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The duke is humorous : what he is indeed,

Enter Duke FREDERICK, with Lords. More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

Orl. I thank you, sir; and pray you tell me this; Duke P. Mistress, dispatch you with your Which of the two was daughter of the duke,

safest haste, That here was at the wrestling?

And get you from our court. Le Beau. Neither bis daughter, if we judge by Ros.

Me, uncle ? manners:

Duke F.

You, cousin : But yet indeel the smaller is his daughter : 280 Within these ten days if that thou best found The other is daughter to the banish'd duke, So near our public court as twenty miles, And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,

Thou diest for it. To keep his daughter company ; whose loves Ros.

I do beseech your grace,
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.
But I can tell you that of late this duke If with myself I hold intelligence,
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece, Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
Grounded upon no other argument

If that I do not dream or be not frantic,
But that the people praise her for her virtues, As I do trust I am not, then, dear uncle,
And pity her for her good father's sake ; Never so much as in a thought unborn
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady290 Did I offend your highness.
Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well : Duke F.

Thus do all traitors : Hereafter, in a better world than this,

If their purgation did consist in words, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. They are as innocent as grace itself : Orl. I rest much bounden to you: fare you

Let suffice thee that I trust thee not. well.

Erit LE BEAU. Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ; traitor: From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother. Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. But heavenly Rosalind !

Exit. Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter ;

there's enough. SCENE III.- A Room in the Palace.

Ros. So was I when your highness took lis

dukedom ; Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.

So was I when your highness banish'd him. Cel. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind ! Cupid have Treason is not inherited, my lord ; mercy! Not a word ?

Or, if we did derive it from our friends, Rox. Not one to throw at a dog.

What's that to me? my father was po traitor: Ce. No, thy words are too precious to be cast Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much away upon curs; throw some of them at me; To think my poverty is treacherous. come, lam me with reasons.

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up; Duke F. Ay, Celia ; we stay'd her for your sake; when the one should be lamed with reasons and Else had she with her father rang'd along. the other mal without any.

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay: Cel. But is all this for your father? 10 It was your pleasure and your own remorse.

Ros. No, some of it is for my child's father : I was too young that time to value her; 0! how full of briers is this working-day world. But now I know her: if she be a traitor,

Cd. They are but burrs, cousin, thrown upon Why so am I; we still have slept together, thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together; trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,

Rox. I could shake them off my coat : these Still we went coupled and inseparable. barrs are in my heart.

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her Cel. Hem them away.

smoothness, Ros. I would try, if I could cry 'hem' and Her very silence and her patience, have him.

20 Speak to the people, and they pity her. Cel. Come, come; wrestle with thy affections. Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name; 80

Ro3. O! they take the part of a better wrestler And thou wilt show more bright and seem more than myself.

virtuous Cd. O! a good wish upon you ! you will try When she is gone. Then open not thy lips : in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these Firm and irrevocable is my doom jests ont of service, let us talk in good earnest : Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd. is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's

liege : youngest son ?

I cannot live out of her company. Ros. The duke my father loved his father dearly. Duke F. You are a fool. You, niece, provide

Cd. Doth it therefore ensue that you should yourself : love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I If you outstay the time, upon mine honour, should hate him, for my father hated his father And in the greatness of my word, you die. dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

Ercunt Duke FREDERICK and Lords. Roi. No, faitli, hate him not, for my sake. Cd. O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?

Cel. Why should I not ? doth he not deserve Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine. well?

I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than Ros. Let me love bim for that; and do you love

I am. bim, because I do. Look, here comes the duke. Ros. I have more cause. Cd. With his eyes full of anger.


Thou hast not, cousin ;


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Prithee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Hath banish'd me, his daughter?
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


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

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us:
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
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 S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison!
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.

Ros. Why, whither shall we go?
Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.


Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
The like do you so shall we pass along
And never stir assailants.


Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtal-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and,-in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,-
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside, 120
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.


No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we essay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court? 130 Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a Cours'd one another down his innocent nos man? In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.

Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's
own page,

And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd?

Duke S.
But what said Jaques!
Did he not moralize this spectacle ?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my


First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes, First, for his weeping into the needless stream; 'Poor deer,' quoth he, thou mak'st a testament As worldings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much': then, being there alone,

Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together,
Devise the fittest time and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content
To liberty and not to banishment.



SCENE I.-The Forest of Arden.

Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other Lords, like Foresters.


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 but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
"This is no flattery: these are counsellors

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 banish'd yon.
To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans
That their discharge did stretch his leathern





'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 the 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

Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation?

Second Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S.




"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

Show me the place.
I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.
Second Lord. I'll bring you to him straight.






A thievish living on the common road?
SCENE II.-A Room in the Palace.

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

Yet this I will not do, do how I can. Enter Duke FREDERICK, Lords, and Attendants.

I rather will subject me to the malice Duke P. Can it be possible that no man saw Of a diverted blood and bloody brother. them?

Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred It cannot be : some villains of my court

crowns, Are of consent and sufferance in this.

The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, Pirst Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see Which I did store to be my foster-nurse her.

When service should in my old limbs lie lame, The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

And unregarded age in corners thrown. Saw her a-bed ; and in the morning early Take that; and He that doth the ravens feed, They found the hed untreasur'd of their mistress. Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Second Loril. My lord, the roynish clown, at Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold ; whom so oft

All this I give you. Let me be your servant : Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,

For in my youth I never did apply Confesses that she secretly o’erheard

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Your daughter and her cousin much commend Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The parts and graces of the wrestler

The means of weakness and debility ;
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles ; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
And she believes, wherever they are gone, Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you ;
That youth is surely in their company.

I I'll do the service of a younger man Duke F. Send to his brother ; fetch that gal. In all your business and necessities. lant hither;

Orl. O good old man! how well in thee appears If he be absent, bring his brother to me ;

The constant service of the antique world, I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly, When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! And let not search and inquisition quail. 20 Thou art not for the fashion of these times, To bring again these foolish runaways. Exeunt. Where done will sweat but for promotion,

And having that, do choke their service up SCENE III.Before OLIVER'S House. Even with the having : it is not so with thee. Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.

But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield, Orl. Who's there?

In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. Adam. What! my young master ? O my gentle But come thy ways, ve 'll go along together, master!

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent, O my sweet master! O you memory

We'll light upon some settled low content. Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here? Adım. Master, go on, and I will follow thee Why are you virtuous ? why do people love you? To the last gasp with truth and loyalty. And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? From seventeen years till now almost fourscore, Why would you be so fond to orercome

Here lived I, but now live here no more. The bonny priser of the humorous duke ? At seventeen years many their fortunes seek; Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. But at fourscore it is too late a week: Know you not, master, to some kind of men Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Their graces serve them but as enemies ? Than to die well and not my master's debtor. No more do yours : your virtues, gentle master,

Exeunt. Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 0, what a world is this, when what is comely

SCENE IV.-- The Forest of Arden.
Enrenoms him that bears it !
Orl. Why, what 's the matter ?

Enter Rosalind in boy's clothes, CELIA dressed
O unhappy youth !

like a shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE. Come not within these doors ; within this roof Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits. The enemy of all your graces lives.

Touch. I care not for my spirits if my legs Your brother-no, no brother : yet the son were not weary. Yet not the son, I will not call him son

Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my Of him I was about to call his father-

man's apparel and to cry like a woman ; but I Hath heard your praises, and this night he means must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and To burn the lodging where you use to lie, hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: And you within it: if he fail of that,

therefore, courage, good Aliena ! He will have other means to cut you off.

Cd. I pray you, bear with me : I cannot go I overheard him and his practices.

no further. This is no place; this house is but a butchery: Touch. For my pait, I had rather bear with Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have if I did bear you, for I think you have no money me go?

in your purse. Arlam. No matter whither, so you come not Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden. here.

Touch. Av, now am I in Arden; the more fool Orl. What! wouldst thou have me go and beg I: when I was at home, I was in a better place : my food?

but travellers must be content. Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you,

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who comes here; a young man and an old in | And little recks to find the way to heaven solemu talk. 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. Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?


That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, That little cares for buying any thing.

Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

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


Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still. Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

Cor. I partly guess, for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil. No, Corin; being old, thou canst not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow:
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
As sure I think did never man love so,
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O thou didst then ne'er love so heartily.
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd:


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


Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, 'Wear these for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Ros. Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of. Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.


Ros. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.

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

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

Holla, you clown!
Ros. Peace, fool: he's not thy kinsman.
Who calls?

Touch. Your betters, sir.
Else are they very wretched.
Ros. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.
Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. 70
Ros. prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
And faints for succour.

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,


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Jaq. More, more! I prithee, more.

Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.


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

Ami. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.

Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanza. Call you 'em stanzas ?

Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

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

Ami. More at your request than to please myself.

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


Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,

Ami. 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.

Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble; come.



Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool; a miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I 'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I: No, sir,' quoth he,
made yesterday in despite of my invention.
Ami. And I'll sing it.
Jaq. Thus it goes:

'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 may we 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 S. What fool is this?

Seeking the food he cats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he sce

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.


If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Learing his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please,
Duzdame, ducdame, ducdame:
Here shall he see
Gross foo's as he,


An if he will come to me. Ami. What's that ducdame? Jaq. "Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

Ami. And I'll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared. Exeunt severally.

SCENE VI. Another Part of the Forest.


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.

Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield any thing savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable, hold death awhile at the arm's end, I will here be with thee presently, and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou lookest cheerly, and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear thee to some shelter, and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam. Exeunt.

SCENE VII.-Another Part of the Forest.
A table set out. Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS,
Lords, and others.

Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast,
For I can no where find him like a man.
First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go, seek him tell him I would speak with him.
First Lord. He saves my labour by his own

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Jaq. O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
With observation, the which he vents
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd


In mangled forms. O! that I were a fool.
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke S. Thou shalt have one.
Provided that you weed your better judgments
It is my only suit;
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:
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must
And they that are most galled with my folly, 50

Jaq. 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?

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 anatomiz'd
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 the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thon
would'st do.


Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding

sin :

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all the embossed sores and headed evils,
That thou with license of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.


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