037 Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste

And get you from our court.

Me, uncle?

You, cousin:

039 Within these ten days if that thou be’st found

040 So near our public court as twenty miles,

Thou diest for it.

I do beseech your Grace,

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:

If with myself I hold intelligence,

044 Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;

045 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.

Thus do all traitors:

If their purgation did consist in words,

050 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:

053 Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

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

055 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:

060 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 ranged along.

065 Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay;

066 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,

070 Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together,

And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans,

072 Still we went coupled and inseparable.

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

Her very silence and her patience

075 Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;

077 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

080 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 yourself:

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,

085 And in the greatness of my word, you die. [Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords.

086 Cel. O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?

087 Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.

Ros. I have more cause.

089 Thou hast not, cousin;

090 Prithee, be cheerful: know’st thou not, the Duke

Hath banish’d me, his daughter?

That he hath not.

092 Cel. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love

093 Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:

Shall we be sunder’d? shall we part, sweet girl?

095 No: let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go and what to bear with us;

098 And do not seek to take your change upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;

100 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?

103 Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,

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

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel. I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire

108 And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

The like do you: so shall we pass along

And never stir assailants.

110 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,

A boar-spear in my hand; and—in my heart

115 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?

120 Ros. I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page;

And therefore look you call me Ganymede.

122 But what will you be call’d?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state;

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

125 Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay’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,

130 And get our jewels and our wealth together;

Devise the fittest time and safest way

To hide us from pursuit that will be made

133 After my flight. Now go we in content

To liberty and not to banishment. [Exeunt.

001 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?

005 Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,

006 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

010 ‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.’

Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head:

015 And this our life exempt from public haunt

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones and good in every thing.

018 I would not change it.

Happy is your Grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

020 Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

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 gored.

025 Indeed, my lord,

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

030 Did steal behind him as he lay along

031 Under an oak whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:

To the which place a poor sequester’d stag,

That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt,

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

The wretched animal heaved forth such groans,

That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat

Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

Coursed one another down his innocent nose

040 In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,

Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

042 Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

Augmenting it with tears.

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle?

045 First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

‘Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘thou makest a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

049 To that which had too much:’ then, being there alone,

050 Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends;

‘’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,

055 ‘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

059 The body of the country, city, court,

060 Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we

Are mere usurpers, tyrants and what’s worse,

062 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?

065 Sec. Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Show me the place:

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he’s full of matter.

First Lord. I’ll bring you to him straight. [Exeunt.

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.

005 The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

Saw her a-bed, and in the morning early

They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.

008 Sec. Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft

Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

010 Hisperia, 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;

015 And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company.

Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither;

017 If he be absent, bring his brother to me;

I ’ll make him find him: do this suddenly,

020 And let not search and inquisition quail

To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt.

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?

005 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

008 The bonny priser of the humorous Duke?

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you

010 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

015 Envenoms him that bears it!

016 Orl. Why, what’s the matter?

O unhappy youth!

017 Come not within these doors; within this roof

The enemy of all your graces lives:

Your brother—no, no brother; yet the son—

020 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,

025 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.

029 Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

030 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

A thievish living on the common road?

This I must do, or know not what to do:

035 Yet this I will not do, do how I can;

I rather will subject me to the malice

037 Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

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

039 The thrifty hire I saved under your father,

040 Which I did store to be my foster-nurse

041 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,

045 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

049 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,

050 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

055 In all your business and necessities.

Orl. O good old man, how well in thee appears

057 The constant service of the antique world,

058 When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

060 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 prunest a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield

065 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,

070 To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.

071 From seventeen years till now almost fourscore

Here lived I, but now live here no more.

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

074 But at fourscore it is too late a week:

075 Yet fortune cannot recompense me better

Than to die well and not my master’s debtor. [Exeunt.

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

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

Cor. I partly guess; for I have loved ere now.

Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

024 As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow:

025 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.

030 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 loved:

034 Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

035 Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise,

Thou hast not loved:

Or if thou hast not broke from company

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not loved.

040 O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! [Exit.

041 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 045 coming a-night to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing 046 of her batlet and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milked: and I remember the wooing of a peascod 048 instead of her; from whom I took two cods and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears ‘Wear these for my 050 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

055 I break my shins against it.

056 Ros. Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion

057 Is much upon my fashion.

058 Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.

059 Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man

060 If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

Holla, you clown!

Ros. Peace, fool: he’s not thy kinsman.

Who calls?

Touch. Your betters, sir.

063 Else are they very wretched.

064 Ros. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

065 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,

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:

Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d

And faints for succour.

070 Fair sir, I pity her

And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,

My fortunes were more able to relieve her;

073 But I am shepherd to another man

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:

075 My master is of churlish disposition

076 And little recks to find the way to heaven

By doing deeds of hospitality:

078 Besides, his cote, his flocks and bounds of feed

Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,

080 By reason of his absence, there is nothing

That you will feed on; but what is, come see,

And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

Cor. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

085 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.

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

090 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,

094 I will your very faithful feeder be

095 And buy it with your gold right suddenly. [Exeunt.

Song.

Jaq. More, more, I prithee, more.

010 Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

011 Jaq. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.

014 Ami. My voice is ragged: I know I cannot please you.

015 Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to 016 sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call you ’em stanzos?

Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

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

020 Ami. More at your request than to please myself.

Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank 022 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 025 beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.

Ami. Well, I’ll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; 028 the Duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you.

030 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.

Song.

Jaq. I’ll give you a verse to this note, that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

044 Ami. And I’ll sing it.

045 Jaq. Thus it goes:—

Ami. What’s that ‘ducdame’?

055 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 prepared. [Exeunt severally.

Duke S. I think he be transform’d into a beast;

For I can no where find him like a man.

First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence:

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

005 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.

First Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

010 That your poor friends must woo your company?

What, you look merrily!

Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,

013 A motley fool; a miserable world!

As I do live by food, I met a fool;

015 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:’

020 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 we may see,’ quoth he, ‘how the world wags:

’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;

025 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

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

030 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

031 That fools should be so deep-contemplative;

And I did laugh sans intermission

An hour by his dial. O noble fool!

034 A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

035 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

040 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.

It is my only suit;

045 Provided that you weed your better judgements

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;

050 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:

053 He that a fool doth very wisely hit

054 Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

055 Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,

056 The wise man’s folly is anatomized

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

060 Cleanse the foul body of the 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?

064 Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:

065 For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

066 As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all the embossed sores and headed evils,

That thou with license of free foot hast caught,

Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

070 Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride,

That can therein tax any private party?

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

073 Till that the weary very means do ebb?

What woman in the city do I name,

075 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,

080 That says his bravery is not of my cost,

Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits

His folly to the mettle of my speech?

083 There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wrong’d him: if it do him right,

085 Then he hath wrong’d himself; if he be free,

Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,

087 Unclaim’d of any man. But who comes here?

Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.

Why, I have eat none yet.

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.

090 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

095 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.

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

102 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.

105 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

109 Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are

110 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,

115 If ever sat at any good man’s feast,

If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear

And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied,

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

119 In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

120 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 wiped our eyes

Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d:

And therefore sit you down in gentleness

125 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

And give it food. There is an old poor man,

130 Who after me hath many a weary step

Limp’d in pure love: till he be first sufficed,

132 Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger,

I will not touch a bit.

Go find him out,

And we will nothing waste till you return.

135 Orl. I thank ye; and be blest 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

139 Wherein we play in.

All the world’s a stage,

140 And all the men and women merely players:

141 They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

143 His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

145 Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

150 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 lined,

155 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,

160 His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

161 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,

165 Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.

167 Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen,

And let him feed.

Orl. I thank you most for him.

So had you need:

170 I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Duke S. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you

As yet, to question you about your fortunes.

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

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

Most truly limn’d and living in your face,

195 Be truly welcome hither: I am the Duke

That loved your father: the residue of your fortune,

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

198 Thou art right welcome as thy master is.

Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,

200 And let me all your fortunes understand. [Exeunt.