mightily misplaced,

and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

'Tis true; for those that she makes fair, she scarce makes honest,

and those that she makes honest, she makes very ill-favouredly.

Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's:

Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature.

No; when Nature hath made a fair creature,

may she not by Fortune fall into the fire?

Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune,

hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?

How now, wit! Whither wander you?

Mistress, you must come away to your father.

Were you made the messenger?

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

Where learned you that oath, fool?

Of a certain knight, who swore by his honour they were good pancakes

and swore by his honour that the mustard was naught:

now I'll stand to it that the pancakes were naught,

and the mustard was good, and yet was not this knight forsworn.

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

Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.

Stand you both forth now:

stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave.

By our beards...

- If we had them. - Thou art.

By my knavery, if I had it, then I wert;

but if thou swearst by that which is not, you are not forsworn:

no more was this knight swearing by his honour,

for he never had any; or if he did,

he had sworn it away a long time before ever he saw those pancakes,

or that mustard.

I prithee, who is't that thou meanest?

One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

My father's love is enough to honour him enough. Speak no more of him;

you'll be whipped for taxation one of these days.

The more the pity that fools may not speak wisely

what wise men do foolishly.

By my troth, thou sayest true:

for since the little wit that fools have was silenced,

the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show.

Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news?

Fair Princess, you have lost much good sport.

- Sport? Of what colour? - I will tell you the beginning,

and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end,

for the best is yet to do.

Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.

There comes an old man and his three sons.

I could match this beginning with an old tale.

Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.

The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the duke's wrestler.

Charles, in a moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs,

that there is little hope of life in him.

So he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie.

The poor old man, their father, makes such pitiful dole over them

that all the beholders take his part with weeping.

Alas.

But what is the sport, Monsieur?

Why, this that I speak of.

Thus men may grow wiser every day:

it is the first time that ever I heard

that breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.

Or I, I promise thee.

But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides?

Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking?

Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?

They are ready to perform it.

Let us now go and see it.

Good morrow to your worship.

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

The old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke;

and three or four loving lords

have put themselves into voluntary exile with him,

whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke;

therefore he gives them good leave to wander.

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

O, no; for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,

being ever from their cradles bred together,

that she would have followed her exile,

or have died to stay behind her.

She is at the court,

and no less beloved of the duke than his own daughter.

Where will the old duke live?

They say he is already in the forest of Arden,

and a many merry men with him:

they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day,

and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

Wrestle you now before the new duke?

Marry do I, sir, and am given, sir, secretly to believe

that your younger brother Orlando hath a disposition

to come in disguised against me to try a fall.

I wrestle for my credit, sir,

and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well.

Your brother is but young and tender;

and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him,

as I must for mine own honour, if he come in.

Therefore, either you must stay him from his intendment,

or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into,

in that it is a thing of his own search,

and altogether against my will.

I'll tell thee, Charles: it is the stubbornest young fellow of France.

Full of ambition, a secret and villainous contriver:

for if thou dost him any slight disgrace,

he will practise against thee by poison,

entrap thee by some treacherous device,

and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life

by some indirect means or other. Therefore use thy discretion.

I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger.

There is not one so young and so villainous this day living.

I am heartily glad I came hither to you. I'll give him his payment.

- God keep your worship! - Farewell, good Charles.

I hope I shall see an end of him;

for my soul, yet I know not why,

hates nothing more than he.

And yet he's gentle, never schooled, yet learned,

full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved,

and indeed so much in the heart of the world,

and especially of my own people, who best know him,

that I am altogether misprised.

But it shall not be so long: this wrestler shall clear all.

Come on.

Since the youth will not be entreated,

his own peril on his forwardness.

Is yonder the man?

Alas, he is too young. Yet he looks successfully.

How now, daughter and cousin.

Are you crept hither to see the wrestling?

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

You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,

there is such odds in the man.

In pity of the challenger's youth, I would fain dissuade him,

but he will not be entreated.

Speak to him, ladies, see if you can move him.

- Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. - Do so: I'll not be by.

Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you.

I attend them with all respect and duty.

Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?

No, fair princess. He is the general challenger:

I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.

Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years.

You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength;

if you saw yourself with your eyes or knew yourself with your judgment,

the fear of your adventure would counsel you

to a more equal enterprise.

We pray you, for your own sake,

to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt.

Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised:

we will make it our suit to the duke

that the wrestling might not go forward.

I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts,

wherein I confess me much guilty,

to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything.

But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial:

wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious;

if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so.

I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me;

the world no injury, for in it I have nothing:

only in the world I fill up a place,

which may be better supplied when I have made it empty.

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

And mine to eke out hers.

Fare you well: pray heaven I be deceived in you.

Come, where is this young gallant

that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth?

Ready, sir.

You shall try but one fall.

Now Hercules be thy speed, young man.

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

You mean to mock me after; you should not have mocked me before.

O excellent young man!

No more, no more.

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

Bear him away.

What is thy name, young man?

Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Roland de Boys.

I would thou hadst been son to some man else.

The world esteemed thy father honourable,

But I did find him still mine enemy.

Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed,

Hadst thou descended from another house.

But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth:

I would thou hadst told me of another father.

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

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

His youngest son; and would not change that calling

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

My father loved Sir Roland as his soul,

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

Had I before known this young man his son,

I should have given him tears unto entreaties,

- Ere he should thus have ventured. - Gentle cousin,

Let us go thank him and encourage him:

My father's rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart.

Sir, you have well deserved. If you do keep your promises in love

But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,

- Your mistress shall be happy. - Gentleman,

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

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

Shall we go, coz?

Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

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

Are all thrown down and that which here stands up

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.

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

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

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown

More than your enemies.

- Will you go, coz? - Have with you.

Fare you well.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.

O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown.

Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

Good sir,

I do in friendship counsel you To leave this place.

Albeit you have deserved

High commendation, true applause, and love,

Yet such is now the duke's condition,

That he misconstrues all that you have done.

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

Which of the two was daughter of the duke

That here was at the wrestling?

Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners,

But yet indeed the shorter is his daughter;

The other is daughter to the banished duke,

And here detained by her usurping uncle

To keep his daughter company, whose loves

Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.

But I can tell you that, of late, this duke

Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,

Grounded upon no other argument

But that the people praise her for her virtues

And pity her for her good father's sake;

And on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady

Will suddenly break forth.

Sir, fare you well:

Hereafter, in a better world than this,

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother.

But heavenly Rosalind!

Why cousin,

why Rosalind;

Cupid have mercy, not a word?

Not one to throw at a dog.

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs,

throw some of them at me; come lame me with reasons.

Then there were two cousins laid up,

when the one should be lamed with reasons,

and the other mad without any.

But is all this for your father?

No, some of it is for my child's father.

Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

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

O, a good wish upon you.

You will try in time, in despite of a fall.

But turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest:

is it possible on such a sudden,

you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Roland's youngest son?

The duke my father loved his father dearly.

Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly?

By this kind of chase, I should hate him,

for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

No, faith, hate him not for my sake.

Why shouldn't I not? Doth he not deserve well?

Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do.

Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste

And get you from our court.

Me, uncle?

You, cousin.

Within these ten days if that thou beest found

So near our public court as twenty miles,

Thou diest for it.

I do beseech your grace,

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.

If with myself I hold intelligence

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,

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

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

Never so much as in a thought unborn

Did I offend your highness.

Thus do all traitors.

If their purgation did consist in words,

They are as innocent as grace itself.

Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

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

So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I when your highness banished him:

Treason is not inherited, my lord;

Or if we did derive it from our friends,

What's that to me? my father was no traitor;

Then good my liege, mistake me not so much

To think my poverty is treacherous.

Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Ay, Celia, we stay'd her for your sake,

Else had she with her father ranged along.

I did not then entreat to have her stay;

It was your pleasure and your own remorse.

If she be a traitor, Why so am I:

we still have slept together,

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

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

Still we went coupled and inseparable.

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

Her very silence, and her patience

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

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

And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous

When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:

Firm, and irrevocable is my doom

Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banished.

Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege:

I cannot live out of her company.

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

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour

And in the greatness of my word, you die.

O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?

Wilt thou change fathers? I will give you mine.

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

- I have more cause. - Thou hast not, cousin.

Know'st thou not, the duke Hath banish'd me, his daughter?

That he hath not.

No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.

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

No, let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go and what to bear with us;

And do not seek to take this change upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;

For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

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

Why, whither shall we go?

To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Alas, what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

I'll put myself in poor and mean attire

And with a kind of umber smirch my face.

The like do you, so shall we pass along

- And never stir assailants. - Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,

That I did suit me all points like a man?

A boar-spear in my hand; and in my heart

Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will.

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

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

And therefore look you call me "Ganymede".

But what will you be called?

Something that hath a reference to my state:

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal

The clownish fool out of thy father's court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

He'd go along o'er the wide world with me,

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

And get our jewels and our wealth together,

Devise the fittest time and safest way

To hide us from pursuit that will be made

After my flight. Now go we in content

To liberty, and not to banishment!

Now my co-mates and brothers in exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods

More free from peril than the envious court?

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,

The seasons' difference, as the icy fang

And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,

Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say

"This is no flattery; these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am"?

Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones and good in everything.

I would not change it.

Happy is your grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Come, shall we go and kill us venison?

And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,

Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should in their own confines with forked heads

- Have their round haunches gored. - Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp

Than doth your brother that hath banished you.

Today I stole behind him as he lay

Along the brook that brawls within this wood;

To the which place a poor sequestered stag,

That from the hunter's aim had taken a hurt,

Did come to languish, and the big round tears

Cours'd one another down his innocent nose

In piteous chase.

But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle?

O yes, into a thousand similes.

"Poor deer" quoth he, "thus misery doth part

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

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,

And never stays to greet him: "Ay," quoth Jaques,

"Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?"

Thus most invectively he pierceth through

The body of the country, city, court,

Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we

Are mere usurpers, tyrants and what's worse,

To fright the animals and to kill them up

In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

And did you leave him in this contemplation?

I did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Show me the place.

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he's full of matter.

I'll lead you to him straight.

Can it be possible that no man saw them?

It cannot be: some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

I cannot hear of any that did see her.

Her attendants of her chamber

Saw her abed, and in the morning early

They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.

My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft

Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

Hisperia, the princess' gentlewoman,

Confesses that she secretly o'erheard

Your daughter and her cousin much commend

The parts and graces of the wrestler

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company.

Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither.

If he be absent, bring his brother to me;

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

And let not search and inquisition quail

To bring again these foolish runaways.

Who's there?

O my sweet master, O you memory

Of old Sir Roland, why, what make you here?

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

Know you not, master, to some kind of men

Their graces serve them but as enemies?

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

- Envenoms him that bears it! - Why, what's the matter?

O unhappy youth,

Come not within these doors; within this roof

The enemy of all your graces lives:

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

Yet not the son, I will not call him son

Of him I was about to call his father -

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means

To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

And you within it.

This house is but a butchery:

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Why whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

No matter whither, so you come not here.

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

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce

A thievish living on the common road?

I rather will subject me to the malice

Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

But do not so.

I have five hundred crowns,

The thrifty hire I saved under your father,

Which I did store to be my foster-nurse

When service should in my old limbs lie lame

And unregarded age in corners thrown.

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

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

Let me go with you;

I'll do the service of a younger man In all your business and necessities.

O good old man, how well in thee appears

The constant service of the antique world,

Where service sweat for duty, not for meed.

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

Where none will sweat, but for promotion.

But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield

In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.

But come thy ways, we'll go along together,

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent

We'll light upon some settled low content.

Master, go on, and I will follow thee,

To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.

From seventeen years till now

almost fourscore

Here lived I, but now live here no more.

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

But at fourscore it is too late a week.

O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits.

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

I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,

and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel,

as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat:

therefore courage, good Aliena.

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

For my part, I had rather bear with you, than bear you.

Well, this is the Forest of Arden.

Ay, now I am in Arden,

Look at this tree!

Oh, God.

The more fool I.

When I was at home, I was in a better place,

but travellers must be content.

- Yes? Yes. - Look you:

A young man and an old in solemn talk.

That is the way to make her scorn you still.

O Corin, that thou knewest how I do love her.

I partly guess; for I have loved ere now.

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

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow.

But if thy love were ever like to mine -

As sure I think did never man love so -

How many actions most ridiculous

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily;

If thou rememberest not the slightest folly

That ever love did make thee run into,

- Thou hast not loved. - No.

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,

Thou hast not loved.

Or if thou hast not broke from company

Abruptly as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not loved.

O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe, Phebe.

Alas, poor shepherd searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure found mine own.

And I mine.

I remember when I was in love,

I broke my sword upon a stone,

and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile;

and I remember the kissing of her batlet,

and the cow dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milked;

and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her,

from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again,

I said with weeping tears, "Wear these for my sake!"

We that are true lovers run into strange capers;

but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love, mortal in folly.

Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.

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

Jove, Jove, this shepherd's passion Is much upon my fashion.

And mine; but it grows something stale with me.

I pray you, one of you question yond man

If he for gold will give us any food; I faint almost to death.

Hello.

Stop it.

Holla,

you clown!

- Peace fool: he's not thy kinsman. - Who calls?

Your betters, sir.

Else are they very wretched.

Peace, I say.

Good even to you, friend.

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

I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and feed.

Here's a young maid with travel much oppressed

And faints for succor.

Fair sir, I pity her,

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

My fortunes were more able to relieve her;

But I am shepherd to another man

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.

My master is of churlish disposition,

And little recks to find the way to heaven

By doing deeds of hospitality.

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

Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,

By reason of his absence, there is nothing

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

And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

That little cares for buying any thing.

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,

Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,

And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

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

And willingly could waste my time in it.

Assuredly the thing is to be sold.

Go with me: if you like upon report

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

I will your very faithful feeder be,

And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Rough weather

More,

more, I prithee, more.

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

I thank it. More, I prithee, more.

I can suck melancholy from a song,

as a weasel sucks eggs.

More, I prithee, more.

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

I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you to sing.

Come, more,

another stanzo: call you 'em stanzos?

What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

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

More at your request, than to please myself.

Well, then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you;

and that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes.

Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongue.

Well, I'll end the song.

The duke hath been all this day to look for you.

And I have been all this day to avoid him.

He is too disputable for my company:

I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks,

I make no boast of them.

Come, warble, come.

Who doth ambition shun

And loves to live in the sun,

Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather, rough weather

I'll give you a verse to this note

that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

- And I'll sing it. - Thus it goes.

If it do come to pass

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,

Leaving his wealth and ease,

A stubborn will to please,

Ducdame, ducdame,

ducdame:

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to me.

Will come to me

What's that "ducdame"?

It's Greek.

It's a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle.

I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot,

I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

And I'll go seek the duke.

Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree.

Dear master, I can go no further.

I die for lack of food.

Here lie I down, and measure out my grave.

Farewell, kind master.

Why, how now, Adam! No greater heart in thee?

Live a little, comfort a little, cheer thyself a little.

If this uncouth forest yield any thing savage,

I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee.

Thy conceit is nearer death, than thy powers.

For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the arm's end.

I here will be with thee presently,

and if I bring thee not something to eat,

I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I come,

thou art a mocker of my labour.

I'll be with thee quickly.

Yet thou liest in the bleak air.

Come, I will bear thee to some shelter,

and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner,

if there live any thing in this desert.

I think he be transform'd into a beast;

For I can nowhere find him like a man.

My lord, he is but even now gone hence:

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

If he, compact of jars, grow musical,

We shortly shall have discord in the spheres.

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

He saves my labour by his own approach.

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

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What, you look merrily?

A fool, a fool: I met a fool in the forest,

As I do live by food, I met a fool

Who laid him down, and bask'd him in the sun.

"Good morrow, fool," quoth I. "No, sir," quoth he,

"Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune:"

And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says, very wisely, "It is ten o'clock:

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

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

And after one hour more, 'twill be eleven;

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

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

And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear

The motley fool, thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool.

What fool is this?

O worthy fool: one that hath been a courtier,

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

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

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed

With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

- Thou shalt have one. - It is my only suit -

Provided you weed your better judgments

Of all opinion that grows rank in them

That I am wise. I must have liberty

Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

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

Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

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

Why, what, for a counter, would I do, but good?

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself,

And all the embossed sores and headed evils

That thou with licence of free foot hast caught

Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

Why, who cries out on pride

That can therein tax any private party?

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

Till that the weary very means do ebb?

What woman in the city do I name,

When that I say the city-woman bears

The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?

Who comes in and says that I mean her,

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

Forbear, and eat no more.

Why I have eat none yet.

Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.

Of what kind should this cock come of?

Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress,

Or else a rude despiser of good manners

That in civility thou seemest so empty?

You touched my vein at first: the thorny point

Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show

Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred

And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:

He dies that touches any of this fruit

Till I, and my affairs are answered.

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

What would you have? Your gentleness shall force

More than your force move us to gentleness.

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

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

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

I thought that all things had been savage here;

And therefore put I on the countenance

Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are

That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time:

If ever you have looked on better days;

If ever been where bells have knolled to church;

If ever sat at any good man's feast,

If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear

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

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

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

True is it that we have seen better days,

And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church

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

Of drops, that sacred pity hath engender'd:

And therefore sit you down in gentleness

And take upon command, what help we have

That to your wanting may be minister'd.

Then but forbear your food a little while

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

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

Who after me, hath many a weary step

Limp'd in pure love; till he be first sufficed,

Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,

I will not touch a bit.

Go, seek him out,

And we will nothing waste till you return.

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

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

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.

And 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 lined,

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 saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shanks;

and his big manly voice,

Turning again towards 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 every thing.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen,

- And let him feed. - I thank you most for him.

So had you need:

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Welcome, fall to: I will not trouble you

As yet to question you about your fortunes.

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

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.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

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

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

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

As you have whispered faithfully you were,

And as mine eyes doth his effigies witness

Most truly limned, and living in your face,

Be truly welcome hither. I am the duke

That loved your father. Good old man,

Be thou as welcome as thy master is.

Support him by the arm. Take him to my cave.

Give me your hand,

And let me all your fortunes understand.

Not seen 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.

O that your highness knew my heart in this:

I never loved my brother in my life.

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.

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 witnessed everywhere.

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

And how like you this shepherd's life, Master 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 that it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well;

but in respect that it is not in the court, it is tedious.

As is it a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well;

but as there is no more plenty in it, it is much against my humour.

Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

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.

Such a one is a natural philosopher.

- Wast ever in court, shepherd? - No, truly.

- Then thou art damned. - Nay, I hope.

No, truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg,

all on one side.

For not being at court? Your reason.

Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawest good manners;

and if thou never sawest good manners, then thy manners must be wicked;

and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation.

Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Not a whit, Touchstone.

Those that are good manners at court

are as ridiculous in the country

as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at court.

You told me, you salute not at court, but you kiss your hands:

that courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.

Instance, briefly; come, instance.

Why, we are still handling our ewes,

and their fells, you know, are greasy.

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.

Besides, our hands are hard.

Your lips will feel them the sooner.

Shallow again. A more sounder instance, come.

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.

Most shallow man:

Thou worms' 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.

Sorry.

Mend the instance, shepherd.

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

Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man!

God make incision in thee, thou art raw.

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.

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 a bawd to a bell-wether,

and to betray a she-lamb at a twelvemonths

to some crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,

out of all reasonable match. Oh, God!

If thou beest not damned for this,

the devil himself will have no shepherds.

I cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape.

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

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 lined

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no fair be kept in mind

But the fair of Rosalind.

If the hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat - sorry - after kind,

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lined,

And 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.

Out, fool.

This is the very false gallop of verses:

why do you infect yourself with them?

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

Truly the tree yields bad fruit.

Peace, here comes my sister reading: stand aside.

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 stretching 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.

O most gentle Jupiter,

what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal.

How now? Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little.

Go with him, sirrah.

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;

if not with bag and baggage, then with scrip and scrippage.

Thank you very much.

Didst thou hear these verses?

O yes, I heard them all, and more too;

for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

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

Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the verse

and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

But didst thou hear without wondering,

how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

Know you who hath done this?

Is it a man?

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

Change you colour? No?

I prithee, who?

O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet;

but mountains may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.

Nay, but who is it?

Is it possible?

I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence,

tell me who it is.

O, wonderful, wonderful,

and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful.

And after that, out of all hoping.

Good my complexion, dost thou think though I am comparisoned like a man,

I have a doublet and hose in my disposition?

One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery.

I prithee, 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 a narrow-mouthed bottle,

either too much at once, or none at all.

I pray thee...

take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

So you may put a man in your belly.

What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Why, God will send more, if the man will be thankful.

Let me stay the growth of his beard,

if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

It is young Orlando.

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

In faith, coz, 'tis he.

Orlando?

Orlando.

Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose?

What did he when thou sawest him? What said he?

How looked he? Wherein went he?

What makes him 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.

You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first;

it is 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.

Ay, 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?

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 dropped acorn.

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

Give me audience, good madam.

- Proceed. - Thank you.

There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.

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

Cry "holla" to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably.

He was furnished like a hunter.

O, ominous, he comes to kill my heart.

I would sing my song without a burden, thou bringest me out of tune.

Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.

Sweet, say on.

You bring me out. But soft, comes he not here?

'Tis he: slink by, and note him.

I thank you for your company;

but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

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

I thank you too for your society.

God be with you: let's meet as little as we can.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

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

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

- Rosalind is your love's name? - Yes, just.

I do not like her name.

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

What stature is she of?

Just as high as my heart.

You are full of pretty answers.

Not so; but I answer you right.

You have a nimble wit. Will you sit down with me?

And we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself,

against whom I know most faults.

The worst fault you have, is to be in love.

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

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

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

There I shall see mine own figure.

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

I'll tarry no longer with you.

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

Farewell, good Signor Love.

I will speak to him, like a saucy lackey,

and under that habit play the knave with him.

Do you hear, forester?

Very well. What would you?

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

You should ask me what time of day:

there's no clock in the forest.

Then there is no true lover in the forest,

else sighing every moment and groaning every hour

would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

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

By no means, sir:

Time travels in divers paces, with divers persons.

I'll tell you who Time ambles with,

who Time trots with, who Time gallops with

and who he stands still with.

I prithee, who doth he trot with?

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid,

between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnised:

if the interim be but seven nights,

Time's pace is so hard it seems the length of seven year.

Who ambles Time withal?

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 knows no pain,

these Time ambles with.

Who doth he gallop with?

With a thief to the gallows:

for though he go as softly as foot can fall,

he thinks himself too soon there.

Who stays it still with?

With lawyers in the vacation, for they sleep between term and term,

and then they perceive not how Time moves.

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

With this shepherdess, my sister,

here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Are you native of this place?

As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Your accent is something finer

than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

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 who 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.

Can you remember any of the principal evils,

that he laid to the charge of women?

There were none principal, they were all like one another as half-pence are,

every one fault seeming monstrous,

till his fellow fault came to match it.

I prithee, recount some of them.

No, I will not cast away my physic

but on those that are sick.

There is a man haunts the forest,

that abuses our young plants by carving "Rosalind" in their barks;

hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies upon brambles, all, forsooth,

deifying the name "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.

I am he that is so love-shaked:

I pray you, tell me your remedy.

There is none of my uncle's marks upon you:

he taught me how to know a man in love.

What were his marks?

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.

Then your hose should be ungartered,

your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied,

and everything 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.

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

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?

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind,

I am that he; that unfortunate he.

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

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Love is merely a madness,

and I tell you, deserves 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.

But I profess curing it by counsel.

Did you ever cure any so?

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;

would now like him, now loathe him;

then entertain him, then forswear him;

now weep for him, then spit at him;

that I drove my suitor from his mad humour of love,

into 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 it.

I would not be cured, youth.

I would cure you,

if you would but call me Rosalind,

and come every day to my cote, and woo me.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will.

Tell me where it is.

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?

With all my heart, good youth.

Nay, you must call me Rosalind.

Come, sister, will you go?

Rosalind...

Stop that goat! Right. Don't worry, Daddy's coming.

Grab him by the leg!

What's that? No. Right. No. Don't worry. Only kidding.

What? No, hold it. Grab it.

Look, I told you, will you not just get back in the box?!

Come apace, good Audrey.

I will fetch up thy goats, Audrey. And now, Audrey?

Am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?

Your features, Lord warrant us!

What features?

I am here with thee, and thy goats,

as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was amongst the Goths.

O knowledge ill-inhabited, it's worse than Jove in a thatched house.

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.

I do not know what "poetical" is.

Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?

No, truly: for the truest poetry is the most feigning;

and lovers are given to poetry and what they do swear in poetry,

may be said as lovers, they do feign.

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

I do, truly: for thou swearest to me thou art honest;

now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.

Would you not have me honest?

No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured:

for honesty coupled to beauty,

is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

Well, I am not fair;

and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.

Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut,

were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

I am not a slut,

though I thank the gods I am foul.

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,

he's the vicar of the next village, who hath promised to meet us

in this place of the forest, and to couple us.

I would fain see this meeting.

- Well, the gods give us joy. - Amen.

A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt;

for here we have no temple but the woods, 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!

Thanks. Many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them.

Well, that is the dowry of a wife;

'tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone?

No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal.

Lovely.

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 a horn more precious than to want.

Here comes Sir Oliver Martext.

Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met.

Will you dispatch us here under this tree,

or shall we go with you to your chapel?

Is there none here to give the woman?

I will take her on gift of no man.

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

Proceed, proceed: I'll give her.

O, good even, good Master What-ye-call't:

how do you do? I'm very glad to see you, sir.

God 'ild you for your last company. Yes, even a toy in hand here, sir.

- Nay, pray be covered. - Will you be married, fool?

As the ox hath his bow,

the horse his curb, the falcon her bells,

so man hath his desires;

and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.

And will you, being a man of your breeding,

be married under a bush like a beggar?

Get you to church,

have a good priest can tell you what marriage is: this fellow...

will join you as they join wainscot;

and one of you will prove a shrunk panel,

and like green timber, warp, warp.

I am not in the mind, sir,

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 hereafter for me to leave my wife.

Come thou with me, let me counsel thee.

Come, apace, good Audrey:

we must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

No. Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not -

Sweet Sir Oliver, Brave Sir Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee: but - Wind away,

Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee.

'Tis no matter:

ne'er a fantastical knave of them all

shall flout me out of my calling.

Oh, I do beg your pardon.

Never talk to me; I will weep.

Do I, prithee;

but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.

But have I not cause to weep?

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

His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

Something browner than Judas's.

Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

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

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

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

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.

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

Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

- Do you think so? - Yes.

I think he is not a pick-purse

nor a horse-stealer, but for his verity in love I...

Not true in love?

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

You have heard him swear downright he was.

"Was" is not "is". Besides, the oath of a lover

is no stronger than the words of a tapster:

they are both the confirmer of false reckonings.

He attends here in the forest on the duke your father.

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?

O that's a brave man,

he writes brave verses, speaks brave words,

swears brave oaths and breaks them bravely...

Mistress and master, you have oft inquired

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.

Well, and what of him?

If you will see a pageant truly played

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.

O, come, let us remove:

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Phebe, 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?

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 call'd 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 but 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 no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

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.

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.

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.

Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together:

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

He's fallen in love with your foulness,

and she'll fall in love with my anger.

Why look you so upon me?

For no ill will I bear you.

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.

Hard.

Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,

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

- Sweet Phebe. - Ha, what say'st thou, Silvius?

Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle 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 extermined.

Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

- I would have you. - 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.

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. Loose now and then

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

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

Not very well, but I have met him oft;

And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

That the old carlot once was master of.

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 marked 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 remembered, scorned 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?

Phebe, with all my heart.

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.

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

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

I am so;

I do love it better than laughing.

Those that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows,

and betray themselves to every modern censure, worse than drunkards.

Why, it's good to be sad and say nothing.

Why, then, 'tis good to be a post.

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 of these:

but it is a melancholy of my own,

compounded of many objects,

extracted from many subjects,

and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels,

wherein my often rumination,

wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

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.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

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!

Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Nay, then, God be with you, you talk in blank verse.

Farewell, Monsieur Traveller.

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.

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

Break an hour's promise in love?

He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts

and break but a part of the thousandth 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.

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight.

- I had as lief be wooed of a snail. - Of a snail?

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.

What's that?

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.

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

And I am your Rosalind.

It pleases him to call you so;

but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

Come, 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?

I would kiss before I spoke.

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.

How if the kiss be denied?

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

Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress,

or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

What, of my suit?

Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit.

Am not I your Rosalind?

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

Well, then, in her person,

I say, I will not have you.

Then in mine own person I die.

No, faith, die by attorney.

The poor world is almost six thousand years old,

and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person

in a love-cause.

Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them,

but not for love.

I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind,

for I protest her frown might kill me.

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.

Then love me, Rosalind.

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

- And wilt thou have me? - Ay, and twenty such.

- What sayest thou? - Are you not good?

I hope so.

Why, then, can one desire too much of a good thing?

Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.

Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?

Pray thee, marry us.

I cannot say the words.

You must begin, "Will you, Orlando,

- have to wife this..." - Go to.

Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

I will.

You must say, "I take thee, Rosalind, for wife."

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband.

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

- For ever and a day. - 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 the 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 hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

But will my Rosalind do so?

By my life, she will do as I do.

O, but she is wise.

Or else she could not have the wit to do this:

the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman's wit

and 'twill out at the casement; shut that and 'twill out at the key-hole;

stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out of the chimney.

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!

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

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

I must attend the duke at dinner.

By two o'clock I will be with thee again.

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.

Two o'clock is your hour?

Ay, sweet Rosalind.

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.

With no less religion

than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind.

So, adieu.

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders,

and let Time try. Adieu.

You have simply misused our sex in this 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.

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.

Or rather bottomless,

that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

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.

And I'll sleep.

My errand is to you, fair youth.

My gentle Phebe bid me give you this.

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.

Patience herself would startle at this letter

And play the swaggerer. 'Od's my life,

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.

No, I protest, I know not the contents: Phebe did write it.

Come, come, you are a fool

And turn'd into the extremity of love.

I say she never did invent this letter;

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

Sure, it is hers.

Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style.

A style for challengers. Will you hear the letter?

So please you, for I never heard it yet -

Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

She Phebes me - mark how the tyrant writes:

Art thou god to shepherd turned,

That a maiden's heart hath burned? Can a woman rail thus?

Call you this railing?

Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?

Did you ever hear such railing?

While the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me.

Meaning me a beast.

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:

Whilst you chid me, I did love? How 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.

Call you this chiding?

Alas, poor shepherd.

Do you pity him?

No, he deserves no pity.

Will you love such a woman?

Well, go your ways 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.

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

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

A sheep-cote, fenced about with olive trees?

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.

If that an eye may profit by a tongue,

Then should I know you by description; Are not you

The owner of the house I did inquire for?

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

Orlando doth commend him to you both,

And to that youth he calls his "Rosalind"

He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

I am. What must we understand by this?

Some of my shame, if you will know of me

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

This handkercher was stained.

I pray you, tell it.

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 wreathed itself,

Who with her head, nimble in threats approached

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 catlike 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.

Twice did he turn his back, and purposed 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 awaked.

Are you his brother?

Was't you he rescued?

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

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

To tell you what I was, since my conversion

So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

- But, for the bloody napkin? - By and by.

When from the first to last betwixt us two

Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed,

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 stripped 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

Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth

Who he in sport doth call his "Rosalind".

Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

There is more in it.

- Cousin Ganymede. - Look, he recovers.

- I would I were at home. - We'll lead you thither.

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

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

I do so, I confess it.

Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited,

I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited.

Heigh-ho!

This was no counterfeit:

there is too great testimony in your complexion,

this was a passion of earnest.

Counterfeit, I assure you.

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

So I do: but, i' faith, excuse me,

I should have been a woman by right.

Come, you look paler and paler. Pray, draw you homewards.

Good sir, go with us.

That will I, for I must bear answer back

How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

I shall devise something:

but I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him.

Will you go?

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

Faith, the priest was good enough,

for all the old gentleman's saying.

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, he is a most vile Martext.

Audrey!

But there is a youth in the forest here lays claim to you.

I know who 'tis;

he hath no interest in me in all the world.

Here comes the man you mean.

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.

Good even, Audrey.

God ye good even, William.

- And good even to you, sir. - Good even, gentle friend.

Cover thy head, cover thy head, cover thy head, cover thy head.

- How old are you, friend? - Five and twenty, sir.

- A ripe age. Is thy name William? - William, sir.

It's a fair name. Wast born in the forest here?

Ay, sir, I thank God.

"Thank God": good answer. Art thou rich?

Faith, sir, so-so.

"So-so" is good, is very good, is very excellent good;

and yet it is not; it is but so-so. Art thou wise?

Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

Why, thou sayest well. Now, I do remember a saying:

"The fool doth think himself to be a wise man,

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 lips are made to open and grapes are made to eat.

- Dost thou love this woman? - I do, sir.

- Give me thy hand. Art thou learned? - No, sir.

Well, learn this of me: to have is to have;

for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink,

being poured from a 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.

Which he, sir?

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, all together, is "abandon the society of this female",

or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest;

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; I will o'errun thee with policy;

I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways - therefore tremble and depart.

Do, good William.

God rest you merry, sir.

Look at him!

Tomorrow is the joyful day. Tomorrow we shall be married.

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?

My master and mistress seek you; come away, come away.

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

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?

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 Roland's

will I estate upon you, and...

here live and die a shepherd.

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.

God save you, brother.

And you, fair sister.

O my dear Orlando,

how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf!

It is my arm.

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

Wounded it is, but...

with the eyes of a lady.

Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon

when he showed me your handkerchief?

Ay, and greater wonders than that.

O, I know where you are.

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 a pair of stairs to marriage.

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.

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

I can live no longer by thinking.

I will weary you no longer, then, 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.

Believe, then, if you please, that I can do strange things.

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.

Speakest thou in sober meanings?

By my life, I do.

If you will be married tomorrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.

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

Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,

To show the letter that I writ to you.

I care not if I have: it is my study

To seem ungentle and despiteful to you:

You are here followed by a faithful shepherd;

Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

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

It is to be all made of sighs and tears; And so am I for Phebe.

And I for Ganymede.

And I for Rosalind.

And I for no woman.

It is to be all made of faith and service;

And so am I for Phebe.

And I for Ganymede.

And I for Rosalind.

And I for no woman.

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 obedience;

And so am I for Phebe.

And so am I for Ganymede.

And so am I for Rosalind.

And so am I for no woman.

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

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

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

Who do you speak to, "Who blame you me to love you?"

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

I pray you, no more of this;

'tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon.

I will help you, if I can.

I would love you, if I could.

Tomorrow meet me all together.

I will marry you, if ever I marry woman,

and I shall be married tomorrow.

I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man,

and you shall be married tomorrow.

I will content you, if what pleases you contents you,

and you shall be married tomorrow.

As you love Rosalind, meet.

As you love Phebe, meet. And as I love no woman, I'll meet.

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

That will I, should I die the hour after.

But if you do refuse to marry me,

You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

So is the bargain.

You say, you'll have Phebe, if she will?

Though to have her and death, were both one thing.

So fare you well: I have left you commands.

I'll not fail, if I live.

- Nor I. - Nor I.

I do remember in this shepherd boy

Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.

My lord, the first time that I ever saw him

Methought he was a brother to your daughter.

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

Can do all this that he hath promised?

I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;

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

There is sure another flood towards,

and these couples are all coming to the ark.

Here comes a pair of very strange beasts,

which in all tongues are called fools.

Salutation and greeting to you all.

Good my lord, bid him welcome:

this is the motley-minded gentleman I have so oft met in the forest:

he hath been a courtier, he swears.

If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation.

I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady.

Stay.

I have been politic with my friends, smooth with mine enemies;

I have undone three tailors; had four quarrels

- and like to have fought one. - And how was that ta'en up?

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

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

I like him very well.

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, 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 your poor house;

as your pearl in your foul oyster.

By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

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

But the seventh cause;

how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?

Upon a lie seven times removed, as...

Bear your body more seeming, Audrey!

Boys and girls.

..as thus. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard:

he sent me word, if I said his beard was not well cut,

he was in the mind that it was: this is called the Retort Courteous.

If I sent him word again "it was not well cut," he sent 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 say, I spake not true:

this is called the Reproof Valiant.

If again "it was not well cut," he would say I lied:

this is called the Counter-cheque Quarrelsome:

and so to the Lie Circumstantial and the Lie Direct.

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

I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial,

and he durst not give me the Lie Direct;

and so we measured swords and parted.

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

O, sir, we quarrel in print, y'know, by the book;

as you have books for good manners:

I will name you the degrees.

The first, the Retort Courteous; second, the Quip Modest;

third, the Reply Churlish; fourth, the Reproof Valiant;

fifth, the Countercheque Quarrelsome; sixth, the Lie with Circumstance;

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 party were met themselves,

one thought but of an If, as, "If you said so, then I said so;"

and they shook hands and swore brothers.

Your If is your only peacemaker;

much virtue in If.

Is not this a rare fellow, my lord?

He's good at anything, and yet a fool.

He uses his folly as a stalking-horse,

and under the presentation of that, shoots his wit.

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.

To you I give myself, for I am yours.

To you I give myself, for I am yours.

If there be truth in sight,

you are my daughter.

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

If sight and shape be true, Why, then, my love adieu.

I'll have no father, if you be not he:

I'll have no husband, if you be not he:

Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.

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.

You and you, no cross shall part;

You and you, are heart in heart;

You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord;

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.

Wedding is great Juno's crown:

O blessed bond of board and bed!

'Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High wedlock then be honoured:

Honour, high honour and renown,

To Hymen, god of every town.

To Hymen, god of every town.

O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me

Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree.

I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;

Thy faith, my fancy to thee doth combine.

Let me have audience for a word or two.

I 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 banished brother,

And all their lands restored to them again

That were with him exiled.

This to be true, I do engage my life.

Welcome, Le Beau.

Thou offerest fairly to these brothers' 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 endured shrewd days and nights with us

Shall share the good of our returned fortune,

According to the measure of their states.

Meantime, forget this new-fallen 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.

Sir, by your patience.

If I heard you rightly,

The duke hath put on a religious life

And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

He hath.

To him will I: out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learned.

You to your former honour I bequeath;

Your patience and your virtue well deserves it.

You to a love your true faith doth merit;

You to your land and loves and great allies;

You to a long and well-deserved bed;

And you to wrangling, for thy loving voyage

Is but for two months victualled.

So to your pleasures:

I am for other than for dancing measures.

Stay, Jaques, stay.

To see no pastime, I;

what you would crave

I'll stay to know at your abandoned cave.

Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,

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

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,

then '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.