RI Apple Group Crate 001 Disk 089
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AYLI.ACTIII TXT 067 01/12/1993 12/30/1992 33,535
AYLI.ACTI TXT 056 01/12/1993 12/30/1992 28,128
AYLI.ACTII TXT 049 01/12/1993 12/30/1992 24,374
AYLI.ACTIV TXT 037 01/12/1993 12/30/1992 18,432
AYLI.ACTV TXT 043 01/12/1993 12/30/1992 21,108
ProDOS format; 10,752 bytes free; 132,608 bytes used.
Text found in disk089.dsk/AYLI.ACTI.txt:
AS YOU LIKE IT
ROSALIND, Daughter of Duke Senior.
CELIA, Daughter of Duke Frederick.
ORLANDO, Son of Sir Rowland de Boys.
OLIVER, Son of Sir Rowland de Boys.
TOUCHSTONE, A clown.
DUKE SENIOR, Living in banishment.
DUKE FREDERICK, Brother of Duke Senior and usurper of his dominions.
AMIENS, Lord attending on Duke Senior.
JAQUES, Lord attending on Duke Senior.
CORIN, A shepherd.
SILVIUS, A shepherd.
PHEBE, A shepherdess.
LE BEAU, Courtier attending on Duke Frederick.
ADAM, Servant of Oliver.
AUDREY, A country wench.
CHARLES, A wrestler serving Duke Frederick.
WILLIAM, A country fellow, in love with Audrey.
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, A vicar.
JAQUES DE BOYS, Son of Sir Rowland de Boys.
DENIS, Servant of Oliver.
LORDS, PAGES, ATTENDANTS, etc.
ACT I, SCENE I.
[Orchard of Oliver's house. Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.]
As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeath'd me
by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st,
charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well: and
there begins my sadness. My brother Jacques he keeps at
school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my
part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more
properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that
keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from
the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for,
besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are
taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired:
but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for
the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to
him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives
me, the something that nature gave me his countenance seems
to take from me: he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the
place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my
gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves
me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me,
begins to mutiny against this servitude: I will no longer
endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
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 employ'd, and be naught awhile.
Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What
prodigal's portion have I spent that I should come to such
Know you where you are, sir?
O, sir, very well: here in your orchard.
Know you before whom, sir?
Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my
eldest brother; and, in the gentle condition of blood, you
should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my
better, in that you are the first-born; but the same
tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty
brothers betwixt us: I have as much of my father in me as
you; albeit, I confess, your coming before me is nearer to
Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland 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
pull'd out thy tongue for saying so; thou hast rail'd on
Sweet masters, be patient: for your father's remembrance, be
Let me go, I say.
I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. My father
charged you in his will to give me good education: you have
train'd 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? Well, sir,
get you in: I will not long be troubled with you; you shall
have some part of your will: I pray you, leave me.
I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
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.[Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM.]
Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your
rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither.- Holla,
Calls your worship?
Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?
So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access
Call him in. [Exit DENIS.]'Twill be a good way; and to-
morrow the wrestling is.
Good morrow to your worship.
Good morrow, Monsieur Charles.- What's the new news at the
There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that
is, the old duke is banish'd 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
Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke's daughter, be banish'd
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 follow'd her exile, or have died to stay behind her.
She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than
his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.
Where will the old duke live?
They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many
merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin
Hood of England: they say many young gentlemen flock to him
every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the
What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke?
Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter.
I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger
brother Orlando hath a disposition to come in disguised
against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my
credit; and he that escapes me without some broken limb
shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender;
and, for your love, I would be loth to foil him, as I must,
for my own honour, if he come in: therefore, out of my love
to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either
you might stay him from his intendment or brook such
disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of
his own search and altogether against my will.
Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt
find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my
brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means
labour'd to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll
tell thee, Charles: it is the stubbornest young fellow of
France; full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's
good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his
natural brother: therefore use thy discretion; I had as lief
thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best
look to't; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if
he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise
against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous
device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by
some indirect means or other; for, I assure thee, and almost
with tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so
villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him;
but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush
and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-
morrow, I'll give him his payment: if ever he go alone
again, I'll never wrestle for prize more: and so, God keep
Farewell, good Charles. [Exit CHARLES.]Now will I stir
this gamester: I hope I shall see an end of him; for my
soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet
he's gentle; never school'd, and yet learned; full of noble
device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so
much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own
people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised:
but it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall clear all;
nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither; which now
I'll go about.[Exit.]
ACT I, SCENE II.
[Lawn before the Duke's palace. Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]
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 banish'd 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 banish'd father, had banish'd
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 temper'd as mine is to thee.
Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice
You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to
have: and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir; for
what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will
render thee again in affection; by mine honour, I will; and
when I break that oath, let me turn monster: therefore, my
sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.
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 bestow'd 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-
Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's:
Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments
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?
Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune
makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.
Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but
Nature's; who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason
of such goddesses and hath sent this natural for our
whetstone; for always the dulness of the fool is the
whetstone of the wits.- 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 learn'd you that oath, fool?
Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good
pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught:
now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught, and the
mustard was good; and yet was not the knight forsworn.
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 were; but if you swear by
that that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this
knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if
he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those
pancakes or that mustard.
Prithee, who is't that thou mean'st?
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 whipp'd for taxation one of these
The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men
By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that
fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men
have makes a great show.- Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.
With his mouth full of news.
Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young.
Then shall we be news-cramm'd.
All the better; we shall be the more marketable.
[Enter LE BEAU.]
`Bon jour', Monsieur Le Beau: what's the news?
Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.
Sport! of what colour!
What colour, madam! how shall I answer you?
As wit and fortune will.
Or as the Destinies decrees.
Well said: that was laid on with a trowel.
Nay, if I keep not my rank,-
Thou losest thy old smell.
You amaze me, ladies: I would have told you of good
wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.
Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
I will tell you the beginning; and, if it please your
ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do;
and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.
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.
With bills on their necks, "Be it known unto all men by
The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the duke's
wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke
three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him:
so he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie;
the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole
over them, that all the beholders take his part with
But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost?
Why, this that I speak of.
Thus men may grow wiser every day! it is the first time that
ever I heard 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?
You must, if you stay here; for here is the place appointed
for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.
Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it.
[Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, LORDS, ORLANDO,
CHARLES, and ATTENDANTS.]
Come on: since the youth will not be entreated, his own
peril on his forwardness.
Is yonder the man?
Even he, madam.
Alas, he is too young! yet he looks successfully.
How now, daughter, and cousin! are you crept hither to see
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 men. In pity of the challenger's youth, I
would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak
to him, ladies; see if you can move him.
Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
Do so: I'll not be by.
Monsieur the challenger, the princess calls 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
judgement, 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 any thing. But let your fair eyes and
gentle wishes go with me to my trial; wherein if I be
foil'd, there is but one shamed that was never gracious; if
kill'd, 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
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!
Your heart's desires be with you!
Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie
with his mother earth?
Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.
You shall try but one fall.
No, I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him to a
second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.
An you mean to mock me after, you should not have mock'd me
before: but come your ways.
Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!
I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the
O excellent young man!
If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should
down.[Shout. CHARLES is thrown.]
No more, no more.
Yes, I beseech your Grace: I am not yet well breath'd.
How dost thou, Charles?
He cannot speak, my lord.
Bear him away. [CHARLES is borne out.]What is thy name,
Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.
I would thou hadst been son to some man else:
The world esteem'd thy father honourable,
But I did find him still mine enemy:
Thou shouldst have better 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.[Exeunt
DUKE FREDERICK, TRAIN, and LE BEAU.]
Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,
His youngest son;- and would not change that calling,
To be adopted heir to Frederick.
My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,
And all the world was of my father's mind:
Had I before known this young man his son,
I should have given him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventured.
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, [Giving him a
chain from her neck.]
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,
That would 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.[Exeunt ROSALIND and
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.
[Enter LE BEAU.]
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 misconsters all that you have done.
The duke is humorous: what he is, indeed,
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
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 smaller is his daughter:
The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,
And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,
To keep his daughter company: whose loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
But I can tell you that of late this duke
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,
Grounded upon no other argument
But that the people praise her for her virtues
And pity her for her good father's sake;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
Will suddenly break forth.- Sir, fare you well:
Hereafter, in a better world than this,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.[Exit
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother:-
But heavenly Rosalind![Exit.]
ACT I, SCENE III.
[A room in the palace. Enter CELIA and 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 father's child. O, how full of
briers is this working-day world!
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very
petticoats will catch them.
I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.
Hem them away.
I would try, if I could cry "hem," and have him.
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 Rowland's
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 should I? doth he not deserve well?
Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do.-
Look, here comes the duke.
With his eyes full of anger.
[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS.]
Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Within these ten days if that thou be'st 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 banish'd him:
Treason is not inherited, my lord;
Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor:
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
To think my poverty is treacherous.
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:
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her: if she be a traitor,
Why, so am I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.
She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,
Her very silence and her patience
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her;- she is banish'd.
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.[Exeunt DUKE
FREDERICK and LORDS.]
O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
I have more cause.
Thou hast not, cousin;
Prithee, be cheerful: 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 me that thou and I am one:
Shall we be sunder'd? 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 the charge upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out:
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
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 gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and- in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will-
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.
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 call'd?
Something that hath a reference to my state;
No longer Celia, but Aliena.
But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal
The clownish fool out of your father's court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together;
Devise the fittest time and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content,
To liberty, and not to banishment.[Exeunt.]
Text found in disk089.dsk/AYLI.ACTII.txt:
ACT II, SCENE I.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters.]
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 every thing:
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 banish'd you.
To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on th'extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralise this spectacle?
O, yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping into the needless stream;
"Poor deer," quoth he, "thou makest a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much:" then, being there alone,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
"'Tis right," quoth he; "thus misery doth part
The flux of company:" anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him; "Ay," quoth Jaques,
"Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?"
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life: swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up,
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
And did you leave him in this contemplation?
We 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 bring you to him straight.[Exeunt.]
ACT II, SCENE II.
[A room in the palace. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS.]
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.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed; 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.
Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses that she secretly o'erheard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.
Send to his brother's; fetch that gallant hither:
If he be absent, bring his brother to me;
I'll make him find him: do this suddenly;
And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways.[Exeunt.]
ACT II, SCENE III.
[Before Oliver's house. Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.]
What, my young master? O my gentle master!
O my sweet master! O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!
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: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off:
I overheard him and his practices.
This is no place; this house is but a butchery:
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
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?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
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:
Take that; and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
All this I give you. Let me be your servant:
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty:
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion,
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou 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:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well and not my master's debtor.[Exeunt.]
ACT II, SCENE IV.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter ROSALIND for GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA,
O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!
I care not for my spirits, if my legs were 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; yet I
should bear no cross, if I did bear you, for I think you
have no money in your purse.
Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home,
I was in a better place: but travellers must be content.
Ay, be so, good Touchstone.
[Enter CORIN and SILVIUS.]
Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in solemn
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
O Corin, that thou knew'st 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 never love so heartily!
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved:
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearing 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![Exit.]
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's dugs that her pretty chopp'd hands had milk'd: and
I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom
I took two cods, and, giving her them again, said with
weeping tears, "Wear these for my sake." We that are true
lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in
nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
Thou speak'st 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.
Holla, you clown!
Peace, fool: he's not thy kinsman.
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 oppress'd,
And faints for succour.
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.[Exeunt.]
ACT II, SCENE V.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others.]
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
But winter and 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 out
of 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
More at your request than to please myself.
Well, then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but
that they call compliment is like th'encounter of two dog-
apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have
given him a penny and he renders me the beggarly thanks.
Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.
Well, I'll end the song.- Sirs, cover the while; the duke
will drink under this tree.- He hath been all this day to
And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too
disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he;
but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come,
Who doth ambition shun[All together here.]
And loves to live i' th'sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
But winter and 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
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.
What's that "ducdame"?
'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle.I'll
go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the
first-born of Egypt.
And I'll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.
ACT II, SCENE VI.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.]
Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for food! Here
lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.
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 will here 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. Well said! thou look'st cheerly; and
I'll be with thee quickly.Yet thou liest in the bleak air:
come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not
die for lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this
desert. Cheerly, good Adam![Exeunt.]
ACT II, SCENE VII.
[The Forest of Arden. A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws.]
I think he be transform'd into a beast;
For I can no where 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 shall have shortly 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 i' th'forest,
A motley fool; a miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
"Good morrow, fool," quoth I. "No, sir," quoth he,
"Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune:"
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock:
Thus we may see," quoth he, "how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
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 cramm'd
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 that you weed your better judgements
Of all opinion that grows rank in them
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
The "why" is plain as way to parish church:
He that a fool doth very wisely hit
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomized
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of th'infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
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 th'imbossed sores and headed evils,
That thou with license 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 can come in and say that I mean her,
When such a one as she such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says his bravery is not on my cost,
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why, then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man.- But who comes here?
[Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.]
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 bolden'd, man, by thy distress,
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty?
You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred,
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answered.
An you will not be answer'd 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 look'd on better days,
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,
If ever sat at any good man's feast,
If ever from your eyelids 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 find him out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.
I thank ye; and be bless'd for your good comfort! [Exit.]
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. As, first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then the 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 shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
[Enter ORLANDO, with ADAM.]
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,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! etc.
If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,
As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd and living in your face,-
Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke,
That loved your father: the residue of your fortune,
Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.-
Support him by the arm.- Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.[Exeunt.]
Text found in disk089.dsk/AYLI.ACTIV.txt:
ACT IV, SCENE I.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.]
I prithee, pretty youth, let me 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
Why, 'tis 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 these;-
but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many
simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the
sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by 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 gain'd 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 b' wi' you, an you talk in blank verse!
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp, and wear
strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country;
be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for
making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think
you have swam in a gondola. 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 clapp'd him o' th'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 woo'd 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.
Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding to
your wives for: but he comes arm'd 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, 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
gravell'd 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
I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking
Well, 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, `videlicet', in a love-cause.
Troilus had his brains dash'd out with a Grecian club; yet
he did what he could to die before; and he is one of the
patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair
year, though Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a
hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to
wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp,
was drown'd: and the foolish chroniclers of that age found
it was - Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies: men have
died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not
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,"-
Go to.- Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
Ay, but when?
Why now; as fast as she can marry us.
Then you must say,- "I take thee, Rosalind, for wife."
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
I might ask you for your commission; but,- I do take thee,
Orlando, for my husband:- there's a girl goes before the
priest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her
So do all thoughts,- they are wing'd.
Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have
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
rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my desires
than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the
fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be
merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art
inclined to weep.
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 it
will out at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the
key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,- "Wit,
Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your
wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.
And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
Marry, to say,- she came to seek you there. You shall never
take her without her answer, unless you take her without her
tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her
husband's occasion, let her never nurse her child herself,
for she will breed it like a fool!
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:- 'tis but one cast
away, and so,- come, death!- Two o'clock is your hour?
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by
all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one
jot of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I
will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the
most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call
Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the
unfaithful: therefore beware my censure, and keep your
With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind:
Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such
offenders, and let Time try: adieu.[Exit ORLANDO.]
You have simply misused our sex in your love- prate: we must
have your doublet and hose pluck'd 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
Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection
in, it runs out.
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of
thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness; that
blind rascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because
his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love:-
I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of
Orlando; I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come.
And I'll sleep.[Exeunt.]
ACT IV, SCENE II.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter JAQUES, LORDS, and FORESTERS.]
Which is he that kill'd the deer?
Sir, it was I.
Let's present him to the duke, like a Roman conqueror; and
it would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head, for
a branch of victory.- Have you no song, forester, for this
Sing it: 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise
What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Then sing him home!
[The rest shall bear this burthen.]Take thou no scorn
to wear the horn;
It was a crest ere thou wast born;
Thy father's father wore it,
And thy father bore it:
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.[Exeunt.]
ACT IV, SCENE III.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter ROSALIND AND CELIA.]
How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? and here much
I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath
ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth- to sleep. Look,
who comes here.
My errand is to you, fair youth;-
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:[gives a letter.]
I know not the contents; but, as I guess
By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenour: pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
Patience herself would startle at this letter,
And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:
She says I am not fair; that I lack manners;
She calls me proud; and that she could not love me,
Were man as rare as phoenix. 'Od's my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:
Why writes she so to me?- Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.
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 saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,
A freestone-colour'd hand: I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands:
She has a housewife's hand; but that's no matter:
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; why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brain
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance.- Will you hear the letter?
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.
[reads] "Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?"-
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?-
"Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me."-
Meaning me a beast.-
"If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect!
Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How, then, might your prayers move!
He that brings this love to thee
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I'll study how to die."
Call you this chiding?
Alas, poor shepherd!
Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love
such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument, and play
false strains upon thee! not to be endured! Well, go your
way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and
say this to her:- that if she love me, I charge her to love
thee; if she will not, I will never have her, unless thou
entreat for her.- If you be a true lover, hence, and not a
word; for here comes more company.[Exit SILVIUS.]
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;
Such garments and such years:- "The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister: the woman low,
And browner than her brother." Are not you
The owners of the house I did inquire for?
It is no boast, being ask'd, 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 stain'd.
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 wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush: under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with 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.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;
And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived 'mongst men.
And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
But, to Orlando:- did he leave him there,
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?
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 stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound;
And, after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede![ROSALIND
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 not counterfeit: there is too great testimony in
your complexion, that it 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, I should have been a woman by right.
Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw 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?[Exeunt.]
Text found in disk089.dsk/AYLI.ACTV.txt:
ACT V, SCENE I.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]
We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.
Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old
A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But,
Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to
Ay, I know who 'tis: he hath no interest in me in 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;
nay, prithee, be cover'd. How old are you, friend?
Five and twenty, sir.
A ripe age. Is thy name William?
A fair name. Wast born i' th'forest here?
Ay, sir, I thank God.
Thank God;- a good answer. Art rich?
Faith, sir, so-so.
So-so is good, very good, 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 say'st well. I do now remember a saying, "The fool
doth think he is wise; but the wise man knows himself to be
a fool." The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to
eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his
mouth, meaning thereby, that grapes were made to eat, and
lips to open. You do love this maid?
I do, sir.
Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
Then learn this of me:- to have, is to have; for it is a
figure in rhetoric, that drink, being pour'd out of 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 together is, abandon the society of
this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better
understanding, diest; or (to wit) I kill thee, make thee
away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into
bondage: I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado,
or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o'er-
run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty
ways: therefore tremble, and depart.
Do, good William.
God rest you merry, sir.[Exit.]
Our master and mistress seek you; come, away, away!
Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey.- I attend, I attend.
ACT V, SCENE II.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER.]
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 Rowland'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
God save you, brother.
And you, fair sister.[Exit.]
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
Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when
he show'd me your handkercher?
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
O, I know where you are:- nay, 'tis true: there was never
any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams, and Caesar's
thrasonical brag of- "I came, saw, and overcame:" for your
brother and my sister no sooner met, but they look'd; no
sooner look'd, but they loved; no sooner loved, but they
sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd, but they ask'd 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, which they will climb incontinent, or else be
incontinent before marriage: they are in the very wrath of
love, and they will together; clubs cannot part them.
They shall be married to-morrow; 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
Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?
I can live no longer by thinking.
I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking.Know
of me, then- for now I speak to some purpose,- that I know
you are a gentleman of good conceit: I speak not this, that
you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I
say I know you are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem
than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to
do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe, then, if you
please, that I can do strange things: I have, since I was
three year old, conversed with a magician, most profound in
his art, and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so
near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your
brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her: I know into
what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not
impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to
set her before your eyes to-morrow human as she is, and
without any danger.
Speak'st thou in sober meanings?
By my life I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a
magician. Therefore, put you in your best array, bid your
friends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall;
and to Rosalind, if you will.- Look, here comes a lover of
mine, and a lover of hers.
[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]
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 despiteful and ungentle to you:
You are there follow'd 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 deservings;-
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.
PHEBE [to ROSALIND].
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
SILVIUS [to PHEBE].
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
Who do you speak to,-"Why blame you me to love you?"
To her that is not here, not doth not hear.
Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish
wolves against the moon.- [to SILVIUS.]I will help you, if
I can:- [to PHEBE.]I would love you, if I could.-
To-morrow meet me all together.- [to PHEBE.]I will marry
you, if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow;-
[to ORLANDO.]I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfy man and
you shall be married to-morrow:- [to SILVIUS.]I will
content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall
be married to-morrow.- [to ORLANDO.]As you love Rosalind,
meet:- [to SILVIUS.]as you love Phebe, meet: and as I love
no woman, I'll meet.- So, fare you well: I have left you
I'll not fail, if I live.
ACT V, SCENE III.
[The Forest of Arden. Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]
To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; tomorrow will we be
I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no
dishonest desire, to desire to be a woman of the world. Here
come two of the banish'd duke's pages.
[Enter two PAGES]
Well met, honest gentleman.
By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and a song.
We are for you: sit i' th'middle.
Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or spitting,
or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a
I' faith, i' faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass
In spring-time, the only pretty ring-time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country-folks would lie
In spring-time, etc.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In spring-time, etc.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crowned with the prime
In spring-time, etc.
Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in
the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.
You are deceived, sir: we kept time, we lost not our time.
By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a
foolish song. God b' wi' you; and God mend your voices!-
ACT V, SCENE IV.
Forest of Arden. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA.]
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.
[Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE.]
Patience once more, whiles our compact is urged;-
[to the DUKE]You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
ROSALIND [to ORLANDO].
And you say, you will have her, when I bring her?
That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
ROSALIND [to PHEBE].
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.
ROSALIND [to SILVIUS].
You say, that you'll have Phebe, if she will?
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
I have promised to make this matter even.
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;-
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter:-
Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me,
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd:-
Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her,
If she refuse me:- and from hence I go,
To make these doubts all even.[Exeunt ROSALIND and
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:
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
There is, sure, another flood toward,and these couples are
coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts,
which in all tongues are call'd fools.
[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]
Salutation and greeting to you all!
Good my lord, bid him welcome: this is the motley-minded
gentleman that I have so often met in the forest: he hath
been a courtier, he swears.
If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation.I
have trod a measure; I have flatter'd a lady; I have been
politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have
undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to
have fought one.
And how was that ta'en up?
Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh
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-favour'd thing, sir, but
mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no
man else will: rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a
poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.
By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.
But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on
the seventh cause?
Upon a lie seven times removed:- bear your body more
seeming, Audrey:- as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a
certain courtier's beard: he sent me word, if I said his
beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was: this is
call'd the Retort Courteous. If I sent him word again it was
not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please
himself: this is call'd the Quip Modest. If again it was not
well cut, he disabled my judgement: this is call'd the Reply
Churlish. If again it was not well cut, he would answer I
spake not true: this is call'd the Reproof Valiant. If again
it was not well cut, he would say I lie: this is call'd the
Countercheck 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, nor he
durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we measured swords,
Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?
O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have books
for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first,
the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the
third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant;
the fifth, the Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie
with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these
you may avoid, but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that
too with an "if." I knew when seven justices could not take
up a quarrel; but when the parties were met themselves, one
of them thought but of an "if," as, "If you said so, then I
said so;" and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your
"if" is the only peace- maker; much virtue in "if."
Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he's as good at any
thing, and yet a fool.
He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the
presentation of that he shoots his wit.
[Enter HYMEN leading ROSALIND in woman's clothes,
and CELIA. Still music.]
Then is there mirth in heaven,
When earthly things made even
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 her bosom is.
ROSALIND [to DUKE SENIOR].
To you I give myself, for I am yours.-
[to ORLANDO.]To you I give myself, for I am yours.
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!
ROSALIND [to DUKE SENIOR].
I'll have no father, if you be not he:-
[to ORLANDO.]I'll have no husband, if you be not he:-
[to PHEBE.]Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.
Peace, ho! I bar confusion:
'Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events:
Here's eight that must take hands
To join in Hymen's bands,
If truth holds true contents,
[to ORLANDO and ROSALIND.]You and you no cross
[to OLIVER and CELIA.]You and you are heart in
[to PHEBE.]You to his love must accord,
Or have a woman to your lord:-
[to TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]You and you are sure
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!
O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me,
Even daughter-welcome, in no less degree!
PHEBE [to SILVIUS].
I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
[Enter JAQUES DE BOYS.]
JAQUES DE BOYS.
Let me have audience for a word or two:
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.-
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot,
In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here, and put him to the sword:
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;
Where meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise and from the world;
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,
And all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exiled. This to be true,
I do engage my life.
Welcome, young man;
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brother's wedding:
To one, his lands withheld; and to the other,
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot:
And after, every of this happy number,
That have 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-fall'n dignity,
And fall into our rustic revelry.-
Play, music!- and you, brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heap'd in joy, to th'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?
JAQUES DE BOYS.
To him will I: out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learn'd.-
[to DUKE SENIOR.]You to your former honour I bequeath;
Your patience and your virtue well deserve it:-
[to ORLANDO.]You to a love that your true faith doth
[to OLIVER.]You to your land, and love, and great allies:-
[to SILVIUS.]You to a long and well-deserved bed:-
[to TOUCHSTONE.]And you to wrangling; for thy loving
Is but for two months victuall'd.- So, to your pleasures:
I am for other than for dancing measures.
Stay, Jaques, stay.
To see no pastime I:- what you would have
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave.[Exit.]
Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,
As we do trust they'll end, in true delights.[A dance.]
It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it
is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If
it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a
good play needs no epilogue: yet to good wine they do use
good bushes; and good plays prove the better by the help of
good epilogues. What a case am I in, then, that am neither
a good epilogue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the
behalf of a good play! I am not furnish'd like a beggar,
thereforeto 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.
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.
- 2013-10-11 08:47:01
- Internet Archive Python library 0.3.8
Uploaded by Jason Scott on