Cel. Hem them away.

Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem, and have him.
Cel. Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.
Ros. O! they take the part of a better wrestler than
myself.

Cel. 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 youngest son?

Ros. The duke my father lov'd his father dearly. Cel. 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.

Ros. No 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.

Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well? Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do.

Enter Duke FREDERICK, with Lords.

Look, here comes the duke.

Cel. With his eyes full of anger.

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.
Cel. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege:
I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F. You are a fool.-You, niece, provide your-
self:

If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt Duke FREDERICK and Lords.
Cel. O, my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers? will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
Ros. I have more cause.
Cel.
Thou hast not, cousin.
Pr'ythee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke
Hath banish'd me, his daughter?
Ros.
That he hath not.
Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love,

Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your fastest haste, Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.
And get you from our court.

Ros.

Me, uncle?

You, cousin:

Duke F.
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.

Ros.

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.

Duke F.

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.
Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.
Tell me, where on the likelihood depends.

Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's
enough.

Ros. 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.

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke F. Ay, Celia: we stay'd her for your sake;
Else had she with her father rang'd along.

Cel. 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 inseparate.

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her smooth-
ness,

Her very silence, and her patience,

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 your 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.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?
Cel.

In the forest of Arden.

To seek

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

my

uncle

Cel. 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.

Ros.
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-ax 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.

Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man?
Ros. I'll have no worser name than Jove's own page,
And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state:
No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we essay'd to steal
The clownish fool out of your father's court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Cel. 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.

ACT II.

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, proud, and bloody brother.

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,

Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns, As sure I think did never man love so,

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

Orl. O, good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant favour 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 for Ganymede, CELIA for Aliena, and
Clown, alias TOUCHSTONE.

Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!
Touch. I 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 show itself courageous to petticoat: therefore, courage, good Aliena.

¦ Cel. I pray you, bear with me: I can go no farther. 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.

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 a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chapped hands had milked: and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and, giving her them again, 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 speakest 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. Love, love! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.

Touch. And mine; but

It grows something stale with me,
And begins to fail 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. Holla, you clown!

Ros.

Cor. Who calls?

Peace, fool: he's not thy kinsman.

Touch. Your betters, sir.

Cor. Else are they very wretched.
Ros.

Good even to you, friend.

Peace, I say.

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 shear the fleeces that I
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,

graze :

Who doth ambition shun, [All together here. Thus may we see," quoth he, "how the world wags :

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made The motley fool thus moral on the time, yesterday in despite of my invention.

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 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.

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,

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,

They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? If ever sat at any good man's feast,

The why is plain as way to parish church:

He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,

Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

But to seem senseless of the bob; if not,

The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd,

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.

Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst 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,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all th' 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 means of wear 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 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.

see

Why, I have eat none yet.
Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?

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 commend, 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, 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.

fort!

[Exit.

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy :
This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful 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.
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 woful 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,

Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy dis- With eye severe, and beard of formal cut,

tress,

Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,

Orl. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;

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.

His youthful hose, well sav'd, 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,