Cor. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now. Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Or if thou hast not broke from company, 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 Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale with me. And wish for her sake, more than for mine own, But I am shepherd to another man, And little recks 2 to find the way to heaven Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed, 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. 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. 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. 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? I met a fool i' the forest, Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags: 5 Made up of discords. Duke S. What fool is this? Jaq. O worthy fool! courtier ; And says, if ladies be but young, and fair, In mangled forms; - O, that I were a fool! Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 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 says, his bravery 7 is not on my cost, - Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn. Or else a rude despiser of good manners, 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 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, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; 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, Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days, Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while, Duke S. 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. I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. AMIENS sings. SONG. I. Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 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: This life is most jolly. II. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, As benefits forgot : As friend remember'd not. 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 But were I not the better part made mercy, Of my revenge, thou present: But look to it; Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine, Oli. O, that your highness knew my heart in this! out of doors; Well, push him 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 Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Let no face be kept in mind, 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! If a hart do lack a hind, So, be sure, will Rosalind. They that reap, must sheaf and bind; 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! For it is unpeopled? No; That shall civil 6 sayings show. Runs his erring pilgrimage ; 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend: Or at every sentence' end, Teaching all that read, to know Ros. O most gentle Jupiter! what tedious Cel. Didst thou hear these verses? some of them had in them more feet than the verses 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. 7 Features 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? 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 |