As You Like It 14Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage
18
Literature · Romance
As You Like It 14
Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage
ShakespeareEnglish
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 a 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 puny 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 enquired
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.]
SCENE V. Another part of the Forest
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe.
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, at a distance.
PHOEBE.
I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye.
’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable
That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
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 not force in eyes
That can do hurt.
SILVIUS.
O dear Phoebe,
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.
PHOEBE.
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. [Advancing.] 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.
PHOEBE.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together!
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND. He’s fall’n in love with your foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?
PHOEBE.
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. 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.
[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin.]
PHOEBE.
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE.
Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE.
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.
PHOEBE.
Thou hast my love. Is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS.
I would have you.
PHOEBE.
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.
PHOEBE.
Know’st 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.
PHOEBE.
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
Betwixt 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.
Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE.
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.]
ACT IV
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Jaques.
JAQUES. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
ROSALIND.
They say you are a melancholy fellow.
JAQUES.
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
ROSALIND. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
JAQUES.
Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
ROSALIND.
Why then, ’tis good to be a post.
JAQUES. I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
ROSALIND. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
JAQUES.
Yes, I have gained my experience.
ROSALIND. And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.
Enter Orlando.
ORLANDO.
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
JAQUES.
Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
ROSALIND. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.
[Exit Jaques.]
Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
ORLANDO.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
ROSALIND. Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
ORLANDO.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
ROSALIND. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO.
Of a snail?
ROSALIND. Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.
ORLANDO.
What’s that?
ROSALIND. Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.
ORLANDO.
Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND.
And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA. It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
ROSALIND. Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND. Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
ORLANDO.
How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO.
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO.
What, of my suit?
ROSALIND. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
ORLANDO. I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND.
Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO.
Then, in mine own person, I die.
ROSALIND. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
ORLANDO. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her frown might kill me.
ROSALIND. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it.
ORLANDO.
Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO.
And wilt thou have me?
ROSALIND.
Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO.
What sayest thou?
ROSALIND.
Are you not good?
ORLANDO.
I hope so.
ROSALIND. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?
ORLANDO.
Pray thee, marry us.
CELIA.
I cannot say the words.
ROSALIND.
You must begin “Will you, Orlando—”
CELIA.
Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I will.
ROSALIND.
Ay, but when?
ORLANDO.
Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
ROSALIND.
Then you must say “I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”
ORLANDO.
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
ROSALIND. I might ask you for your commission. But I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.
ORLANDO.
So do all thoughts. They are winged.
ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.
ORLANDO.
For ever and a day.
ROSALIND. Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.
ORLANDO.
But will my Rosalind do so?
ROSALIND.
By my life, she will do as I do.
ORLANDO.
O, but she is wise.
ROSALIND. Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement. Shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
ORLANDO. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, “Wit, whither wilt?”
ROSALIND. Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.
ORLANDO.
And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
ROSALIND. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
ORLANDO.
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
ROSALIND.
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
ORLANDO. I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee again.
ROSALIND. Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove. My friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won me. ’Tis but one cast away, and so, come death! Two o’clock is your hour?
ORLANDO.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
ROSALIND. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
ORLANDO. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.
ROSALIND. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try. Adieu.
[Exit Orlando.]
CELIA. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate! We must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
ROSALIND. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
CELIA. Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.
ROSALIND. No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses everyone’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
CELIA.
And I’ll sleep.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Another part of the Forest
Enter Jaques and Lords, like foresters.
JAQUES.
Which is he that killed the deer?
FIRST LORD.
Sir, it was I.
JAQUES. Let’s present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror, and it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?
SECOND LORD.
Yes, sir.
JAQUES. Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
SONG
SECOND LORD.
[Sings.]
What shall he have that killed the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Then sing him home:
[The rest shall bear this burden.]
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn.
It was a crest ere thou wast born.
Thy father’s father wore it
And thy father bore it.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
ROSALIND. How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? And here much Orlando.
CELIA. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep.
Enter Silvius.
Look who comes here.
SILVIUS.
My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.
[Giving a letter.]
I know not the contents, but, as I guess
By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor. Pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
ROSALIND.
Patience herself would startle at this letter
And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all!
She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,
Were man as rare as phoenix. ’Od’s my will,
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.
Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.
SILVIUS.
No, I protest, I know not the contents.
Phoebe did write it.
ROSALIND.
Come, come, you are a fool,
And turned into the extremity of love.
I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand,
A freestone-coloured hand. I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands.
She has a huswife’s hand—but that’s no matter.
I say she never did invent this letter;
This is a man’s invention, and his hand.
SILVIUS.
Sure, it is hers.
ROSALIND.
Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style,
A style for challengers. Why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian. Women’s gentle brain
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?
SILVIUS.
So please you, for I never heard it yet,
Yet heard too much of Phoebe’s cruelty.
ROSALIND.
She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.
[Reads.]
_Art thou god to shepherd turned,
That a maiden’s heart hath burned?_
Can a woman rail thus?
SILVIUS.
Call you this railing?
ROSALIND.
_Why, thy godhead laid apart,
Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart?_
Did you ever hear such railing?
_Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me._
Meaning me a beast.
_If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect?
Whiles you chid me, I did love,
How then might your prayers move?
He that brings this love to thee
Little knows this love in me;
And by him seal up thy mind,
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make,
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I’ll study how to die._
SILVIUS.
Call you this chiding?
CELIA.
Alas, poor shepherd.
ROSALIND. Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity.—Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee? Not to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word, for here comes more company.
[Exit Silvius.]
Enter Oliver.
OLIVER.
Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know,
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheepcote fenced about with olive trees?
CELIA.
West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom;
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand, brings you to the place.
But at this hour the house doth keep itself.
There’s none within.
OLIVER.
If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description,
Such garments, and such years. “The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister; the woman low,
And browner than her brother.” Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
CELIA.
It is no boast, being asked, to say we are.
OLIVER.
Orlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
ROSALIND.
I am. What must we understand by this?
OLIVER.
Some of my shame, if you will know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkerchief was stained.
CELIA.
I pray you tell it.
OLIVER.
When last the young Orlando parted from you,
He left a promise to return again
Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befell. He threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself.
Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back; about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached
The opening of his mouth. But suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush; under which bush’s shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch
When that the sleeping man should stir. For ’tis
The royal disposition of that beast
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.
This seen, Orlando did approach the man
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
CELIA.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived amongst men.
OLIVER.
And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
ROSALIND.
But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,
Food to the sucked and hungry lioness?
OLIVER.
Twice did he turn his back and purposed so;
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awaked.
CELIA.
Are you his brother?
ROSALIND.
Was it you he rescued?
CELIA.
Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
OLIVER.
’Twas I; but ’tis not I. I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
ROSALIND.
But, for the bloody napkin?
OLIVER.
By and by.
When from the first to last betwixt us two
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed—
As how I came into that desert place—
In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother’s love,
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripped himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
And cried in fainting upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recovered him, bound up his wound,
And after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
[Rosalind faints.]
CELIA.
Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede!
OLIVER.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
CELIA.
There is more in it. Cousin—Ganymede!
OLIVER.
Look, he recovers.
ROSALIND.
I would I were at home.
CELIA.
We’ll lead you thither.
I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
OLIVER. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man? You lack a man’s heart.
ROSALIND. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho.
OLIVER. This was not counterfeit. There is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.
ROSALIND.
Counterfeit, I assure you.
OLIVER.
Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.
ROSALIND. So I do. But, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right.
CELIA. Come, you look paler and paler. Pray you draw homewards. Good sir, go with us.
OLIVER.
That will I, for I must bear answer back
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
ROSALIND. I shall devise something. But I pray you commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?
[Exeunt.]
ACT V
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
TOUCHSTONE.
We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.
AUDREY. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying.
TOUCHSTONE. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.
AUDREY. Ay, I know who ’tis. He hath no interest in me in the world.
Enter William.
Here comes the man you mean.
TOUCHSTONE. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for. We shall be flouting; we cannot hold.
WILLIAM.
Good ev’n, Audrey.
AUDREY.
God ye good ev’n, William.
WILLIAM.
And good ev’n to you, sir.
TOUCHSTONE. Good ev’n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head. Nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend?
WILLIAM.
Five-and-twenty, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
A ripe age. Is thy name William?
WILLIAM.
William, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
A fair name. Wast born i’ th’ forest here?
WILLIAM.
Ay, sir, I thank God.
TOUCHSTONE.
“Thank God.” A good answer. Art rich?
WILLIAM.
Faith, sir, so-so.
TOUCHSTONE. “So-so” is good, very good, very excellent good. And yet it is not, it is but so-so. Art thou wise?
WILLIAM.
Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
TOUCHSTONE. Why, thou sayst well. I do now remember a saying: “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth, meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid?
WILLIAM.
I do, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
WILLIAM.
No, sir.
TOUCHSTONE. Then learn this of me: to have is to have. For it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other. For all your writers do consent that ipse is “he.” Now, you are not ipse, for I am he.
WILLIAM.
Which he, sir?
TOUCHSTONE. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon—which is in the vulgar, “leave”—the society—which in the boorish is “company”—of this female—which in the common is “woman”; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy with thee in faction; will o’errun thee with policy. I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways! Therefore tremble and depart.
AUDREY.
Do, good William.
WILLIAM.
God rest you merry, sir.
[Exit.]
Enter Corin.
CORIN.
Our master and mistress seek you. Come away, away.
TOUCHSTONE.
Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Another part of the Forest
Enter Orlando and Oliver.
ORLANDO. Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? That but seeing, you should love her? And loving woo? And wooing, she should grant? And will you persever to enjoy her?
OLIVER. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting. But say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It shall be to your good, for my father’s house and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.
Enter Rosalind.
ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be tomorrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
God save you, brother.
OLIVER.
And you, fair sister.
[Exit.]
ROSALIND. O my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf!
ORLANDO.
It is my arm.
ROSALIND. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.
ORLANDO.
Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
ROSALIND. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he showed me your handkercher?
ORLANDO.
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
ROSALIND. O, I know where you are. Nay, ’tis true. There was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams, and Caesar’s thrasonical brag of “I came, saw and overcame.” For your brother and my sister no sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them.
ORLANDO. They shall be married tomorrow, and I will bid the Duke to the nuptial. But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes! By so much the more shall I tomorrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.
ROSALIND.
Why, then, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I can live no longer by thinking.
ROSALIND. I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then—for now I speak to some purpose—that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are. Neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three year old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes tomorrow, human as she is, and without any danger.
ORLANDO.
Speak’st thou in sober meanings?
ROSALIND. By my life, I do, which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your friends; for if you will be married tomorrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
PHOEBE.
Youth, you have done me much ungentleness
To show the letter that I writ to you.
ROSALIND.
I care not if I have; it is my study
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.
You are there followed by a faithful shepherd.
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
PHOEBE.
Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.
SILVIUS.
It is to be all made of sighs and tears,
And so am I for Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
And I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO.
And I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
And I for no woman.
SILVIUS.
It is to be all made of faith and service,
And so am I for Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
And I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO.
And I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
And I for no woman.
SILVIUS.
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes,
All adoration, duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance,
And so am I for Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
And so am I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO.
And so am I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
And so am I for no woman.
PHOEBE. [To Rosalind.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
SILVIUS.
[To Phoebe.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
ORLANDO.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
ROSALIND.
Why do you speak too, “Why blame you me to love you?”
ORLANDO.
To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.
ROSALIND. Pray you, no more of this, ’tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [to Silvius.] I will help you if I can. [to Phoebe.] I would love you if I could.—Tomorrow meet me all together. [to Phoebe.] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married tomorrow. [to Orlando.] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married tomorrow. [to Silvius.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married tomorrow. [to Orlando.] As you love Rosalind, meet. [to Silvius.] As you love Phoebe, meet.—And as I love no woman, I’ll meet. So fare you well. I have left you commands.
SILVIUS.
I’ll not fail, if I live.
PHOEBE.
Nor I.
ORLANDO.
Nor I.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
TOUCHSTONE. Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey, tomorrow will we be married.
AUDREY. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world.
Enter two Pages.
Here come two of the banished Duke’s pages.
FIRST PAGE.
Well met, honest gentleman.
TOUCHSTONE.
By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song.
SECOND PAGE.
We are for you, sit i’ th’ middle.
FIRST PAGE. Shall we clap into’t roundly, without hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice?
SECOND PAGE. I’faith, i’faith, and both in a tune like two gipsies on a horse.
SONG
PAGES.
[Sing.]
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green cornfield did pass
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower,
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crowned with the prime,
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
TOUCHSTONE Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.
FIRST PAGE.
You are deceived, sir, we kept time, we lost not our time.
TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, yes. I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you, and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver and Celia.
DUKE SENIOR.
Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised?
ORLANDO.
I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not,
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
Enter Rosalind, Silvius and Phoebe.
ROSALIND.
Patience once more whiles our compact is urged.
[To the Duke.] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
DUKE SENIOR.
That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
ROSALIND. [To Orlando.] And you say you will have her when I bring her?
ORLANDO.
That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
ROSALIND.
[To Phoebe.] You say you’ll marry me if I be willing?
PHOEBE.
That will I, should I die the hour after.
ROSALIND.
But if you do refuse to marry me,
You’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?
PHOEBE.
So is the bargain.
ROSALIND.
[To Silvius.] You say that you’ll have Phoebe if she will?
SILVIUS.
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
ROSALIND.
I have promised to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter,
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter.
Keep your word, Phoebe, that you’ll marry me,
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd.
Keep your word, Silvius, that you’ll marry her
If she refuse me. And from hence I go
To make these doubts all even.
[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.]
DUKE SENIOR.
I do remember in this shepherd boy
Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.
ORLANDO.
My lord, the first time that I ever saw him
Methought he was a brother to your daughter.
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born
And hath been tutored in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
JAQUES. There is sure another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.
TOUCHSTONE.
Salutation and greeting to you all.
JAQUES. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest. He hath been a courtier, he swears.
TOUCHSTONE. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.
JAQUES.
And how was that ta’en up?
TOUCHSTONE. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.
JAQUES.
How seventh cause?—Good my lord, like this fellow?
DUKE SENIOR.
I like him very well.
TOUCHSTONE. God ’ild you, sir, I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house, as your pearl in your foul oyster.
DUKE SENIOR.
By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
TOUCHSTONE. According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.
JAQUES. But, for the seventh cause. How did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?
TOUCHSTONE. Upon a lie seven times removed—bear your body more seeming, Audrey—as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard. He sent me word if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was. This is called the “retort courteous”. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself. This is called the “quip modest”. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgement. This is called the “reply churlish”. If again it was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is called the “reproof valiant”. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie. This is called the “countercheck quarrelsome”, and so, to the “lie circumstantial”, and the “lie direct”.
JAQUES.
And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?
TOUCHSTONE. I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the lie direct; and so we measured swords and parted.
JAQUES.
Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?
TOUCHSTONE. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book, as you have books for good manners. I will name you the degrees: the first, the retort courteous; the second, the quip modest; the third, the reply churlish; the fourth, the reproof valiant; the fifth, the countercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the lie with circumstance; the seventh, the lie direct. All these you may avoid but the lie direct and you may avoid that too with an “if”. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an “if”, as, “if you said so, then I said so;” and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your “if” is the only peacemaker; much virtue in “if.”
JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? He’s as good at anything, and yet a fool.
DUKE SENIOR. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
Enter Hymen, Rosalind in woman’s clothes, and Celia. Still music.
HYMEN.
Then is there mirth in heaven
When earthly things made even
Atone together.
Good Duke, receive thy daughter.
Hymen from heaven brought her,
Yea, brought her hither,
That thou mightst join her hand with his,
Whose heart within his bosom is.
ROSALIND.
[To Duke Senior.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
[To Orlando.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
DUKE SENIOR.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
ORLANDO.
If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
PHOEBE.
If sight and shape be true,
Why then, my love adieu.
ROSALIND.
[To Duke Senior.] I’ll have no father, if you be not he.
[To Orlando.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not he.
[To Phoebe.] Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.
HYMEN.
Peace, ho! I bar confusion.
’Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events.
Here’s eight that must take hands
To join in Hymen’s bands,
If truth holds true contents.
[To Orlando and Rosalind.] You and you no cross shall part.
[To Celia and Oliver.] You and you are heart in heart.
[To Phoebe.] You to his love must accord
Or have a woman to your lord.
[To Audrey and Touchstone.] You and you are sure together
As the winter to foul weather.
Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning,
That reason wonder may diminish
How thus we met, and these things finish.
SONG
Wedding is great Juno’s crown,
O blessed bond of board and bed.
’Tis Hymen peoples every town,
High wedlock then be honoured.
Honour, high honour, and renown
To Hymen, god of every town.
DUKE SENIOR.
O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me
Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.
PHOEBE.
[To Silvius.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine,
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
Enter Jaques de Boys.
JAQUES DE BOYS.
Let me have audience for a word or two.
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Addressed a mighty power, which were on foot
In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here and put him to the sword;
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came,
Where, meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise and from the world,
His crown bequeathing to his banished brother,
And all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exiled. This to be true
I do engage my life.
DUKE SENIOR.
Welcome, young man.
Thou offer’st fairly to thy brother’s wedding:
To one his lands withheld, and to the other
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot;
And after, every of this happy number
That have endured shrewd days and nights with us
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,
And fall into our rustic revelry.
Play, music! And you brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heaped in joy to th’ measures fall.
JAQUES.
Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,
The Duke hath put on a religious life
And thrown into neglect the pompous court.
JAQUES DE BOYS.
He hath.
JAQUES. To him will I. Out of these convertites There is much matter to be heard and learned. [To Duke Senior.] You to your former honour I bequeath; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it. [To Orlando.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit. [To Oliver.] You to your land, and love, and great allies. [To Silvius.] You to a long and well-deserved bed. [To Touchstone.] And you to wrangling, for thy loving voyage Is but for two months victualled.—So to your pleasures, I am for other than for dancing measures.
DUKE SENIOR.
Stay, Jaques, stay.
JAQUES.
To see no pastime, I. What you would have
I’ll stay to know at your abandoned cave.
[Exit.]
DUKE SENIOR.
Proceed, proceed! We will begin these rites,
As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.
[Dance. Exeunt all but Rosalind.]
EPILOGUE
ROSALIND. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue, but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My way is to conjure you, and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you. And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women—as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them—that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not. And I am sure as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths will for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.
