As You Like It

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Original text
Act II, Scene I
Enter Duke Senior: Amyens, and two or three Lords
like Forresters.

Duk.Sen.
Now my Coe-mates, and brothers in exile:
Hath not old custome made this life more sweete
Then that of painted pompe? Are not these woods
More free from perill then the enuious Court?
Heere feele we not the penaltie of Adam,
The seasons difference, as the Icie phange
And churlish chiding of the winters winde,
Which when it bites and blowes vpon my body
Euen till I shrinke with cold, I smile, and say
This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly perswade me what I am:
Sweet are the vses of aduersitie
Which like the toad, ougly and venemous,
Weares yet a precious Iewell in his head:
And this our life exempt from publike haunt,
Findes tongues in trees, bookes in the running brookes,
Sermons in stones, and good in euery thing.

Amien.
I would not change it, happy is your Grace
That can translate the stubbornnesse of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a stile.

Du.Sen.
Come, shall we goe and kill vs venison?
And yet it irkes me the poore dapled fooles
Being natiue Burgers of this desert City,
Should intheir owne confines with forked heads
Haue their round hanches goard.

1. Lord.
Indeed my Lord
The melancholy Iaques grieues at that,
And in that kinde sweares you doe more vsurpe
Then doth your brother that hath banish'd you:
To day my Lord of Amiens, and my selfe,
Did steale behinde him as he lay along
Vnder an oake, whose anticke roote peepes out
Vpon the brooke that brawles along this wood,
To the which place a poore sequestred Stag
That from the Hunters aime had tane a hurt,
Did come to languish; and indeed my Lord
The wretched annimall heau'd forth such groanes
That their discharge did stretch his leatherne coat
Almost to bursting, and the big round teares
Cours'd one another downe his innocent nose
In pitteous chase: and thus the hairie foole,
Much marked of the melancholie Iaques,
Stood on th'extremest verge of the swift brooke,
Augmenting it with teares.

Du.Sen.
But what said Iaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?

1. Lord.
O yes, into a thousand similies.
First, for his weeping into the needlesse streame;
Poore Deere quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings doe, giuing thy sum of more
To that which had too must: then being there alone,
Left and abandoned of his veluet friend;
'Tis right quoth he, thus miserie doth part
The Fluxe of companie: anon a carelesse Heard
Full of the pasture, iumps along by him
And neuer staies to greet him: I quoth Iaques,
Sweepe on you fat and greazie Citizens,
'Tis iust the fashion; wherefore doe you looke
Vpon that poore and broken bankrupt there?
Thus most inuectiuely he pierceth through
The body of Countrie, Citie, Court,
Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we
Are meere vsurpers, tyrants, and whats worse
To fright the Annimals, and to kill them vp
In their assign'd and natiue dwelling place.

D.Sen.
And did you leaue him in this contemplation?

2.Lord.
We did my Lord, weeping and commenting
Vpon the sobbing Deere.

Du.Sen.
Show me the place,
I loue to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.

1. Lor.
Ile bring you to him strait.
Exeunt.
Original text
Act II, Scene II
Enter Duke, with Lords.

Duk.
Can it be possible that no man saw them?
It cannot be, some villaines of my Court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.

1. Lo.
I cannot heare of any that did see her,
The Ladies her attendants of her chamber
Saw her a bed, and in the morning early,
They found the bed vntreasur'd of their Mistris.

2. Lor.
My Lord, the roynish Clown, at whom so oft,
Your Grace was wont to laugh is also missing,
Hisperia the Princesse Centlewoman
Confesses that she secretly ore-heard
Your daughter and her Cosen much commend
The parts and graces of the Wrastler
That did but lately foile the synowie Charles,
And she beleeues where euer they are gone
That youth is surely in their companie.

Duk.
Send to his brother, fetch that gallant hither,
If he be absent, bring his Brother to me,
Ile make him finde him: do this sodainly;
And let not search and inquisition quaile,
To bring againe these foolish runawaies.
Exunt.
Original text
Act II, Scene III
Enter Orlando and Adam.

Orl.
Who's there?

Ad.
What my yong Master, oh my gentle master,
Oh my sweet master, O you memorie
Of old Sir Rowland; why, what make you here?
Why are you vertuous? Why do people loue you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to ouercome
The bonnie priser of the humorous Duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not Master, to seeme kinde of men,
Their graces serue them but as enemies,
No more doe yours: your vertues gentle Master
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you:
Oh what a world is this, when what is comely
Enuenoms him that beares it?
Why, what's the matter?

Ad.
O vnhappie youth,
Come not within these doores: within this roofe
The enemie of all your graces liues
Your brother, no, no brother, yet the sonne
(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 meanes,
To burne the lodging where you vse to lye,
And you within it: if he faile of that
He will haue other meanes to cut you off;
I ouerheard him: and his practises:
This is no place, this house is but a butcherie;
Abhorre it, feare it, doe not enter it.

Ad.
Why whether Adam would'st thou haue me go?

Ad.
No matter whether, so you come not here.

Orl.
What, would'st thou haue me go & beg my food,
Or with a base and boistrous Sword enforce
A theeuish liuing on the common rode?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can,
I rather will subiect me to the malice
Of a diuerted blood, and bloudie brother.

Ad.
But do not so: I haue fiue hundred Crownes,
The thriftie hire I saued vnder your Father,
Which I did store to be my foster Nurse,
When seruice should in my old limbs lie lame,
And vnregarded age in corners throwne,
Take that, and he that doth the Rauens feede,
Yea prouidently caters for the Sparrow,
Be comfort to my age: here is the gold,
All this I giue you, let me be your seruant,
Though I looke old, yet I am strong and lustie;
For in my youth I neuer did apply
Hot, and rebellious liquors in my bloud,
Nor did not with vnbashfull forehead woe,
The meanes of weaknesse and debilitie,
Therefore my age is as a lustie winter,
Frostie, but kindely; let me goe with you,
Ile doe the seruice of a yonger man
In all your businesse and necessities.

Orl.
Oh good old man, how well in thee appeares
The constant seruice of the antique world,
When seruice sweate for dutie, not for meede:
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweate, but for promotion,
And hauing that do choake their seruice vp,
Euen with the hauing, it is not so with thee:
But poore old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossome yeelde,
In lieu of all thy paines and husbandrie,
But come thy waies, weele goe along together,
And ere we haue thy youthfull wages spent,
Weele light vpon some setled low content.

Ad.
Master goe on, and I will follow thee
To the last gaspe with truth and loyaltie,
From seauentie yeeres, till now almost fourescore
Here liued I, but now liue here no more
At seauenteene yeeres, many their fortunes seeke
But at fourescore, it is too late a weeke,
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better
Then to die well, and not my Masters debter.
Exeunt.
Original text
Act II, Scene IV
Enter Rosaline for Ganimed, Celia for Aliena, and
Clowne, alias Touchstone.

Ros.
O Iupiter, how merry are my spirits?

Clo.
I care not for my spirits, if my legges were
not wearie.

Ros.
I could finde in my heart to disgrace my mans
apparell, and to cry like a woman: but I must comfort the
weaker vessell, as doublet and hose ought to show it selfe
coragious to petty-coate; therefore courage, good Aliena.

Cel.
I pray you beare with me, I cannot goe no further.

Clo.
For my part, I had rather beare with you,
then beare you: yet I should beare no crosse if I did beare
you, for I thinke you haue no money in your purse.

Ros.
Well, this is the Forrest of Arden.

Clo.
I, now am I in Arden, the more foole I,
when I was at home I was in a better place, but Trauellers
must be content.
Enter Corin and Siluius.

Ros.
I, be so good Touchstone: Look you, who comes here,
a yong man and an old in solemne talke.

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

Sil.
Oh Corin, that thou knew'st how I do loue her.

Cor.
I partly guesse: for I haue lou'd ere now.

Sil.
No Corin, being old, thou canst not guesse,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a louer
As euer sigh'd vpon a midnight pillow:
But if thy loue were euer like to mine,
As sure I thinke did neuer man loue so:
How many actions most ridiculous,
Hast thou beene drawne to by thy fantasie?

Cor.
Into a thousand that I haue forgotten.

Sil.
Oh thou didst then neuer loue so hartily,
If thou remembrest not the slightest folly,
That euer loue did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lou'd.
Or if thou hast not sat as I doe now,
Wearing thy hearer in thy Mistris praise,
Thou hast not lou'd.
Or if thou hast not broke from companie,
Abruptly as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lou'd.
O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe.
Exit.

Ros.
Alas poore Shepheard searching of they would,
I haue by hard aduenture found mine owne.

Clo.
And I mine: I remember when I was in loue,
I broke my sword vpon a stone, and bid him take that for
comming a night to Iane Smile, and I remember the
kissing of her batler, and the Cowes dugs that her prettie
chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing of
a peascod instead of her, from whom I tooke two cods,
and giuing her them againe, said with weeping teares,
weare these for my sake: wee that are true Louers, runne
into strange capers; but as all is mortall in nature, so is
all nature in loue, mortall in folly.

Ros.
Thou speak'st wiser then thou art ware of.

Clo.
Nay, I shall nere be ware of mine owne wit,
till I breake my shins against it.

Ros.
Ioue, Ioue, this Shepherds passion,
Is much vpon my fashion.

Clo.
And mine, but it growes something stale with mee.

Cel.
I pray you, one of you question yon'd man,
If he for gold will giue vs any foode,
I faint almost to death.

Clo.
Holla; you Clowne.

Ros.
Peace foole, he's not thy kinsman.

Cor.
Who cals?

Clo.
Your betters Sir.

Cor.
Else are they very wretched.

Ros.
Peace I say; good euen to your friend.

Cor.
And to you gentle Sir, and to you all.

Ros.
I prethee Shepheard, if that loue or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring vs where we may rest our selues, and feed:
Here's a yong maid with trauaile much oppressed,
And faints for succour.

Cor.
Faire Sir, I pittie her,
And wish for her sake more then for mine owne,
My fortunes were more able to releeue her:
But I am shepheard to another man,
And do not sheere the Fleeces that I graze:
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little wreakes to finde the way to heauen
By doing deeds of hospitalitie.
Besides his Coate, his Flockes, and bounds of feede
Are now on sale, and at our sheep-coat now
By reason of his absence there is nothing
That you will feed on: but what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

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

Cor.
That yong Swaine that you saw heere but erewhile,
That little cares for buying any thing.

Ros.
I pray thee, if it stand with honestie,
Buy thou the Cottage, pasture, and the flocke,
And thou shalt haue to pay for it of vs.

Cel.
And we will mend thy wages: / I like this place,
and willingly could / Waste my time in it.

Cor.
Assuredly the thing is to be sold:
Go with me, if you like vpon report,
The soile, the profit, and this kinde of life,
I will your very faithfull Feeder be,
And buy it with your Gold right sodainly.
Exeunt.
Original text
Act II, Scene V
Enter, Amyens, Iaques, & others.
Song.
Vnder the greene wood tree,
who loues to lye with mee,
And tnrne his merrie Note,
vnto the sweet Birds throte:
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Heere shall he see
no enemie,
But Winter and rough Weather.

Iaq.
More, more, I pre'thee more.

Amy.
It will make you melancholly Monsieur Iaques

Iaq.
I thanke it: More, I prethee more, / I can sucke
melancholly out of a song, / As a Weazel suckes egges: More,
I pre'thee more.

Amy.
My voice is ragged, I know I cannot please you.

Iaq.
I do not desire you to please me, / I do desire you
to sing: / Come, more, another stanzo: Cal you'em
stanzo's?

Amy.
What you wil Monsieur Iaques.

Iaq.
Nay, I care not for their names, they owe mee
nothing. Wil you sing?

Amy.
More at your request, then to please my selfe.

Iaq.
Well then, if euer I thanke any man, Ile thanke you:
but that they cal complement is like th'encounter of
two dog-Apes. And when a man thankes me hartily,
me thinkes I haue giuen him a penie, and he renders me
the beggerly thankes. Come sing; and you that wil not
hold your tongues.

Amy.
Wel, Ile end the song. Sirs, couer the while,
the Duke wil drinke vnder this tree; he hath bin all
this day to looke you.

Iaq.
And I haue bin all this day to auoid him: / He is
too disputeable for my companie: / I thinke of as many
matters as he, but I giue / Heauen thankes, and make no
boast of them. Come, warble, come.

Altogether heere.
Song.
Who doth ambition shunne,
and loues to liue i'th Sunne:
Seeking the food he eates,
and pleas'd with what he gets:
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Heere shall he see.&c.

Iaq.
Ile giue you a verse to this note, / That I made
yesterday in despight of my Inuention.

Amy.
And Ile sing it.

Amy.
Thus it goes.
If it do come to passe,
that any man turne Asse:
Leauing his wealth and ease,
A stubborne will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:
Heere shall he see,
grosse fooles as he,
And if he will come to me.

Amy.
What's that Ducdame?

Iaq.
'Tis a Greeke inuocation, to call fools into a circle.
Ile go sleepe if I can: if I cannot, Ile raile against all the
first borne of Egypt.

Amy.
And Ile go seeke the Duke, / His banket is
prepar'd.
Exeunt
Original text
Act II, Scene VI
Enter Orlando, & Adam.

Adam.
Deere Master, I can go no further: / O I die for food.
Heere lie I downe, / And measure out my graue. Farwel
kinde master.

Orl.
Why how now Adam? No greater heart in thee:
Liue a little, comfort a little, cheere thy selfe a little. / If
this vncouth Forrest yeeld any thing sauage, / I wil either
be food for it, or bring it for foode to thee: / Thy conceite is
neerer death, then thy powers. / For my sake
be comfortable, hold death a while / At the armes end: I
wil heere be with thee presently, / And if I bring thee not
something to eate, / I wil giue thee leaue to die: but if
thou diest / Before I come, thou art a mocker of my
labor. / Wel said, thou look'st cheerely, / And Ile be with
thee quickly: yet thou liest / In the bleake aire. Come, I
wil beare thee / To some shelter, and thou shalt not die
For lacke of a dinner, / If there liue any thing in this Desert.
Cheerely good Adam.
Exeunt
Original text
Act II, Scene VII
Enter Duke Sen. & Lord,
like Out-lawes.

Du.Sen.
I thinke he be transform'd into a beast,
For I can no where finde him, like a man.

1.Lord.
My Lord, he is but euen now gone hence,
Heere was he merry, hearing of a Song.

Du.Sen.
If he compact of iarres, grow Musicall,
We shall haue shortly discord in the Spheares:
Go seeke him, tell him I would speake with him.
Enter Iaques.

1.Lord.
He saues my labor by his owne approach.

Du.Sen.
Why how now Monsieur, what a life is this
That your poore friends must woe your companie,
What, you looke merrily.

Iaq.
A Foole, a foole: I met a foole i'th Forrest,
A motley Foole (a miserable world:)
As I do liue by foode, I met a foole,
Who laid him downe, and bask'd him in the Sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good termes,
In good set termes, and yet a motley foole.
Good morrow foole (quoth I:) no Sir, quoth he,
Call me not foole, till heauen hath sent me fortune,
And then he drew a diall from his poake,
And looking on it, with lacke-lustre eye,
Sayes, very wisely, it is ten a clocke:
Thus we may see (quoth he) how the world wagges:
'Tis but an houre agoe, since it was nine,
And after one houre more, 'twill be eleuen,
And so from houre to houre, we ripe, and ripe,
And then from houre to houre, we rot, and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did heare
The motley Foole, thus morall on the time,
My Lungs began to crow like Chanticleere,
That Fooles should be so deepe contemplatiue:
And I did laugh, sans intermission
An houre by his diall. Oh noble foole,
A worthy foole: Motley's the onely weare.

Du.Sen.
What foole is this?

Iaq.
O worthie Foole: One that hath bin a Courtier
And sayes, if Ladies be but yong, and faire,
They haue the gift to know it: and in his braiue,
Which is as drie as the remainder bisket
After a voyage: He hath strange places cram'd
With obseruation, the which he vents
In mangled formes. O that I were a foole,
I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Du.Sen.
Thou shalt haue one.

Iaq.
It is my onely suite,
Prouided that you weed your better iudgements
Of all opinion that growes ranke in them,
That I am wise. I must haue liberty
Wiithall, as large a Charter as the winde,
To blow on whom I please, for so fooles haue:
And they that are most gauled with my folly,
They most must laugh: And why sir must they so?
The why is plaine, as way to Parish Church:
Hee, that a Foole doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart
Seeme senselesse of the bob. If not,
The Wise-mans folly is anathomiz'd
Euen by the squandring glances of the foole.
Inuest me in my motley: Giue me leaue
To speake my minde, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foule bodie of th'infected world,
If they will patiently receiue my medicine.

Du.Sen.
Fie on thee. I can tell what thou wouldst do.

Iaq.
What, for a Counter, would I do, but good?

Du.Sen.
Most mischeeuous foule sin, in chiding sin:
For thou thy selfe hast bene a Libertine,
As sensuall as the brutish sting it selfe,
And all th'imbossed sores, and headed euils,
That thou with license of free foot hast caught,
Would'st thou disgorge into the generall world.

Iaq.
Why who cries out on pride,
That can therein taxe any priuate party:
Doth it not flow as hugely as the Sea,
Till that the wearie verie meanes do ebbe.
What woman in the Citie do I name,
When that I say the City woman beares
The cost of Princes on vnworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say that I meane her,
When such a one as shee, such is her neighbor?
Or what is he of basest function,
That sayes his brauerie is not on my cost,
Thinking that I meane him, but therein suites
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 himselfe: if he be free,
why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies
Vnclaim'd of any. man But who come here?
Enter Orlando.

Orl.
Forbeare, and eate no more.

Iaq.
Why I haue eate none yet.

Orl.
Nor shalt not, till necessity be seru'd.

Iaq.
Of what kinde should this Cocke come of?

Du.Sen.
Art thou thus bolden'd man by thy distres?
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in ciuility thou seem'st so emptie?

Orl.
You touch'd my veine at first, the thorny point
Of bare distresse, hath tane from me the shew
Of smooth ciuility: yet am I in-land bred,
And know some nourture: But forbeare, I say,
He dies that touches any of this fruite,
Till I, and my affaires are answered.

Iaq.
And you will not be answer'd with reason, I must
dye.

Du.Sen.
What would you haue? / Your gentlenesse shall force,
more then your force / Moue vs to gentlenesse.

Orl.
I almost die for food, and let me haue it.

Du.Sen.
Sit downe and feed, & welcom to our table

Orl.
Speake you so gently? Pardon me I pray you,
I thought that all things had bin sauage heere,
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of sterne command'ment. But what ere you are
That in this desert inaccessible,
Vnder the shade of melancholly boughes,
Loose, and neglect the creeping houres of time:
If euer you haue look'd on better dayes:
If euer beene where bels haue knoll'd to Church:
If euer sate at any good mans feast:
If euer from your eye-lids wip'd a teare,
And know what 'tis to pittie, and be pittied:
Let gentlenesse my strong enforcement be,
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my Sword.

Du.Sen.
True is it, that we haue seene better dayes,
And haue with holy bell bin knowld to Church,
And sat at good mens feasts, and wip'd our eies
Of drops, that sacred pity hath engendred:
And therefore sit you downe in gentlenesse,
And take vpon command, what helpe we haue
That to your wanting may be ministred.

Orl.
Then but forbeare your food a little while:
Whiles (like a Doe) I go to finde my Fawne,
And giue it food. There is an old poore man,
Who after me, hath many a weary steppe
Limpt in pure loue: till he be first suffic'd,
Opprest with two weake euils, age, and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.

Duke Sen.
Go finde him out.
And we will nothing waste till you returne.

Orl.
I thanke ye, and be blest for your good comfort.

Du Sen.
Thou seest, we are not all alone vnhappie:
This wide and vniuersall Theater
Presents more wofull Pageants then the Sceane
Wherein we play in.

Ia.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women, meerely Players;
They haue their Exits and their Entrances,
And one man in his time playes many parts,
His Acts being seuen ages. At first the Infant,
Mewling, and puking in the Nurses armes:
Then, the whining Schoole-boy with his Satchell
And shining morning face, creeping like snaile
Vnwillingly to schoole. And then the Louer,
Sighing like Furnace, with a wofull ballad
Made to his Mistresse eye-brow. Then, a Soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the Pard,
Ielous in honor, sodaine, and quicke in quarrell,
Seeking the bubble Reputation
Euen in the Canons mouth: And then, the Iustice
In faire round belly, with good Capon lin'd,
With eyes seuere, and beard of formall cut,
Full of wise sawes, and moderne instances,
And so he playes his part. The sixt age shifts
Into the leane and slipper'd Pantaloone,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthfull hose well sau'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunke shanke, and his bigge manly voice,
Turning againe toward childish trebble pipes,
And whistles in his sound. Last Scene of all,
That ends this strange euentfull historie,
Is second childishnesse, and meere obliuion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans euery thing.
Enter Orlando with Adam.

Du Sen.
Welcome: set downe your venerable burthen,
and let him feede.

Orl.
I thanke you most for him.

Ad.
So had you neede,
I scarce can speake to thanke you for my selfe.

Du.Sen.
Welcome, fall too: I wil not trouble you,
As yet to question you about your fortunes:
Giue vs some Musicke, and good Cozen, sing.
Song.
Blow, blow, thou winter winde,
Thou art not so vnkinde,
as mans ingratitude
Thy tooth is not so keene,
because thou art not seene,
although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho, sing heigh ho, vnto the greene holly,
Most frendship, is fayning; most Louing, meere folly:
The heigh ho, the holly,
This Life is most iolly.
Freize, freize, thou bitter skie
that dost not bight so nigh
as benefitts forgot:
Though thou the waters warpe,
thy sting is not so sharpe,
as freind remembred not.
Heigh ho, sing, &c.

Duke Sen.
If that you were the good Sir Rowlands son,
As you haue whisper'd faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witnesse,
Most truly limn'd, and liuing in your face,
Be truly welcome hither: I am the Duke
That lou'd your Father, the residue of your fortune,
Go to my Caue, and tell mee. Good old man,
Thou art right welcome, as thy masters is:
Support him by the arme: giue me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes vnderstand.
Exeunt.
Modern text
Act II, Scene I
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords
dressed like foresters

DUKE
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?
Here feel we not 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
‘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;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

AMIENS
I would not change it. Happy is your grace
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

DUKE
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.

FIRST LORD
Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banished you.
Today my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak whose antick root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood,
To the which place a poor sequestered stag
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt
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
In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook
Augmenting it with tears.

DUKE
But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?

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
To that which had too much.’ Then, being there alone,
Left and abandoned of his velvet friend,
‘ 'Tis right,’ quoth he, ‘ thus misery doth part
The flux of company.’ Anon a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him
And never stays to greet him: ‘ Ay,’ quoth Jaques,
‘ Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens,
'Tis just the fashion! Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?’
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse
To fright the animals and to kill them up
In their assigned and native dwelling-place.

DUKE
And did you leave him in this contemplation?

SECOND LORD
We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.

DUKE
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
Modern text
Act II, Scene II
Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords

DUKE
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.
The ladies her attendants of her chamber
Saw her abed, and in the morning early
They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.

SECOND LORD
My lord, the roynish clown at whom so oft
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
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles,
And she believes wherever they are gone
That youth is surely in their company.

DUKE
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
To bring again these foolish runaways.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act II, Scene III
Enter Orlando and Adam from opposite sides

ORLANDO
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 bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

ORLANDO
Why, what's the matter?

ADAM
O unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives.
Your brother – no, no brother – yet the son –
Yet not the son, I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father –
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it. If he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him, and his practices.
This is no place, this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

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

ADAM
No matter whither, so you come not here.

ORLANDO
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:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can.
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

ADAM
But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age. Here is the gold;
All this I give you. Let me be your servant.
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty,
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you,
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

ORLANDO
O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion,
And having that do choke their service up
Even with the having; it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we'll go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent
We'll light upon some settled low content.

ADAM
Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost four score
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at four score it is too late a week.
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act II, Scene IV
Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and
the Clown, alias Touchstone

ROSALIND
O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!

TOUCHSTONE
I care not for my spirits, if my legs were
not weary.

ROSALIND
I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's
apparel, and to cry like a woman, but I must comfort the
weaker vessel as doublet and hose ought to show itself
courageous to petticoat: therefore courage, good Aliena!

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

TOUCHSTONE
For my part, I had rather bear with you
than bear you: yet I should bear no cross if I did bear
you, for I think you have no money in your purse.

ROSALIND
Well, this is the Forest of Arden.

TOUCHSTONE
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.
Enter Corin and Silvius

ROSALIND
Ay, be so, good Touchstone. – Look you, who comes here:
A young man and an old in solemn talk.

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

SILVIUS
O Corin, that thou knewest how I do love her!

CORIN
I partly guess, for I have loved ere now.

SILVIUS
No, Corin, being old thou canst not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow.
But if thy love were ever like to mine –
As sure I think did never man love so –
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

CORIN
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

SILVIUS
O, thou didst then never love so heartily.
If thou rememberest not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved.
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
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.
O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!
Exit

ROSALIND
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.

TOUCHSTONE
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
chopt 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.

ROSALIND
Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.

TOUCHSTONE
Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit
till I break my shins against it.

ROSALIND
Jove, Jove! This shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.

TOUCHSTONE
And mine, but it grows something stale with me.

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

TOUCHSTONE
Holla, you clown!

ROSALIND
Peace, fool, he's not thy kinsman.

CORIN
Who calls?

TOUCHSTONE
Your betters, sir.

CORIN
Else are they very wretched.

ROSALIND
Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

CORIN
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

ROSALIND
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 travail much oppressed
And faints for succour.

CORIN
Fair sir, I pity her,
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her;
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality.
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on. But what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

ROSALIND
What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

CORIN
That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
That little cares for buying anything.

ROSALIND
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.

CELIA
And we will mend thy wages: I like this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.

CORIN
Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
Go with me. If you like upon report
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act II, Scene V
Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others

AMIENS
(sings)
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat:
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES
More, more, I prithee, more.

AMIENS
It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

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

AMIENS
My voice is ragged, I know I cannot please you.

JAQUES
I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you
to sing. Come, more, another stanzo. Call you 'em
‘ stanzos ’?

AMIENS
What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

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

AMIENS
More at your request than to please myself.

JAQUES
Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you;
but that they call ‘ compliment ’ is like th' encounter of
two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily,
methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me
the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not,
hold your tongues.

AMIENS
Well, I'll end the song. – Sirs, cover the while:
the Duke will drink under this tree. – He hath been all
this day to look you.

JAQUES
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.

ALL TOGETHER
(sing)
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i'th' sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets:
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

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

AMIENS
And I'll sing it.

JAQUES
Thus it goes:
If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please:
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame.
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.

AMIENS
What's that ‘ ducdame?’

JAQUES
'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.

AMIENS
And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is
prepared.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act II, Scene VI
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.

ORLANDO
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. (Raising him) For my sake
be comfortable; hold death a while 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
Modern text
Act II, Scene VII
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and Lords, dressed as
foresters, or outlaws

DUKE
I think he be transformed 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.

DUKE
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
Why, how now, Monsieur, what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily?

JAQUES
A fool, a fool! I met a fool i'th' forest,
A motley fool – a miserable world! –
As I do live by food, I met a fool,
Who laid him down, and basked him in the sun,
And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
‘ Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ‘ No, sir,’ quoth he,
‘ Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.’
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And looking on it, with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, ‘ It is ten o'clock.’
‘ Thus we may see,’ quoth he, ‘ how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
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,
My lungs began to crow like Chanticleer
That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool: motley's the only wear!

DUKE
What fool is this?

JAQUES
A worthy fool: one that hath been a courtier,
And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.

DUKE
Thou shalt have one.

JAQUES
It is my only suit –
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;
And they that are most galled with my folly
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
The why is plain as way to parish church.
He that a fool doth very wisely hit
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,
The wise man's folly is 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
Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.

DUKE
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

JAQUES
What, for a counter, would I do, but good?

DUKE
Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself,
And all th' embossed sores and headed evils
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

JAQUES
Why, who cries out on pride
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the 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?
Who can come in and say that I mean her
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says his bravery is not on my cost,
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
There then, how then, what then? Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wronged him: if it do him right,
Then he hath wronged himself; if he be free,
Why then my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaimed of any man. But who come here?
Enter Orlando

ORLANDO
Forbear, and eat no more.

JAQUES
Why, I have eat none yet.

ORLANDO
Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.

JAQUES
Of what kind should this cock come of?

DUKE
Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seemest so empty?

ORLANDO
You touched my vein at first: the thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say,
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answered.

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

DUKE
What would you have? Your gentleness shall force,
More than your force move us to gentleness.

ORLANDO
I almost die for food, and let me have it.

DUKE
Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

ORLANDO
Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you.
I thought that all things had been savage here,
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are
That in this desert inaccessible,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time:
If ever you have looked on better days;
If ever been where bells have knolled to church;
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,
In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

DUKE
True is it that we have seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knolled to church,
And sat at good men's feasts, and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness
And take upon command what help we have
That to your wanting may be ministered.

ORLANDO
Then but forbear your food a little while
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn
And give it food. There is an old poor man
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limped in pure love; till he be first sufficed,
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.

DUKE
Go find him out
And we will nothing waste till you return.

ORLANDO
I thank ye, and be blessed for your good comfort!
Exit

DUKE
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy.
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.

JAQUES
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His Acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
Then, the whining schoolboy, 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,
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,
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 slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound; last Scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Enter Orlando with Adam

DUKE
Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,
And let him feed.

ORLANDO
I thank you most for him.

ADAM
So had you need;
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

DUKE
Welcome, fall to. I will not trouble you
As yet to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some music and, good cousin, sing.

AMIENS
(sings)
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude.
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly,
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly;
Then hey-ho, the holly,
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot.
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly,
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly;
Then hey-ho, the holly,
This life is most jolly.

DUKE
If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,
As you have whispered faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limned and living in your face,
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,
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
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