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'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.
Duke S. And did you leave him in this con-
templation?

2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com-
menting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S. Show me the place;

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.

2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt.

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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 va-
liant?

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!

Orl. Why, what's the matter?
Adam. 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.

Duke F. Can it be possible, that no man saw This is no place, this house is but a butchery;

them?

It cannot be some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

1 Lord. 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 untreasur'd of their mis-

tress.

2 Lord. 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.
Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch that gal-
lant 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.

SCENE III.-Before Oliver's house.
Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.

Orl. Who's there?

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, would'st thou have me go?

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orl. What, would'st 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.

Adam. But do not so: I have five hundred
crowns,

The thrifty hire I sav'd 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;

Adam. What! my young master? O, my I'll do the service of a younger man

gentle master,

In all your business and necessities.

Orl. 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 prun'st 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.

Adam. 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.

SCENE IV.-The Forest of Arden.` Enter ROSALIND in boy's clothes, CELIA drest like a Shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE. Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! Touch. 1 care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

Ros. 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 shew itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena.

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

Touch. 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.

Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.

Touch. 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.

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone:-Look you, who comes here; a young man, and an old, in

solemn talk.

Enter CORIN and SILVIUS.

Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still.

Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

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 mine own.

Touch. And I mine: I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon & stone, and bid him take that for coming anight to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and then the cow's dugs that her pretty chop'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.

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.

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man,
If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.

Touch. Holloa; you, clown!
Ros. Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.
Cor. Who calls?

Touch. Your betters, sir.

Cor. Else are they very wretched.
Ros. Peace, I say:-

Good even to you, friend.

Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. Ros. I pr'ythee, 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.

Cor. 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 sheer 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.

SONG.

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.

Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I like this place,

And willingly could waste my time in it.

Cor. 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.

SCENE V.-The same.

[Exeunt.

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But winter and rough weather.

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

Ami. It will make you melancholy, monsieur Jaques.

I

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

Ami. My voice is ragged; 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 disputable 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.

Who doth ambition shun, [All together here. And loves to live i the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleas'd with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I
made yesterday in despite of my invention.
Ami. And I'll sing it.
Jaq. Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass,
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth aud case,
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdàme, ducdàme ;
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,

And if he will come to Ámi.

Ami. What's that ducdame?

Jaq. "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. Ami. And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is prepar❜d. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE VI.-The same.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM. Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: 0, 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 cheerily: and I'll be with thee quickly.-Yet thou liest the bleak air: Come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a din ner, if there live any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam! [Exeunt.

SCENE VII.-The same.

A table set out. Enter Duke senior, AMIENS, Lords, and others.

Duke S.I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can no where find him like a man.

1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke S. 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.

Enter JAQUES.

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 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. Duke S. What fool is this?

Jaq. 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 bisket
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms :-0, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S. Thou shalt have one.
Jaq. It is my only suit;

Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them,
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have;
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 anatomiz'd
Even by the sqand'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 chi ding sin :

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all the embossed sores, and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Would'st thou disgorge into the general world.

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 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, 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?

Orl. 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.

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

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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 eye-lids 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 ministred.

Orl. 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 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 you 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 sat-
chell,

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' eye-brow: Then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice;

In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide

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