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Cor. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil. 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?

Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily:
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd:

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not lov'd:

Or if thou hast not broke from company,
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe !
[Exit SILVIUS.

Ros. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found my own.

Touch. And I mine: 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.

Ros. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 'ware of. Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit, till I break my shins against it.

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

Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale

with me.

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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 2 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.
Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor. That young swain that you saw here but
erewhile,

That little cares for buying any thing.

Ros. 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.

2 Cares.

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No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Juq. More, more, I pr'ythee, more.

Ami. It will make you melancholy, monsieur Jaques.

Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weazel sucks eggs: More, I pr'ythee, more.

Ami. My voice is ragged 3; I know, I cannot please you.

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

Ami. What you will, monsieur Jaques.

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

Ami. More at your request, than to please myself. Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but that they call compliment, is like the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks, I have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues. Ami. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree: - he hath been all this day to look you.

Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too dispútable 4 for my company: I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.

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Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.

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

Orl. 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'll give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou look'st 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.

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1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach. Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company?
What! you look merrily.
Jaq. A fool, a fool!

I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool; - a miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
Good morrow, fool, quoth I: No, sir, quoth he,
Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune :
And then he drew a dial from his poke;
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, It is ten o'clock:

Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine;
And after an 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

5 Made up of discords.

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Duke S. What fool is this? Jaq. O worthy fool! courtier ;

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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 bisket
After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms; - O, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke S. Thou shalt have one.
Jaq.
It is my only suit;
Of all opinion that grows rank in them,
Provided, that you weed your better judgments
That I am wise.

Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
I must have liberty
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
They most must laugh: And why, sir, must they so?
And they that are most galled with my folly,
The why is plain as way to parish church:
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S. Fye on thee! I can tell what thou would'st do.

Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do, but good? Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin: For thou thyself hast been a libertine.

Jaq. 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 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 7 is not on my cost,
(Thinking that I mean him,) but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
There then; How, 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.
Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq.
Why, I have eat none yet.
Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke S. 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?

6 The fool was anciently dressed in a party coloured coat. 7 Finery.

Orl. You touch'd my vein at first; the thorny | Seeking the bubble reputation

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.

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

Duke S. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force

More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it. Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you, I thought that all things had been savage here; And therefore put I on the countenance

Of stern commandment: But whate'er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have look'd on better days;

If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church;

If ever sat at any good man's feast;

If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.

Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church ;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd :
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be minister'd.

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, ·
I will not touch a bit.

Duke S.
Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste till your return.

Orl. I thank ye; and be bless'd for your good comfort!

[Exit.

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene' Wherein we play in.

Jaq. 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,

Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice; In fair round belly, with good capon lin❜d, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern 8 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; For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide 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.

Re-enter ORLANDO, with ADAM.

Duke S. Welcome: set down your venerable burden, And let him feed. Orl.

I thank you most for him.
Adam. So had you need;

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Duke S. Welcome, fall to: I will not trouble you
As yet, to question you about your fortunes:-
Give us some musick; and, good cousin, sing.

AMIENS sings.

SONG. I.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :
Then, heigh, ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

II.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.
Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! &c.

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ACT III.

SCENE I. - A Room in the Palace. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords, and Attendants.

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

But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument

Of my revenge, thou present: But look to it;
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is:
Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living,
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.

Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine,
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands;
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth,
Of what we think against thee.

Oli. O, that your highness knew my heart in this!
I never lov'd my brother in my life.
Duke F. More villain thou.

out of doors;

Well, push him

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Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.

Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love: And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,

And in their barks my thoughts I'll character; That every eye, which in this forest looks,

Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. Run, run, Orlando; carve, on every tree,

Here

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.
comes young master Ganymede, my new mistress's
brother.
Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper.
Ros. 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, fuirest lin'd1,
Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind.

Touch. I'll rhyme you so, eight years together; it is the right butter-woman's rank to market. dinners and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted:

Ros. Out, fool!
Touch. For a taste:

If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,

So, be sure, will Rosalind.

They that reap, must sheaf and bind;
Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalind.

This the very false gallop of verses; Why do you infect yourself with them?

Ros. Peace, you dull fool; I found them on a

tree.

Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

Ros. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit in the country for you'll be rotten e're you be half The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive 3 she. [Exit. ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.

Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTone.

Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life, master Touchstone?

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

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

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

Cor. No, sir; I am a true labourer; I earn that 3 Inexpressible.

1 Seizure.

2 Expeditiously.

:

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

Enter CELIA, reading a paper.

Ros. Peace!
Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
Cel. Why should this desert silent be?

For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,

That shall civil 6 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.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd

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Ros. O most gentle Jupiter! what tedious
homily of love have you wearied your parishioners
withal, and never cry'd, Have patience, good people!
Cel. How now! back friends; Shepherd, go
off a little : - Go with him, sirrah.
Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an honour-
able retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet
with scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses?
Ros. O yes, I heard them all, and more too; for

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

Cel. That's no matter; the feet might bear the

verses.

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

Cel. But didst thou hear, without wondering how thy name should be hang'd and carved upon these trees?

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

Cel. Trow you, who hath done this?

Ros. Is it a man?

Ros. Nay, no mocking; speak sad brow, and true maid.8

Cel. I' faith, coz, 'tis he.

Ros. Orlando?

Cel. Orlando.

Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he, when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein went he?9 What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.

:

Cel. You must borrow me Garagantua's 1 mouth first 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size: To say, ay, and no, to these particulars, is more than to answer in a catechism.

and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

Ros. But doth he know that I am in this forest,

Cel. It is as easy to count atomies, as to resolve but take a taste of the propositions of a lover: my finding him, and relish it with a good observance, I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn. Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit.

Cel. Give me audience, good madam.

Ros. Proceed.

Cel. There lay he, stretch'd along like a wounded knight.

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

Cel. Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets very unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter.

Ros. O ominous! he comes to kill my heart. Cel. I would sing my song without a burden : thou bring'st me out of tune.

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. neck: Change you colour?

Ros. I pr'ythee, who?

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

Ros. Nay, but who is it?

Cel. Is it possible?

Ros. Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

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

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

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros. Why, let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

Cel. It is young Orlando; that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an instant.

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Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.

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

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

Jaq. I do not like her name.

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you, when she was christen'd.

Jaq. What stature is she of?

Orl. Just as high as my heart.

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers: Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of rings?

Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted

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