William Shakespeare, As You Like It (1599-1600)


William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

This is a part of a collection of works by William Shakespeare.

Source

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, ed. with a glossary by W.J. Craig M.A. (London: Oxford University Press, 1916).

See the complete volume in HTML and facs. PDF.

AS YOU LIKE IT

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
EPILOGUE.

AS YOU LIKE IT

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke,	living in exile.
Frederick,	his Brother, Usurper of his Dominions.
Amiens, }	Lords attending upon the banished Duke.
Jaques, }	Lords attending upon the banished Duke.
Le Beau,	a Courtier, attending upon Frederick.
Charles,	a Wrestler.
Oliver, }	Sons of Sir Rowland de Boys.
Jaques, }
Orlando, }
Adam, }	Servants to Oliver.
Dennis, }	Servants to Oliver.
Touchstone,	a Clown.
Sir Oliver Martext,	a Vicar.
Corin, }	Shepherds.
Silvius, }	Shepherds.
William,	a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey.
A person representing Hymen.
Rosalind,	Daughter to the banished Duke.
Celia,	Daughter to Frederick.
Phebe,	a Shepherdess.
Audrey,	a Country Wench.
Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants.

Scene.—First, Oliver’s Orchard near his House; afterwards, in the Usurper’s Court, and in the Forest of Arden.

Scene I.— An Orchard near Oliver’s House. Enter Orlando and Adam.

Orl.

As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques 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. 27

Adam.

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

Orl.

Adam.

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.

Oli.

Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!

Enter Dennis.

Den.

Calls your worship? 95

Oli.

Was not Charles the duke’s wrestler here to speak with me?

Den.

So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access to you.

Oli.

Call him in. [Exit Dennis.] ’Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

Sport! Of what colour? 108

Le Beau.

Cel.

Duke F.

Cel.

I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. 228

[Charles and Orlando wrestle.

Ros.

O excellent young man!

Cel.

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down.

Orl.

Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. 240

Duke F.

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 pleas’d me with this deed, 244

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.

Cel.

Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

Orl.

I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son, 249

His youngest son; and would not change that calling,

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

Ros.

My father lov’d Sir Rowland as his soul,

And all the world was of my father’s mind: 253

Had I before known this young man his son,

I should have given him tears unto entreaties,

Ere he should thus have ventur’d.

Cel.

Gentle cousin, 256

Let us go thank him and encourage him:

My father’s rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv’d:

If you do keep your promises in love 260

But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,

Your mistress shall be happy.

Ros.

Gentleman,

[Giving him a chain from her neck.

Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,

That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. 264

Shall we go, coz?

Cel.

Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

Orl.

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. 268

Ros.

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.

Cel.

Will you go, coz? 272

Ros.

Have with you. Fare you well.

[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Orl.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her, yet she urg’d conference.

O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! 276

Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

Re-enter Le Beau.

Le Beau.

Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you

To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv’d

High commendation, true applause and love,

Yet such is now the duke’s condition 281

That he misconstrues all that you have done.

The duke is humorous: what he is indeed,

More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

Orl.

I thank you, sir; and pray you, tell me this; 285

Which of the two was daughter of the duke,

That here was at the wrestling?

Le Beau.

Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners: 288

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 292

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 296

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, 301

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

Orl.

I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.

[Exit Le Beau.

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother. 305

But heavenly Rosalind!

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Celia and Rosalind.

Cel.

Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! Not a word?

Ros.

Not one to throw at a dog. 3

Cel.

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Ros.

Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any. 9

Cel.

But is all this for your father?

Ros.

No, some of it is for my child’s father:

Duke F.

Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, 44

And get you from our court.

Ros.

Me, uncle?

Duke F.

You, cousin:

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, 48

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,— 52

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, 56

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 whereon the likelihood depends. 60

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; 64

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. 68

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. 73

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, 76

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.

Duke F.

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, 80

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 84

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: 88

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F

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. 92

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go, and what to bear with us: 104

And do not seek to take your change 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. 108

Ros.

Why, whither shall we go?

Cel.

To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Ros.

Alas, what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! 112

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

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 116

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-axe upon my thigh, 120

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 124

That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel.

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

Ros.

I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page,

And therefore look you call me Ganymede. 128

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 assay’d to steal

The clownish fool out of your father’s court? 133

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, 136

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 140

To liberty and not to banishment.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and other Lords, like Foresters.

Duke S.

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? 4

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 9

‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.’

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 12

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, 16

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

I would not change it.

Ami.

Happy is your Grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 20

Duke S.

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 gor’d.

First Lord.

Indeed, my lord, 25

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 29

Did steal behind him as he lay along

Under an oak whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; 32

To the which place a poor sequester’d stag,

That from the hunters’ aim had ta’en a hurt,

Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,

The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans

That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 37

Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

Cours’d one another down his innocent nose

In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, 40

Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle? 44

First Lord.

O, yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

‘Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘thou mak’st a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 48

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, 52

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 56

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 60

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 contemplation? 64

Sec. Lord.

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

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. 68

Sec. Lord.

I’ll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F.

Can it be possible that no man saw them?

It cannot be: some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

First Lord.

I cannot hear of any that did see her. 4

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early

They found the bed untreasur’d of their mistress.

Sec. Lord.

My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft 8

Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

Hisperia, the princess’ gentlewoman,

Confesses that she secretly o’erheard

Your daughter and her cousin much commend

The parts and graces of the wrestler 13

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company. 16

Duke F.

Send to his brother; 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 20

To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Before Oliver’s House.

Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.

Orl.

Who’s there?

Adam.

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? 8

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. 13

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 20

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, 24

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. 28

Orl.

Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

Adam.

No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orl.

What! wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce 32

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 36

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 40

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, 44

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 48

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, 52

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 service of the antique world, 57

When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

Where none will sweat but for promotion, 60

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, 64

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. 68

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. 72

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

But at fourscore it is too late a week:

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. 21

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,— 28

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: 36

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearing thy hearer with thy mistress’ praise,

Thou hast not lov’d:

Or if thou hast not broke from company 40

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not lov’d. O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

[Exit.

Ros.

Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure found mine own. 44

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 chopped 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. 56

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. 60

Ros.

Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion

Is much upon my fashion.

Touch.

And mine; but it grows something stale with me. 64

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.

Peace, fool: he’s not thy kinsman.

Cor.

Who calls? 68

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 prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 73

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, 76

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: 80

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, 85

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. 88

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 anything.

Ros.

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, 92

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. 96

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, 100

And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Amiens, Jaques, and Others.

SONG.

Ami.

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 4

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather. 8

Who doth ambition shun,

[All together here.

And loves to live i’ the sun,

Secking the food he eats, 40

And pleas’d with what he gets.

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy 44

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. 48

Jaq.

Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,

Leaving his wealth and ease, 52

A stubborn will to please,

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he, 56

An if he will come to me.

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. 61

Ami.

And I’ll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene VI.— Another Part of the Forest.

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. 3

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 anything 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 lookest 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 anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Part of the Forest.

A table set out. Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Lords like Outlaws.

Duke S.

I think he be transform’d into a beast,

For I can nowhere find him like a man.

First Lord.

My lord, he is but even now gone hence:

Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 4

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.

First Lord.

He saves my labour by his own approach. 8

Enter Jaques.

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! 13

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, 16

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, 20

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, 24

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 28

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 32

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, 36

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 41

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; 44

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, 48

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: 52

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 56

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, 60

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: 64

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,

Wouldst 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, 72

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? 76

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,— 80

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, 85

Of smooth civility; yet I am inland bred 96

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. 101

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. 105

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 108

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; 112

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, 116

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, 120

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 124

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, I go to find my fawn 128

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, 133

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: 136

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; 141

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. 144

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 woful ballad 148

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,

Seeking the bubble reputation 152

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; 156

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 160

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, 164

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.

Duke S.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,

And let him feed.

Orl.

I thank you most for him. 168

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. 172

Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

SONG.

Ami.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

    As man’s ingratitude;  176

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,  184

That dost not bite so nigh

    As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp  188

    As friend remember’d not.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

    Then heigh-ho! the holly!  192

      This life is most jolly.

Duke S.

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 196

Most truly limn’d and living in your face,

Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke

That lov’d your father: the residue of your fortune,

Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, 200

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.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F.

Not seen 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: 4

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. 8

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. 12

Oli.

O that your highness knew my heart in this!

I never lov’d my brother in my life.

Duke F.

More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;

And let my officers of such a nature 16

Make an extent upon his house and lands.

Do this expediently and turn him going.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Forest of Arden.

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, 5

And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,

That every eye, which in this forest looks,

Shall see thy virtue witness’d everywhere. 8

Run, run, Orlando: carve on every tree

Ros.

From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind

Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 96

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lin’d

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind, 100

But the fair of Rosalind.

Enter Celia, reading a paper.

Ros.

Peace! 132

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

Cel.

Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No;

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree,  136

That shall civil sayings show.

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the stretching of a span  140

Buckles in his sum of age;

Some, of violated vows

’Twixt the souls of friend and friend:

But upon the fairest boughs,  144

Or at every sentence’ end,

Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know

The quintessence of every sprite  148

Heaven would in little show.

Therefore Heaven Nature charg’d

That one body should be fill’d

With all graces wide enlarg’d:  152

Nature presently distill’d

Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra’s majesty,

Atalanta’s better part,  156

Sad Lucretia’s modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis’d

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,  160

To have the touches dearest priz’d.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.

Ros.

O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried, ‘Have patience, good people!’

Cel.

How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little: go with him, sirrah. 169

Touch.

Come, sweet Audrey:

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver: not 104

O sweet Oliver!

O brave Oliver!

Leave me not behind thee:

but,— 108

Wind away,

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee.

[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey.

Sir Oli.

Cor.

Mistress and master, you have oft inquir’d 48

After the shepherd that complain’d of love,

Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

That was his mistress.

Cel.

Well, and what of him? 52

Cor.

If you will see a pageant truly play’d,

Between the pale complexion of true love

And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, 56

If you will mark it.

Ros.

O! come, let us remove:

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

Sil.

Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:

Say that you love me not, but say not so

In bitterness. The common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes hard, 4

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck

But first begs pardon: will you sterner be

Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind.

Phe.

I would not be thy executioner: 8

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye:

’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, 12

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,

Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers!

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee; 16

Now counterfeit to swound; why now fall down;

Or, if thou canst not, O! for shame, for shame,

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee; 20

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, 24

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,

Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

Sil.

O dear Phebe,

If ever,—as that ever may be near,— 28

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love’s keen arrows make.

Phe.

But, till that time

Come not thou near me; and, when that time comes, 32

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As, till that time I shall not pity thee.

Ros.

[Advancing.] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once, 36

Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,—

As by my faith, I see no more in you

Than without candle may go dark to bed,—

Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? 40

Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?

I see no more in you than in the ordinary

Of nature’s sale-work. Od’s my little life!

I think she means to tangle my eyes too. 44

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:

’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

That can entame my spirits to your worship. 48

You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain?

You are a thousand times a properer man

Than she a woman: ’tis such fools as you 52

That make the world full of ill-favour’d children:

’Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

And out of you she sees herself more proper

Than any of her lineaments can show her. 56

But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees,

And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love:

For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer: 61

Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

Phe.

Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together: 64

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

Ros.

He’s fallen in love with her foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?

Phe.

For no ill will I bear you.

Ros.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me,

For I am falser than vows made in wine: 73

Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,

’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.

Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. 76

Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,

And be not proud: though all the world could see,

None could be so abus’d in sight as he.

Come, to our flock. 80

[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:

By giving love your sorrow and my grief 88

Were both extermin’d.

Phe.

’Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;

But what care I for words? yet words do well,

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 112

It is a pretty youth: not very pretty:

But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him:

He’ll make a proper man: the best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence his eye did heal it up. 117

He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall:

His leg is but so so; and yet ’tis well:

There was a pretty redness in his lip, 120

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him 124

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him; but, for my part,

I love him not nor hate him not; and yet

Have more cause to hate him than to love him:

For what had he to do to chide at me? 129

He said mine eyes were black and my hair black;

And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me.

I marvel why I answer’d not again: 132

But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance.

I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?

Sil.

Phebe, with all my heart.

Phe.

I’ll write it straight;

The matter’s in my head and in my heart:

I will be bitter with him and passing short.

Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.

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. 26

Jaq.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

Ros.

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! 31

Enter Orlando.

Orl.

Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Jaq.

I warrant you, with pure love and a troubled brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth to sleep. Look, who comes here.

Enter Silvius.

Sil.

My errand is to you, fair youth.

My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this: 8

[Giving 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; 12

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Ros.

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; 16

She calls me proud, and that she could not love me

Were man as rare as phœnix. ’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. 21

Sil.

No, I protest, I know not the contents:

Phebe did write it.

Ros.

Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn’d into the extremity of love. 24

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; 29

This is a man’s invention, and his hand.

Sil.

Sure, it is hers.

Ros.

Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style,

A style for challengers; why, she defies me, 33

Like Turk to Christian: woman’s gentle brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,

Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect 36

Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

Sil.

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty.

Ros.

She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads.] 40

Art thou god to shepherd turn’d,

That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d?

Can a woman rail thus?

Sil.

Call you this railing? 44

Ros.

[reads.]

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, 48

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,  52

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!  56

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  60

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.  64

Sil.

Call you this chiding?

Cel.

Alas, poor shepherd!

Ros.

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.

Enter Oliver.

Oli.

Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you if you know, 77

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

A sheepcote fenc’d about with olive-trees?

Cel.

West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom: 80

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. 84

Oli.

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 88

When last the young Orlando parted from you 100

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, 104

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, 108

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, 112

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, 116

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: 120

This seen, Orlando did approach the man,

And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

Cel.

O! I have heard him speak of that same brother;

And he did render him the most unnatural 124

That liv’d ’mongst men.

Oli.

And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.

Ros.

But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,

Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness? 128

Oli.

Twice did he turn his back and purpos’d so;

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,

And nature, stronger than his just occasion,

Made him give battle to the lioness, 132

Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling

From miserable slumber I awak’d.

Cel.

Are you his brother?

Ros.

Was it you he rescu’d?

Cel.

Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him? 136

Oli.

’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.

Ros.

But, for the bloody napkin?

Oli.

By and by.

When from the first to last, betwixt us two, 141

Tears our recountments had most kindly bath’d,

As how I came into that desert place:—

In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, 144

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, 149

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; 152

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

Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying. 4

Touch.

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey; a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

Aud.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Orlando and Oliver.

Orl.

And I for Rosalind.

Ros.

And I for no woman.

Sil.

It is to be all made of faith and service;

And so am I for Phebe. 97

Phe.

And I for Ganymede.

Orl.

And I for Rosalind.

Ros.

And I for no woman. 100

Sil.

It is to be all made of fantasy,

All made of passion, and all made of wishes;

All adoration, duty, and observance;

Nor I.

Orl.

Nor I.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

Touch.

To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be married.

Aud.

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 banished duke’s pages. 6

By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you; and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia.

Duke S.

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

Can do all this that he hath promised?

Orl.

I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;

As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. 4

Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.

Ros.

Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg’d.

[To the Duke.] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,

You will bestow her on Orlando here?

Duke S.

Phe.

So is the bargain.

Ros.

[To Silvius.] You say, that you’ll have Phebe, if she will? 16

Sil.

Though to have her and death were both one thing.

Ros.

I have promis’d to make all this matter even.

Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter; 20

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, 24

To make these doubts all even.

[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Duke S.

I do remember in this shepherd boy

Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.

Orl.

My lord, the first time that I ever saw him, 28

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, 32

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.

Hym.

Then is there mirth in heaven,

When earthly things made even 116

Atone together.

Good duke, receive thy daughter;

Hymen from heaven brought her;

Yea, brought her hither, 120

That thou mightst join her hand with his,

Whose heart within her bosom is.

Ros.

[To Duke S.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

[To Orlando.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. 124

Duke S.

If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

Orl.

If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

Phe.

If sight and shape be true,

Why then, my love adieu! 128

Ros.

[To Duke S.] 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.

Hym.

Peace, ho! I bar confusion:  132

’Tis I must make conclusion

Of these most strange events:

Here’s eight that must take hands

To join in Hymen’s bands,  136

If truth holds true contents.

[To Orlando and Rosalind.] You and you no cross shall part:

[To Oliver and Celia.] You and you are heart in heart:

[To Phebe.] You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord:  141

[To Touchstone and Audrey.] You and you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing,  144

Feed yourselves with questioning,

That reason wonder may diminish,

How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG.

Wedding is great Juno’s crown: 148

O blessed bond of board and bed!

’Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High wedlock then be honoured.

Honour, high honour, and renown, 152

To Hymen, god of every town!

Duke S.

O my dear niece! welcome thou art to me:

Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

Phe.

[To Silvius.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; 156

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

Enter Jaques de Boys.

Jaq. de B.

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 161

Men of great worth resorted to this forest,

Address’d a mighty power, which were on foot

In his own conduct, purposely to take 164

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 168

Both from his enterprise and from the world;

His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother,

And all their lands restor’d to them again

That were with him exil’d. This to be true, 172

I do engage my life.

Duke S.

Welcome, young man;

Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding:

To one, his lands withheld; and to the other

A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 176

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 endur’d shrewd days and nights with us,

Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 181

According to the measure of their states.

Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,

And fall into our rustic revelry. 184

Play, music! and you, brides and bridegrooms all,

With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall.

Jaq.

Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,

The duke hath put on a religious life, 188

And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

Jaq. de B.

He hath.

Jaq.

To him will I: out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learn’d.

[To Duke S.] You to your former honour I bequeath; 193

Your patience and your virtue well deserve it:

[To Orlando.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit:

[To Oliver.] You to your land, and love, and great allies: 196

[To Silvius.] You to a long and well-deserved bed:

[To Touchstone.] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage

Is but for two months victual’d. So, to your pleasures:

I am for other than for dancing measures. 200

Duke S.

Stay, Jaques, stay.

Jaq.

To see no pastime, I: what you would have

I’ll stay to know at your abandon’d cave.

[Exit.

Duke S.

Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites, 204

As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.

[A dance. Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Rosalind.

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 furnished like a beggar, therefore to 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 hate 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.

[Exeunt.