As You Like It

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Original text
Act III, Scene I
Enter Duke, Lords, & Oliuer.

Du.
Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:
But were I not the better part made mercie,
I should not seeke an absent argument
Of my reuenge, thou present: but looke to it,
Finde out thy brother wheresoere he is,
Seeke him with Candle: bring him dead, or liuing
Within this tweluemonth, or turne thou no more
To seeke a liuing in our Territorie.
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 brothers mouth,
Of what we thinke against thee.

Ol.
Oh that your Highnesse knew my heart in this:
I neuer lou'd my brother in my life.

Duke.
More villaine thou. Well push him out of dores
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent vpon his house and Lands:
Do this expediently, and turne him going.
Exeunt
Original text
Act III, Scene II
Enter Orlando.

Orl.
Hang there my verse, in witnesse of my loue,
And thou thrice crowned Queene of night suruey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale spheare aboue
Thy Huntresse name, that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind, these Trees shall be my Bookes,
And in their barkes my thoughts Ile charracter,
That euerie eye, which in this Forrest lookes,
Shall see thy vertue witnest euery where.
Run, run Orlando, carue on euery Tree,
The faire, the chaste, and vnexpressiue shee.
Exit
Enter Corin & Clowne.

Co.
And how like you this shepherds life Mr Touchstone?

Clow.
Truely Shepheard, in respect of it selfe, it is
a good life; but in respect that it is a shepheards life, it
is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it verie well:
but in respect that it is priuate, it is a very vild life. Now
in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth mee well: but in
respect it is not in the Court, it is tedious. As it is a spare
life (looke you) it fits my humor well: but as there is no
more plentie in it, it goes much against my stomacke.
Has't any Philosophie in thee shepheard?

Cor.
No more, but that I know the more one sickens, the
worse at ease he is: and that hee that wants money,
meanes, and content, is without three good frends. That
the propertie of raine is to wet, and fire to burne: That pood
pasture makes fat sheepe: and that a great cause of the
night, is lacke of the Sunne: That hee that hath learned no wit
by Nature, nor Art, may complaine of good breeding, or
comes of a very dull kindred.

Clo.
Such a one is a naturall Philosopher: Was't
euer in Court, Shepheard?

Cor.
No truly.

Clo.
Then thou art damn'd.

Cor.
Nay, I hope.

Clo.
Truly thou art damn'd, like an ill roasted
Egge, all on one side.

Cor.
For not being at Court? your reason.

Clo.
Why, if thou neuer was't at Court, thou
neuer saw'st good manners: if thou neuer saw'st good
maners, then thy manners must be wicked, and wickednes
is sin, and sinne is damnation: Thou art in a parlous
state shepheard.

Cor.
Not a whit Touchstone, those that are good
maners at the Court, are as ridiculous in the Countrey,
as the behauiour of the Countrie is most mockeable at the
Court. You told me, you salute not at the Court, but you
kisse your hands; that courtesie would be vncleanlie if
Courtiers were shepheards.

Clo.
Instance, briefly: come, instance.

Cor.
Why we are still handling our Ewes, and their Fels
you know are greasie.

Clo.
Why do not your Courtiers hands sweate?
and is not the grease of a Mutton, as wholesome as the
sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: A better instance I
say: Come.

Cor.
Besides, our hands are hard.

Clo.
Your lips wil feele them the sooner. Shallow
agen: a more sounder instance, come.

Cor.
And they are often tarr'd ouer, with the surgery of
our sheepe: and would you haue vs kisse Tarre? The
Courtiers hands are perfum'd with Ciuet.

Clo.
Most shallow man: Thou wormes meate in
respect of a good peece of flesh indeed: learne of the
wise and perpend: Ciuet is of a baser birth then Tarre, the
verie vncleanly fluxe of a Cat. Mend the instance Shepheard.

Cor.
You haue too Courtly a wit, for me, Ile rest.

Clo.
Wilt thou rest damn'd? God helpe thee
shallow man: God make incision in thee, thou art raw.

Cor.
Sir, I am a true Labourer, I earne that I eate: get
that I weare; owe no man hate, enuie no mans happinesse:
glad of other mens good content with my harme: and
the greatest of my pride, is to see my Ewes graze, & my
Lambes sucke.

Clo.
That is another simple sinne in you, to bring
the Ewes and the Rammes together, and to offer to get your
liuing, by the copulation of Cattle, to be bawd to a Belweather,
and to betray a shee-Lambe of a tweluemonth to a
crooked-pated olde Cuckoldly Ramme, out of all reasonable
match. If thou bee'st not damn'd for this, the diuell
himselfe will haue no shepherds, I cannot see else how
thou shouldst scape.

Cor.
Heere comes yong Mr Ganimed, my new
Mistrisses Brother.
Enter Rosalind.

Ros.

From the east to westerne Inde,
no iewel is like Rosalinde,
Hir worth being mounted on the winde,
through all the world beares Rosalinde.
All the pictures fairest Linde,
are but blacke to Rosalinde:
Let no face bee kept in mind,
but the faire of Rosalinde.

Clo.
Ile rime you so, eight yeares together;
dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is
the right Butter-womens ranke to Market.

Ros.
Out Foole.

Clo.
For a taste.
If a Hart doe lacke a Hinde,
Let him seeke out Rosalinde:
If the Cat will after kinde,
so be sure will Rosalinde:
Wintred garments must be linde,
so must slender Rosalinde:
They that reap must sheafe and binde,
then to cart with Rosalinde.
Sweetest nut, hath sowrest rinde,
such a nut is Rosalinde.
He that sweetest rose will finde,
must finde Loues pricke, & Rosalinde.
This is the verie false gallop of Verses, why doe you infect
your selfe with them?

Ros.
Peace you dull foole, I found them on a tree.

Clo.
Truely the tree yeelds bad fruite.

Ros.
Ile graffe it with you, and then I shall graffe
it with a Medler: then it will be the earliest fruit
i'th country: for you'l be rotten ere you bee halfe ripe,
and that's the right vertue of the Medler.

Clo.
You haue said: but whether wisely or no,
let the Forrest iudge.
Enter Celia with a writing.

Ros.
Peace, here comes my sister reading, stand
aside.

Cel.
Why should this Desert bee,
for it is vnpeopled? Noe:
Tonges Ile hang on euerie tree,
that shall ciuill sayings shoe.
Some, how briefe the Life of man
runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the stretching of a span,
buckles in his summe of age.
Some of violated vowes,
twixt the soules of friend, and friend:
But vpon the fairest bowes,
or at euerie sentence end;
Will I Rosalinda write,
teaching all that reade, to know
The quintessence of euerie sprite,
heauen would in little show.
Therefore heauen Nature charg'd,
that one bodie shonld be fill'd
With all Graces wide enlarg'd,
nature presently distill'd
Helens cheeke, but not his heart,
Cleopatra's Maiestie:
Attalanta's better part,
sad Lucrecia's Modestie.
Thus Rosalinde of manie parts,
by Heauenly Synode was deuis'd,
Of manie faces, eyes, and hearts,
to haue the touches deerest pris'd.
Heauen would that shee these gifts should haue,
and I to liue and die her slaue.

Ros.
O most gentle Iupiter, what tedious homilie of
Loue haue you wearied your parishioners withall, and
neuer cri'de, haue patience good people.

Cel.
How now backe friends: Shepheard, go off a little:
go with him sirrah.

Clo.
Come Shepheard, let vs make an honorable
retreit, though not with bagge and baggage, yet with
scrip and scrippage.
Exit.

Cel.
Didst thou heare these verses?

Ros.
O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for
some of them had in them more feete then the Verses
would beare.

Cel.
That's no matter: the feet might beare ye verses.

Ros.
I, but the feet were lame, and could not beare
themselues without the verse, and therefore stood lamely
in the verse.

Cel.
But didst thou heare without wondering, how thy
name should be hang'd and carued vpon these trees?

Ros.
I was seuen of the nine daies out of the wonder,
before you came: for looke heere what I found on a Palme tree;
I was neuer so berimd since Pythagoras time
that I was an Irish Rat, which I can hardly remember.

Cel.
Tro you, who hath done this?

Ros.
Is it a man?

Cel.
And a chaine that you once wore about his neck:
change you colour?

Ros.
I pre'thee who?

Cel.
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to
meete; but Mountaines may bee remoou'd with Earth-quakes,
and so encounter.

Ros.
Nay, but who is it?

Cel.
Is it possible?

Ros.
Nay, I pre'thee now, with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.

Cel.
O wonderfull, wonderfull, and most wonderfull
wonderfull, and yet againe wonderful, and after that out of
all hooping.

Ros.
Good my complection, dost thou think
though I am caparison'd like a man, I haue a doublet
and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more, is a
South-sea of discouerie. I pre'thee tell me, who is it
quickely, and speake apace: I would thou couldst stammer,
that thou might'st powre this conceal'd man out of thy
mouth, as Wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle:
either too much at once, or none at all. I pre'thee take
the Corke out of thy mouth, that I may drinke thy tydings.

Cel.
So you may put a man in your belly.

Ros.
Is he of Gods making? What manner of
man? Is his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a
beard?

Cel.
Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros.
Why God will send more, if the man will bee
thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou
delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

Cel.
It is yong Orlando, that tript vp the Wrastlers
heeles, and your heart, both in an instant.

Ros.
Nay, but the diuell take mocking: speake sadde
brow, and true maid.

Cel.
I'faith (Coz) tis he.

Ros.
Orlando?

Cel.
Orlando.

Ros.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet
& hose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What
sayde he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What
makes hee heere? Did he aske for me? Where remaines he ?
How parted he with thee ? And when shalt thou see
him againe? Answer me in one word.

Cel.
You must borrow me Gargantuas mouth first:
'tis a Word too great for any mouth of this Ages size,
to say I and no, to these particulars, is more then to
answer in a Catechisme.

Ros.
But doth he know that I am in this Forrest, and
in mans apparrell? Looks he as freshly, as he did the
day he Wrastled?

Cel.
It is as easie to count Atomies as to resolue the
propositions of a Louer: but take a taste of my finding
him, and rellish it with good obseruance. I found him
vnder a tree like a drop'd Acorne.

Ros.
It may vvel be cal'd Ioues tree, when it
droppes forth fruite.

Cel.
Giue me audience, good Madam.

Ros.
Proceed.

Cel.
There lay hee stretch'd along like a Wounded
knight.

Ros.
Though it be pittie to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground.

Cel.
Cry holla, to the tongue, I prethee: it curuettes
vnseasonably. He was furnish'd like a Hunter.

Ros.
O ominous, he comes to kill my Hart.

Cel.
I would sing my song without a burthen, thou
bring'st me out of tune.

Ros.
Do you not know I am a woman, when I
thinke, I must speake: sweet, say on.
Enter Orlando & Iaques.

Cel.
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not heere?

Ros.
'Tis he, slinke by, and note him.

Iaq
I thanke you for your company, but good faith
I had as liefe haue beene my selfe alone.

Orl.
And so had I: but yet for fashion sake / I thanke
you too, for your societie.

Iaq.
God buy you, let's meet as little as we can.

Orl.
I do desire we may be better strangers.

Iaq.
I pray you marre no more trees vvith Writing / Loue-songs
in their barkes.

Orl.
I pray you marre no moe of my verses with
reading them ill-fauouredly.

Iaq.
Rosalinde is your loues name?

Orl.
Yes, Iust.

Iaq.
I do not like her name.

Orl.
There was no thought of pleasing you when
she was christen'd.

Iaq.
What stature is she of?

Orl.
Iust as high as my heart.

Iaq.
You are ful of prety answers: haue you not bin
acquainted with goldsmiths wiues, & cond thẽ
out of rings

Orl.
Not so: but I answer you right painted cloath,
from whence you haue studied your questions.

Iaq.
You haue a nimble wit; I thinke 'twas made of
Attalanta's heeles. Will you sitte downe with me, and wee two,
will raile against our Mistris the world, and all our
miserie.

Orl.
I wil chide no breather in the world but my selfe
against whom I know mosl faults.

Iaq.
The worst fault you haue, is to be in loue.

Orl.
'Tis a fault I will not change, for your best
vertue: I am wearie of you.

Iaq.
By my troth, I was seeking for a Foole, when I
found you.

Orl.
He is drown'd in the brooke, looke but in, and
you shall see him.

Iaq.
There I shal see mine owne figure.

Orl.
Which I take to be either a foole, or a Cipher.

Iaq.
Ile tarrie no longer with you, farewell good
signior Loue.

Orl.
I am glad of your departure: Adieu good
Monsieur Melancholly.

Ros.
I wil speake to him like a sawcie Lacky.
and vnder that habit play the knaue with him, do you
hear Forrester.

Orl.
Verie wel, what would you?

Ros.
I pray you, what i'st a clocke?

Orl.
You should aske me what time o'day: there's no
clocke in the Forrest.

Ros.
Then there is no true Louer in the Forrest, else
sighing euerie minute, and groaning euerie houre wold
detect the lazie foot of time, as wel as a clocke.

Orl.
And why not the swift foote of time? Had not
that bin as proper?

Ros.
By no meanes sir; Time trauels in diuers
paces, with diuers persons: Ile tel you who Time
ambles withall, who Time trots withal, who Time
gallops withal, and who he stands stil withall.

Orl.
I prethee, who doth he trot withal?

Ros.
Marry he trots hard with a yong maid,
between the contract of her marriage, and the day it is
solemnizd: if the interim be but a sennight, Times
pace is so hard, that it seemes the length of seuen yeare.

Orl.
Who ambles Time withal?

Ros.
With a Priest that lacks Latine, and a rich man
that hath not the Gowt : for the one sleepes easily because
he cannot study, and the other liues merrily, because he
feeles no paine: the one lacking the burthen of leane and
wasteful Learning; the other knowing no burthen of
heauie tedious penurie. These Time ambles withal.

Orl.
Who doth he gallop withal?

Ros.
With a theefe to the gallowes : for though hee go
as softly as foot can fall, he thinkes himselfe too soon
there.

Orl.
Who staies it stil withal?

Ros.
With Lawiers in the vacation: for they sleepe
betweene Terme and Terme, and then they perceiue not how
time moues.

Orl.
Where dwel you prettie youth?

Ros.
With this Shepheardesse my sister: heere in the
skirts of the Forrest, like fringe vpon a petticoat.

Orl.
Are you natiue of this place?

Ros.
As the Conie that you see dwell where shee is
kindled.

Orl.
Your accent is something finer, then you could
purchase in so remoued a dwelling.

Ros.
I haue bin told so of many: but indeed, an olde
religious Vnckle of mine taught me to speake, who was in
his youth an inland man, one that knew Courtship too
well: for there he fel in loue. I haue heard him read
many Lectors against it, and I thanke God, I am not a
Woman to be touch'd with so many giddie offences as
hee hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.

Orl.
Can you remember any of the principall euils,
that he laid to the charge of women?

Ros.
There were none principal, they were all like
one another, as halfe pence are, euerie one fault seeming
monstrous, til his fellow-fault came to match it.

Orl.
I prethee recount some of them.

Ros.
No: I wil not cast away my physick, but on
those that are sicke. There is a man haunts the Forrest,
that abuses our yong plants with caruing Rosalinde on
their barkes; hangs Oades vpon Hauthornes, and Elegies on
brambles; all (forsooth) defying the name of Rosalinde.
If I could meet that Fancie-monger, I would giue him
some good counsel, for he seemes to haue the Quotidian
of Loue vpon him.

Orl.
I am he that is so Loue-shak'd, I pray you tel
me your remedie.

Ros.
There is none of my Vnckles markes vpon you:
he taught me how to know a man in loue: in which cage
of rushes, I am sure you art not prisoner.

Orl.
What were his markes?

Ros.
A leane cheeke, which you haue not: a blew eie
and sunken, which you haue not: an vnquestionable
spirit, which you haue not: a beard neglected, which
you haue not: (but I pardon you for that, for simply
your hauing in beard, is a yonger brothers reuennew)
then your hose should be vngarter'd, your bonnet
vnbanded, your sleeue vnbutton'd, your shoo vnti'de,
and euerie thing about you, demonstrating a carelesse
desolation: but you are no such man; you are rather
point deuice in your accoustrements, as louing your selfe,
then seeming the Louer of any other.

Orl.
Faire youth, I would I could make thee beleeue
I Loue.

Ros.
Me beleeue it? You may assoone make her that
you Loue beleeue it, which I warrant she is apter to do,
then to confesse she do's: that is one of the points, in the
which women stil giue the lie to their consciences. But
in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the
Trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Orl.
I sweare to thee youth, by the white hand of
Rosalind, I am that he, that vnfortunate he.

Ros.
But are you so much in loue, as your rimes
speak?

Orl.
Neither rime nor reason can expresse how
much.

Ros:
Loue is meerely a madnesse, and I tel you,
deserues as wel a darke house, and a whip, as madmen do:
and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured,
is that the Lunacie is so ordinarie, that the whippers are
in loue too: yet I professe curing it by counsel.

Orl.
Did you euer cure any so?

Ros.
Yes one, and in this manner. Hee was to
imagine me his Loue, his Mistris: and I set him euerie
day to woe me. At which time would I, being but a
moonish youth, greeue, be effeminate, changeable,
longing, and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow,
inconstant, ful of teares, full of smiles; for euerie passion
something, and for no passion truly any thing, as boyes
and women are for the most part, cattle of this colour:
would now like him, now loath him: then entertaine
him, then forswear him: now weepe for him, then spit
at him; that I draue my Sutor from his mad humor of
loue, to a liuing humor of madnes, wc was to
forsweare the ful stream of ye world, and to liue in a
nooke meerly Monastick: and thus I cur'd him, and this
way wil I take vpon mee to wash your Liuer as cleane as a
sound sheepes heart, that there shal not be one spot of
Loue in't.

Orl.
I would not be cured, youth.

Ros.
I would cure you, if you would but call me
Rosalind, and come euerie day to my Coat, and woe me.

Orlan.
Now by the faith of my loue, I will ; Tel me
where it is.

Ros.
Go with me to it, and Ile shew it you: and by
the way, you shal tell me, where in the Forrest you liue:
Wil you go?

Orl.
With all my heart, good youth.

Ros.
Nay, you must call mee Rosalind: Come
sister, will you go?
Exeunt.
Original text
Act III, Scene III
Enter Clowne, Audrey, & Iaques.

Clo.
Come apace good Audrey, I wil fetch vp
your / Goates, Audrey : and how Audrey am I the man
yet? / Doth my simple feature content you?

Aud.
Your features, Lord warrant vs: what features?

Clo.
I am heere with thee, and thy Goats, as the
most capricious Poet honest Ouid was among the
Gothes.

Iaq.

O knowledge ill inhabited, worse then Ioue
in a thatch'd house.

Clo.
When a mans verses cannot be vnderstood,
nor a mans good wit seconded with the forward childe,
vnderstanding: it strikes a man more dead then a great
reckoning in a little roome: truly, I would the Gods hadde
made thee poeticall.

Aud.
I do not know what Poetical is: is it honest in
deed and word: is it a true thing?

Clo.
No trulie: for the truest poetrie is the most
faining, and Louers are giuen to Poetrie: and what they
sweare in Poetrie, may be said as Louers, they do feigne.

Aud.
Do you wish then that the Gods had made me
Poeticall?

Clow.
I do truly: for thou swear'st to me thou art
honest: Now if thou wert a Poet, I might haue some hope
thou didst feigne.

Aud.
Would you not haue me honest?

Clo.
No truly, vnlesse thou wert hard fauour'd:
for honestie coupled to beautie, is to haue Honie a sawce
to Sugar.

Iaq.

A materiall foole.

Aud.
Well, I am not faire, and therefore I pray the Gods
make me honest.

Clo.
Truly, and to cast away honestie vppon a
foule slut, were to put good meate into an vncleane dish.

And.
I am not a slut, though I thanke the Goddes I am
foule.

Clo.
Well, praised be the Gods, for thy foulnesse;
sluttishnesse may come heereafter. But be it, as it may bee, I
wil marrie thee: and to that end, I haue bin with Sir
Oliuer Mar-text, the Vicar of the next village, who hath
promis'd to meete me in this place of the Forrest, and to
couple vs.

Iaq.

I would faine see this meeting.

Aud.
Wel, the Gods giue vs ioy.

Clo.
Amen. A man may if he were of a fearful
heart, stagger in this attempt: for heere wee haue no Temple
but the wood, no assembly but horne-beasts. But what
though? Courage. As hornes are odious, they are necessarie.
It is said, many a man knowes no end of his goods;
right: Many a man has good Hornes, and knows no end
of them. Well, that is the dowrie of his wife, 'tis none of
his owne getting; hornes, euen so poore men alone: No,
no, the noblest Deere hath them as huge as the Rascall:
Is the single man therefore blessed? No, as a wall'd
Towne is more worthier then a village, so is the forehead
of a married man, more honourable then the bare brow
of a Batcheller: and by how much defence is better then
no skill, by so much is a horne more precious then to
want.
Enter Sir Oliuer Mar-text.
Heere comes Sir Oliuer: Sir Oliuer Mar-text you are
wel met. Will you dispatch vs heere vnder this tree, or
shal we go with you to your Chappell?

Ol.
Is there none heere to giue the woman?

Clo.
I wil not take her on guift of any man.

Ol.
Truly she must be giuen, or the marriage is
not lawfull.

Iaq.
Proceed, proceede: Ile giue her.

Clo.
Good euen good Mr what ye cal't:
how do you Sir, you are verie well met: goddild you
for your last companie, I am verie glad to see you,
euen a toy in hand heere Sir: Nay, pray be couer'd.

Iaq.
Wil you be married, Motley?

Clo.
As the Oxe hath his bow sir, the horse his
curb, and the Falcon her bels, so man hath his desires,
and as Pigeons bill, so wedlocke would be nibling.

Iaq.
And wil you (being a man of your breeding) be
married vnder a bush like a begger? Get you to church,
and haue a good Priest that can tel you what marriage
is, this fellow wil but ioyne you together, as they ioyne
Wainscot, then one of you wil proue a shrunke pannell, and
like greene timber, warpe, warpe.

Clo.
I am not in the minde, but I were better to
bee married of him then of another, for he is not like to
marrie me wel: and not being wel married, it wil be a
good excuse for me heereafter, to leaue my wife.

Iaq.
Goe thou with mee, / And let me counsel thee.

Ol.
Come sweete Audrey, / We must be married,
or we must liue in baudrey: / Farewel good Mr
Oliuer: Not
O sweet Oliuer,
O braue Oliuer
leaue me not behind thee:
But
winde away,
bee gone I say,
I wil not to wedding with thee.

Ol.
'Tis no matter; Ne're a fantastical
knaue of them all shal flout me out of my calling.
Exeunt
Original text
Act III, Scene IV
Enter Rosalind & Celia.

Ros.
Neuer talke to me, I wil weepe.

Cel.
Do I prethee, but yet haue the grace to consider,
that teares do not become a man.

Ros.
But haue I not cause to weepe?

Cel.
As good cause as one would desire, / Therefore weepe.

Ros.
His very haire / Is of the dissembling colour.

Cel.
Something browner then Iudasses: / Marrie his
kisses are Iudasses owne children.

Ros.
I'faith his haire is of a good colour.

Cel.
An excellent colour: / Your Chessenut was euer the
onely colour:

Ros.
And his kissing is as ful of sanctitie, / As the
touch of holy bread.

Cel.
Hee hath bought a paire of cast lips of Diana: a Nun
of winters sisterhood kisses not more religiouslie, the
very yce of chastity is in them.

Rosa.
But why did hee sweare hee would come this
morning, and comes not?

Cel.
Nay certainly there is no truth in him.

Ros.
Doe you thinke so?

Cel.
Yes, I thinke he is not a picke purse, nor a horsestealer,
but for his verity in loue, I doe thinke him as
concaue as a couered goblet, or a Worme-eaten nut.

Ros.
Not true in loue?

Cel.
Yes, when he is in, but I thinke he is not in.

Ros.
You haue heard him sweare downright he was.

Cel.
Was, is not is: besides, the oath of Louer is no
stronger then the word of a Tapster, they are both the
confirmer of false reckonings, he attends here in the
forrest on the Duke your father.

Ros.
I met the Duke yesterday, and had much
question with him: he askt me of what parentage I
was; I told him of as good as he, so he laugh'd and let
mee goe. But what talke wee of Fathers, when there is such a
man as Orlando?

Cel.
O that's a braue man, hee writes braue verses,
speakes braue words, sweares braue oathes, and breakes
them brauely, quite trauers athwart the heart of his
louer, as a puisny Tilter, y^t spurs his horse but on one
side, breakes his staffe like a noble goose; but all's braue
that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes heere?
Enter Corin.

Corin.
Mistresse and Master, you haue oft enquired
After the Shepheard that complain'd of loue,
Who you saw sitting by me on the Turph,
Praising the proud disdainfull Shepherdesse
That was his Mistresse.

Cel.
Well: and what of him?

Cor.
If you will see a pageant truely plaid
Betweene the pale complexion of true Loue,
And the red glowe of scorne and prowd disdaine,
Goe hence a little, and I shall conduct you
If you will marke it.

Ros.
O come, let vs remoue,
The sight of Louers feedeth those in loue:
Bring vs to this sight, and you shall say
Ile proue a busie actor in their play.
Exeunt.
Original text
Act III, Scene V
Enter Siluius and Phebe.

Sil.
Sweet Phebe doe not scorne me, do not Phebe
Say that you loue me not, but say not so
In bitternesse; the common executioner
Whose heart th'accustom'd sight of death makes hard
Falls not the axe vpon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon: will you sterner be
Then he that dies and liues by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe.
I would not be thy executioner,
I flye thee, for I would not iniure thee:
Thou tellst me there is murder in mine eye,
'Tis pretty sure, and very probable,
That eyes that are the frailst, and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomyes,
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murtherers.
Now I doe frowne on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to swound, why now fall downe,
Or if thou canst not, oh for shame, for shame,
Lye not, to say mine eyes are murtherers:
Now shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee,
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remaines
Some scarre of it: Leane vpon a rush
The Cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palme some moment keepes: but now mine eyes
Which I haue darted at thee, hurt thee not,
Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes
That can doe hurt.

Sil.
O deere Phebe,
If euer (as that euer may be neere)
You meet in some fresh cheeke the power of fancie,
Then shall you know the wouuds inuisible
That Loues keene arrows make.

Phe.
But till that time
Come not thou neere me: and when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mockes, pitty me not,
As till that time I shall not pitty thee.

Ros.
And why I pray you? who might be your mother
That you insult, exult, and all at once
Ouer the wretched? what though you hau no beauty
As by my faith, I see no more in you
Then without Candle may goe darke to bed:
Must you be therefore prowd and pittilesse?
Why what meanes this? why do you looke on me?
I see no more in you then in the ordinary
Of Natures sale-worke? 'ods my little life,
I thinke she meanes to tangle my eies too:
No faith proud Mistresse, hope not after it,
'Tis not your inkie browes, your blacke silke haire,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheeke of creame
That can entame my spirits to your worship:
You foolish Shepheard, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy South, puffing with winde and raine,
You are a thousand times a properer man
Then she a woman. 'Tis such fooles as you
That makes the world full of ill-fauourd children:
'Tis not her glasse, but you that flatters her,
And out of you she sees her selfe more proper
Then any of her lineaments can show her:
But Mistris, know your selfe, downe on your knees
And thanke heauen, fasting, for a good mans loue;
For I must tell you friendly in your eare,
Sell when you can, you are not for all markets:
Cry the man mercy, loue him, take his offer,
Foule is most foule, being foule to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee Shepheard, fare you well.

Phe.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a yere together,
I had rather here you chide, then this man wooe.

Ros.

Hees falne in loue with your foulnesse,
& shee'll / Fall in loue with my anger. If it
be so, as fast / As she answeres thee with frowning lookes,
ile sauce / Her with bitter words: why looke
you so vpon me?

Phe.
For no ill will I beare you.

Ros.
I pray you do not fall in loue with mee,
For I am falser then vowes made in wine:
Besides, I like you not: if you will know my house,
'Tis at the tufft of Oliues, here hard by:
Will you goe Sister? Shepheard ply her hard:
Come Sister: Shepheardesse, looke on him better
And be not proud, though all the world could see,
None could be so abus'd in sight as hee.
Come, to our flocke,
Exit.

Phe.
Dead Shepheard, now I find thy saw of might,
Who euer lov'd, that lou'd not at first sight?

Sil.
Sweet Phebe.

Phe.
Hah: what saist thou Siluius?

Sil.
Sweet Phebe pitty me.

Phe.
Why I am sorry for thee gentle Siluius.

Sil.
Where euer sorrow is, reliefe would be:
If you doe sorrow at my griefe in loue,
By giuing loue your sorrow, and my griefe
Were both extermin'd.

Phe.
Thou hast my loue, is not that neighbourly?

Sil.
I would haue you.

Phe.
Why that were couetousnesse:
Siluius; the time was, that I hated thee;
And yet it is not, that I beare thee loue,
But since that thou canst talke of loue so well,
Thy company, which erst was irkesome to me
I will endure; and Ile employ thee too:
But doe not looke for further recompence
Then thine owne gladnesse, that thou art employd.

Sil.
So holy, and so perfect is my loue,
And I in such a pouerty of grace,
That I shall thinke it a most plenteous crop
To gleane the broken eares after the man
That the maine haruest reapes: loose now and then
A scattred smile, and that Ile liue vpon.

Phe.
Knowst thou the youth that spoke to mee yerewhile?

Sil.
Not very well, but I haue met him oft,
And he hath bought the Cottage and the bounds
That the old Carlot once was Master of.

Phe.
Thinke not I loue him, though I ask for him,
'Tis but a peeuish boy, yet he talkes well,
But what care I for words? yet words do well
When he that speakes them pleases those that heare:
It is a pretty youth, not very prettie,
But sure hee's proud, and yet his pride becomes him;
Hee'll make a proper man: the best thing in him
Is his complexion: and faster then his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heale it vp:
He is not very tall, yet for his yeeres hee's tall:
His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty rednesse in his lip,
A little riper, and more lustie red
Then that mixt in his cheeke: 'twas iust the difference
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled Damaske.
There be some women Siluius, had they markt him
In parcells as I did, would haue gone neere
To fall in loue with him: but for my part
I loue him not, nor hate him not: and yet
Haue more cause to hate him then to loue him,
For what had he to doe to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black, and my haire blacke,
And now I am remembred, scorn'd at me:
I maruell why I answer'd not againe,
But that's all one: omittance is no quittance:
Ile write to him a very tanting Letter,
And thou shalt beare it, wilt thou Siluius?

Sil.
Phebe, with all my heart.

Phe.
Ile write it strait:
The matter's in my head, and in my heart,
I will be bitter with him, and passing short;
Goe with me Siluius.
Exeunt.
Modern text
Act III, Scene I
Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Oliver

DUKE
Not see 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,
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.
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.

OLIVER
O that your highness knew my heart in this!
I never loved my brother in my life.

DUKE
More villain thou. – Well, push him out of doors,
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands.
Do this expediently, and turn him going.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act III, Scene II
Enter Orlando

ORLANDO
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love,
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
Exit
Enter Corin and Touchstone

CORIN
And how like you this shepherd's life, Master
Touchstone?

TOUCHSTONE
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is
a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it
is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well;
but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now
in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in
respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare
life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no
more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach.
Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

CORIN
No more but that I know the more one sickens, the
worse at ease he is, and that he that wants money,
means, and content is without three good friends; that
the property of rain is to wet and fire to burn; that good
pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the
night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit
by nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or
comes of a very dull kindred.

TOUCHSTONE
Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast
ever in court, shepherd?

CORIN
No, truly.

TOUCHSTONE
Then thou art damned.

CORIN
Nay, I hope.

TOUCHSTONE
Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted
egg all on one side.

CORIN
For not being at court? Your reason.

TOUCHSTONE
Why, if thou never wast at court, thou
never sawest good manners; if thou never sawest good
manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and wickedness
is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous
state, shepherd.

CORIN
Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good
manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country
as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the
court. You told me you salute not at the court but you
kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if
courtiers were shepherds.

TOUCHSTONE
Instance, briefly; come, instance.

CORIN
Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells
you know are greasy.

TOUCHSTONE
Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat?
And is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the
sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I
say; come.

CORIN
Besides, our hands are hard.

TOUCHSTONE
Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow,
again. A more sounder instance; come.

CORIN
And they are often tarred over with the surgery of
our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The
courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.

TOUCHSTONE
Most shallow man! Thou worms' meat, in
respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the
wise and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the
very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

CORIN
You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.

TOUCHSTONE
Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee,
shallow man! God make incision in thee, thou art raw!

CORIN
Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get
that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness,
glad of other men's good, content with my harm; and
the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my
lambs suck.

TOUCHSTONE
That is another simple sin in you, to bring
the ewes and the rams together and to offer to get your
living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether,
and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a
crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable
match. If thou beest not damned for this, the devil
himself will have no shepherds. I cannot see else how
thou shouldst 'scape.

CORIN
Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new
mistress's brother.
Enter Rosalind

ROSALIND
(reads)
From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures fairest lined
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalind.

TOUCHSTONE
I'll rhyme you so eight years together,
dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: it is
the right butter-women's rank to market.

ROSALIND
Out, fool!

TOUCHSTONE
For a taste:
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So be sure will Rosalind.
Wintered garments must be lined,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find,
Must find love's prick and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect
yourself with them?

ROSALIND
Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.

TOUCHSTONE
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

ROSALIND
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff
it with a medlar; then it will be the earliest fruit
i'th' country: for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe,
and that's the right virtue of the medlar.

TOUCHSTONE
You have said; but whether wisely or no,
let the forest judge.
Enter Celia with a writing

ROSALIND
Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand
aside.

CELIA
(reads)
Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No,
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
Some, of violated vows
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence end,
Will I ‘ Rosalinda ’ write,
Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore Heaven Nature charged
That one body should be filled
With all graces wide-enlarged.
Nature presently distilled
Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra's majesty,
Atalanta's better part,
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devised,
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest prized.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.

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

CELIA
How now? Back, friends. – Shepherd, go off a little.
– Go with him, sirrah.

TOUCHSTONE
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet with
scrip and scrippage.
Exit Touchstone, with Corin

CELIA
Didst thou hear these verses?

ROSALIND
O, yes, I heard them all, and more too, for
some of them had in them more feet than the verses
would bear.

CELIA
That's no matter: the feet might bear the verses.

ROSALIND
Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear
themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely
in the verse.

CELIA
But didst thou hear without wondering how thy
name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

ROSALIND
I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder
before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree.
I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time
that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

CELIA
Trow you who hath done this?

ROSALIND
Is it a man?

CELIA
And a chain that you once wore about his neck!
Change you colour?

ROSALIND
I prithee, who?

CELIA
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to
meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes
and so encounter.

ROSALIND
Nay, but who is it?

CELIA
Is it possible?

ROSALIND
Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.

CELIA
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of
all whooping!

ROSALIND
Good my complexion! Dost thou think,
though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet
and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a
South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it
quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer,
that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy
mouth as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed bottle:
either too much at once, or none at all. I prithee, take
the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

CELIA
So you may put a man in your belly.

ROSALIND
Is he of God's making? What manner of
man? Is his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a
beard?

CELIA
Nay, he hath but a little beard.

ROSALIND
Why, God will send more, if the man will be
thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou
delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

CELIA
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's
heels and your heart, both in an instant.

ROSALIND
Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak sad
brow and true maid.

CELIA
I'faith, coz, 'tis he.

ROSALIND
Orlando?

CELIA
Orlando.

ROSALIND
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet
and hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What
said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What
makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he?
How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see
him again? Answer me in one word.

CELIA
You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first:
'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size.
To say ‘ ay ’ and ‘ no ’ to these particulars is more than to
answer in a catechism.

ROSALIND
But doth he know that I am in this forest and
in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the
day he wrestled?

CELIA
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the
propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding
him, and relish it with good observance. I found him
under a tree like a dropped acorn.

ROSALIND
It may well be called Jove's tree, when it
drops such fruit.

CELIA
Give me audience, good madam.

ROSALIND
Proceed.

CELIA
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded
knight.

ROSALIND
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground.

CELIA
Cry ‘ holla ’ to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets
unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.

ROSALIND
O ominous! He comes to kill my heart.

CELIA
I would sing my song without a burden. Thou
bringest me out of tune.

ROSALIND
Do you not know I am a woman? When I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
Enter Orlando and Jaques

CELIA
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?

ROSALIND
'Tis he. Slink by, and note him.
Celia and Rosalind stand back

JAQUES
I thank you for your company, but, good faith,
I had as lief have been myself alone.

ORLANDO
And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank
you too for your society.

JAQUES
God buy you, let's meet as little as we can.

ORLANDO
I do desire we may be better strangers.

JAQUES
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs
in their barks.

ORLANDO
I pray you, mar no moe of my verses with
reading them ill-favouredly.

JAQUES
Rosalind is your love's name?

ORLANDO
Yes, just.

JAQUES
I do not like her name.

ORLANDO
There was no thought of pleasing you when
she was christened.

JAQUES
What stature is she of?

ORLANDO
Just as high as my heart.

JAQUES
You are full of pretty answers: have you not been
acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them
out of rings?

ORLANDO
Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth,
from whence you have studied your questions.

JAQUES
You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of
Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me, and we two
will rail against our mistress the world, and all our
misery?

ORLANDO
I will chide no breather in the world but myself,
against whom I know most faults.

JAQUES
The worst fault you have is to be in love.

ORLANDO
'Tis a fault I will not change for your best
virtue. I am weary of you.

JAQUES
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I
found you.

ORLANDO
He is drowned in the brook; look but in and
you shall see him.

JAQUES
There I shall see mine own figure.

ORLANDO
Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

JAQUES
I'll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good
Signor Love.

ORLANDO
I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good
Monsieur Melancholy.
Exit Jaques

ROSALIND
(to Celia) I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,
and under that habit play the knave with him. – Do you
hear, forester?

ORLANDO
Very well. What would you?

ROSALIND
I pray you, what is't o'clock?

ORLANDO
You should ask me what time o' day: there's no
clock in the forest.

ROSALIND
Then there is no true lover in the forest, else
sighing every minute and groaning every hour would
detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

ORLANDO
And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not
that been as proper?

ROSALIND
By no means, sir: Time travels in divers
paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time
ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time
gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

ORLANDO
I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

ROSALIND
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid
between the contract of her marriage and the day it is
solemnized. If the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's
pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year.

ORLANDO
Who ambles Time withal?

ROSALIND
With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man
that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily because
he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he
feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and
wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of
heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.

ORLANDO
Who doth he gallop withal?

ROSALIND
With a thief to the gallows: for though he go
as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon
there.

ORLANDO
Who stays it still withal?

ROSALIND
With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep
between term and term, and then they perceive not how
Time moves.

ORLANDO
Where dwell you, pretty youth?

ROSALIND
With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the
skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

ORLANDO
Are you native of this place?

ROSALIND
As the cony that you see dwell where she is
kindled.

ORLANDO
Your accent is something finer than you could
purchase in so removed a dwelling.

ROSALIND
I have been told so of many; but indeed an old
religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in
his youth an inland man – one that knew courtship too
well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read
many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a
woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as
he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

ORLANDO
Can you remember any of the principal evils
that he laid to the charge of women?

ROSALIND
There were none principal, they were all like
one another as halfpence are, every one fault seeming
monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.

ORLANDO
I prithee, recount some of them.

ROSALIND
No, I will not cast away my physic but on
those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest
that abuses our young plants with carving ‘ Rosalind ’ on
their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on
brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind.
If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him
some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian
of love upon him.

ORLANDO
I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell
me your remedy.

ROSALIND
There is none of my uncle's marks upon you.
He taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage
of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

ORLANDO
What were his marks?

ROSALIND
A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye
and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable
spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which
you have not – but I pardon you for that, for simply
your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue.
Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet
unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied,
and everything about you demonstrating a careless
desolation. But you are no such man: you are rather
point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself,
than seeming the lover of any other.

ORLANDO
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe
I love.

ROSALIND
Me believe it? You may as soon make her that
you love believe it, which I warrant she is apter to do
than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the
which women still give the lie to their consciences. But
in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the
trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

ORLANDO
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of
Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

ROSALIND
But are you so much in love as your rhymes
speak?

ORLANDO
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how
much.

ROSALIND
Love is merely a madness and, I tell you,
deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do;
and the reason why they are not so punished and cured
is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are
in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

ORLANDO
Did you ever cure any so?

ROSALIND
Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to
imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every
day to woo me. At which time would I, being but a
moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,
longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow,
inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion
something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys
and women are for the most part cattle of this colour;
would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain
him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit
at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of
love to a living humour of madness – which was, to
forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a
nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this
way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a
sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of
love in't.

ORLANDO
I would not be cured, youth.

ROSALIND
I would cure you, if you would but call me
‘ Rosalind ’, and come every day to my cote, and woo me.

ORLANDO
Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me
where it is.

ROSALIND
Go with me to it and I'll show it you: and by
the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live.
Will you go?

ORLANDO
With all my heart, good youth.

ROSALIND
Nay, you must call me ‘ Rosalind.’ – Come,
sister, will you go?
Exeunt
Modern text
Act III, Scene III
Enter Touchstone and Audrey, followed by Jaques

TOUCHSTONE
Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up
your goats, Audrey. And now, Audrey, am I the man
yet? Doth my simple feature content you?

AUDREY
Your features, Lord warrant us! What features?

TOUCHSTONE
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the
most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the
Goths.

JAQUES
(aside)
O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove
in a thatched house!

TOUCHSTONE
When a man's verses cannot be understood,
nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child
Understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great
reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had
made thee poetical.

AUDREY
I do not know what ‘ poetical ’ is. Is it honest in
deed and word? Is it a true thing?

TOUCHSTONE
No, truly: for the truest poetry is the most
feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they
swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign.

AUDREY
Do you wish then that the gods had made me
poetical?

TOUCHSTONE
I do, truly: for thou swearest to me thou art
honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope
thou didst feign.

AUDREY
Would you not have me honest?

TOUCHSTONE
No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured:
for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce
to sugar.

JAQUES
(aside)
A material fool!

AUDREY
Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods
make me honest.

TOUCHSTONE
Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a
foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

AUDREY
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am
foul.

TOUCHSTONE
Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness;
sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I
will marry thee; and to that end, I have been with Sir
Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath
promised to meet me in this place of the forest and to
couple us.

JAQUES
(aside)
I would fain see this meeting.

AUDREY
Well, the gods give us joy.

TOUCHSTONE
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful
heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple
but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what
though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary.
It is said, ‘ Many a man knows no end of his goods.’
Right! Many a man has good horns, and knows no end
of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife, 'tis none of
his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No,
no, the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal.
Is the single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled
town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead
of a married man more honourable than the bare brow
of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than
no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to
want.
Enter Sir Oliver Martext
Here comes Sir Oliver. – Sir Oliver Martext, you are
well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or
shall we go with you to your chapel?

SIR OLIVER
Is there none here to give the woman?

TOUCHSTONE
I will not take her on gift of any man.

SIR OLIVER
Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is
not lawful.

JAQUES
(coming forward)
Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.

TOUCHSTONE
Good even, good Master What-ye-call't:
how do you, sir? You are very well met. God 'ild you
for your last company, I am very glad to see you.
Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay, pray be covered.

JAQUES
Will you be married, motley?

TOUCHSTONE
As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his
curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires;
and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.

JAQUES
And will you, being a man of your breeding, be
married under a bush like a beggar? Get you to church,
and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage
is. This fellow will but join you together as they join
wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel and,
like green timber, warp, warp.

TOUCHSTONE
I am not in the mind but I were better to
be married of him than of another, for he is not like to
marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a
good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

JAQUES
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

TOUCHSTONE
Come, sweet Audrey, we must be married,
or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master
Oliver. Not
O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee
but
Wind away,
Be gone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.

SIR OLIVER
(aside)
'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical
knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act III, Scene IV
Enter Rosalind and Celia

ROSALIND
Never talk to me, I will weep.

CELIA
Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider
that tears do not become a man.

ROSALIND
But have I not cause to weep?

CELIA
As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

ROSALIND
His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

CELIA
Something browner than Judas's. Marry, his
kisses are Judas's own children.

ROSALIND
I'faith, his hair is of a good colour.

CELIA
An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the
only colour.

ROSALIND
And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the
touch of holy bread.

CELIA
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun
of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the
very ice of chastity is in them.

ROSALIND
But why did he swear he would come this
morning, and comes not?

CELIA
Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

ROSALIND
Do you think so?

CELIA
Yes, I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer,
but for his verity in love I do think him as
concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.

ROSALIND
Not true in love?

CELIA
Yes, when he is in – but I think he is not in.

ROSALIND
You have heard him swear downright he was.

CELIA
‘ Was ’ is not ‘ is.’ Besides, the oath of lover is no
stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the
confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the
forest on the Duke your father.

ROSALIND
I met the Duke yesterday and had much
question with him. He asked me of what parentage I
was. I told him, of as good as he – so he laughed and let
me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a
man as Orlando?

CELIA
O, that's a brave man! He writes brave verses,
speaks brave words, swears brave oaths and breaks
them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his
lover, as a puisny tilter that spurs his horse but on one
side breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all's brave
that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?
Enter Corin

CORIN
Mistress and master, you have oft inquired
After the shepherd that complained of love,
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

CELIA
Well: and what of him?

CORIN
If you will see a pageant truly played,
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,
If you will mark it.

ROSALIND
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
Modern text
Act III, Scene V
Enter Silvius and Phebe

SILVIUS
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 th' accustomed sight of death makes hard,
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, unobserved

PHEBE
I would not be thy executioner.
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tellest me there is murder in mine eye:
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
Now counterfeit to swoon, 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.
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

SILVIUS
O dear Phebe,
If ever – as that ever may be near –
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.

PHEBE
But till that time
Come not thou near me; and when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.

ROSALIND
(coming forward)
And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult and all at once
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?
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!
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.
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
That makes the world full of ill-favoured 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.
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.
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

PHEBE
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

ROSALIND
(to Phebe)
He's fallen in love with your foulness,
(to Silvius) 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. (To Phebe) Why look
you so upon me?

PHEBE
For no ill will I bear you.

ROSALIND
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. (To Silvius) If you will know my house,
'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. –
Will you go, sister? – Shepherd, ply her hard. –
Come, sister. – Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud, though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.
Exit Rosalind, with Celia and Corin

PHEBE
Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,
‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?'

SILVIUS
Sweet Phebe –

PHEBE
Ha, what sayest thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS
Sweet Phebe, pity me.

PHEBE
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

SILVIUS
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined.

PHEBE
Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?

SILVIUS
I would have you.

PHEBE
Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,
And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure, and I'll employ thee too.
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.

SILVIUS
So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I'll live upon.

PHEBE
Knowest thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

SILVIUS
Not very well, but I have met him oft,
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
That the old carlot once was master of.

PHEBE
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
'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.
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.
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,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mixed in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Between the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
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
I have more cause to hate him than to love him,
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black,
And, now I am remembered, scorned at me;
I marvel why I answered not again.
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?

SILVIUS
Phebe, with all my heart.

PHEBE
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
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