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As You Like It |
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by William Shakespeare |
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Edited by Barbara A. Mowat and Paul Werstine |
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with Michael Poston and Rebecca Niles |
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Folger Shakespeare Library |
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https://shakespeare.folger.edu/shakespeares-works/as-you-like-it/ |
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Created on Jul 31, 2015, from FDT version 0.9.2 |
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Characters in the Play |
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ORLANDO, youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys |
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OLIVER, his elder brother |
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SECOND BROTHER, brother to Orlando and Oliver, named Jaques |
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ADAM, servant to Oliver and friend to Orlando |
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DENNIS, servant to Oliver |
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ROSALIND, daughter to Duke Senior |
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CELIA, Rosalind's cousin, daughter to Duke Frederick |
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TOUCHSTONE, a court Fool |
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DUKE FREDERICK, the usurping duke |
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CHARLES, wrestler at Duke Frederick's court |
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LE BEAU, a courtier at Duke Frederick's court |
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Attending Duke Frederick: |
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FIRST LORD |
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SECOND LORD |
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DUKE SENIOR, the exiled duke, brother to Duke Frederick |
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Lords attending Duke Senior in exile: |
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JAQUES |
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AMIENS |
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FIRST LORD |
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SECOND LORD |
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Attending Duke Senior in exile: |
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FIRST PAGE |
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SECOND PAGE |
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CORIN, a shepherd |
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SILVIUS, a young shepherd in love |
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PHOEBE, a disdainful shepherdess |
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AUDREY, a goat-keeper |
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WILLIAM, a country youth in love with Audrey |
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SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a parish priest |
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HYMEN, god of marriage |
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Lords, Attendants, Musicians |
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ACT 1 |
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Scene 1 |
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======= |
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[Enter Orlando and Adam.] |
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ORLANDO As I remember, Adam, it was upon this |
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fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand |
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crowns, and, as thou sayst, charged my brother on |
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his blessing to breed me well. And there begins my |
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sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and |
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report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he |
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keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more |
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properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you |
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that "keeping," for a gentleman of my birth, that |
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differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are |
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bred better, for, besides that they are fair with their |
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feeding, they are taught their manage and, to that |
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end, riders dearly hired. But I, his brother, gain |
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nothing under him but growth, for the which his |
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animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him |
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as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives |
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me, the something that nature gave me his countenance |
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seems to take from me. He lets me feed with |
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his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as |
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much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my |
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education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me, and the |
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spirit of my father, which I think is within me, |
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begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no |
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longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy |
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how to avoid it. |
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[Enter Oliver.] |
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ADAM Yonder comes my master, your brother. |
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ORLANDO Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he |
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will shake me up. [Adam steps aside.] |
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OLIVER Now, sir, what make you here? |
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ORLANDO Nothing. I am not taught to make anything. |
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OLIVER What mar you then, sir? |
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ORLANDO Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that |
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which God made, a poor unworthy brother of |
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yours, with idleness. |
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OLIVER Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught |
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awhile. |
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ORLANDO Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with |
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them? What prodigal portion have I spent that I |
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should come to such penury? |
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OLIVER Know you where you are, sir? |
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ORLANDO O, sir, very well: here in your orchard. |
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OLIVER Know you before whom, sir? |
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ORLANDO Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I |
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know you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle |
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condition of blood you should so know me. The |
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courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you |
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are the first-born, but the same tradition takes not |
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away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt |
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us. I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit I |
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confess your coming before me is nearer to his |
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reverence. |
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OLIVER, [threatening Orlando] What, boy! |
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ORLANDO, [holding off Oliver by the throat] Come, |
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come, elder brother, you are too young in this. |
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OLIVER Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? |
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ORLANDO I am no villain. I am the youngest son of Sir |
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Rowland de Boys. He was my father, and he is |
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thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. |
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Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this |
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hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out |
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thy tongue for saying so. Thou hast railed on thyself. |
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ADAM, [coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient. For |
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your father's remembrance, be at accord. |
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OLIVER, [to Orlando] Let me go, I say. |
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ORLANDO I will not till I please. You shall hear me. My |
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father charged you in his will to give me good |
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education. You have trained me like a peasant, |
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obscuring and hiding from me all gentlemanlike |
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qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in |
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me, and I will no longer endure it. Therefore allow |
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me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or |
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give me the poor allottery my father left me by |
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testament. With that I will go buy my fortunes. |
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[Orlando releases Oliver.] |
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OLIVER And what wilt thou do--beg when that is |
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spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be |
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troubled with you. You shall have some part of your |
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will. I pray you leave me. |
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ORLANDO I will no further offend you than becomes |
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me for my good. |
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OLIVER, [to Adam] Get you with him, you old dog. |
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ADAM Is "old dog" my reward? Most true, I have lost |
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my teeth in your service. God be with my old |
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master. He would not have spoke such a word. |
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[Orlando and Adam exit.] |
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OLIVER Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I |
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will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand |
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crowns neither.--Holla, Dennis! |
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[Enter Dennis.] |
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DENNIS Calls your Worship? |
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OLIVER Was not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to |
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speak with me? |
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DENNIS So please you, he is here at the door and |
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importunes access to you. |
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OLIVER Call him in. [Dennis exits.] 'Twill be a good |
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way, and tomorrow the wrestling is. |
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[Enter Charles.] |
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CHARLES Good morrow to your Worship. |
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OLIVER Good Monsieur Charles, what's the new news |
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at the new court? |
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CHARLES There's no news at the court, sir, but the old |
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news. That is, the old duke is banished by his |
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younger brother the new duke, and three or four |
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loving lords have put themselves into voluntary |
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exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich |
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the new duke. Therefore he gives them good leave |
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to wander. |
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OLIVER Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, |
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be banished with her father? |
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CHARLES O, no, for the Duke's daughter her cousin so |
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loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, |
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that she would have followed her exile or have |
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died to stay behind her. She is at the court and no |
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less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter, |
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and never two ladies loved as they do. |
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OLIVER Where will the old duke live? |
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CHARLES They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, |
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and a many merry men with him; and there they |
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live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say |
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many young gentlemen flock to him every day and |
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fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden |
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world. |
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OLIVER What, you wrestle tomorrow before the new |
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duke? |
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CHARLES Marry, do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you |
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with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand |
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that your younger brother Orlando hath a |
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disposition to come in disguised against me to try a |
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fall. Tomorrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he |
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that escapes me without some broken limb shall |
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acquit him well. Your brother is but young and |
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tender, and for your love I would be loath to foil |
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him, as I must for my own honor if he come in. |
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Therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to |
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acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him |
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from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well |
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as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own |
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search and altogether against my will. |
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OLIVER Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which |
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thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had |
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myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, and |
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have by underhand means labored to dissuade him |
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from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is |
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the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of |
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ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good |
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parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me |
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his natural brother. Therefore use thy discretion. I |
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had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. |
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And thou wert best look to 't, for if thou dost him |
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any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace |
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himself on thee, he will practice against thee by |
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poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, |
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and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by |
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some indirect means or other. For I assure thee-- |
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and almost with tears I speak it--there is not one so |
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young and so villainous this day living. I speak but |
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brotherly of him, but should I anatomize him to |
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thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must |
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look pale and wonder. |
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CHARLES I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he |
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come tomorrow, I'll give him his payment. If ever |
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he go alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more. |
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And so God keep your Worship. |
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OLIVER Farewell, good Charles. [Charles exits.] |
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Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an |
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end of him, for my soul--yet I know not why-- |
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hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle, never |
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schooled and yet learned, full of noble device, of all |
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sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much in |
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the heart of the world, and especially of my own |
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people, who best know him, that I am altogether |
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misprized. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler |
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shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the |
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boy thither, which now I'll go about. |
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[He exits.] |
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Scene 2 |
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======= |
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[Enter Rosalind and Celia.] |
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CELIA I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. |
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ROSALIND Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am |
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mistress of, and would you yet I were merrier? |
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Unless you could teach me to forget a banished |
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father, you must not learn me how to remember |
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any extraordinary pleasure. |
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CELIA Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full |
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weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished |
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father, had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father, |
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so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught |
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my love to take thy father for mine. So wouldst thou, |
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if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously |
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tempered as mine is to thee. |
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ROSALIND Well, I will forget the condition of my estate |
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to rejoice in yours. |
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CELIA You know my father hath no child but I, nor |
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none is like to have; and truly, when he dies, thou |
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shalt be his heir, for what he hath taken away from |
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thy father perforce, I will render thee again in |
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affection. By mine honor I will, and when I break |
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that oath, let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet |
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Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. |
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ROSALIND From henceforth I will, coz, and devise |
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sports. Let me see--what think you of falling in |
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love? |
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CELIA Marry, I prithee do, to make sport withal; but |
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love no man in good earnest, nor no further in |
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sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou |
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mayst in honor come off again. |
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ROSALIND What shall be our sport, then? |
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CELIA Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune |
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from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be |
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bestowed equally. |
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ROSALIND I would we could do so, for her benefits are |
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mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman |
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doth most mistake in her gifts to women. |
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CELIA 'Tis true, for those that she makes fair she scarce |
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makes honest, and those that she makes honest she |
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makes very ill-favoredly. |
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ROSALIND Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's office to |
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Nature's. Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in |
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the lineaments of nature. |
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CELIA No? When Nature hath made a fair creature, |
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may she not by fortune fall into the fire? |
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[Enter Touchstone.] |
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Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, |
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hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the |
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argument? |
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ROSALIND Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, |
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when Fortune makes Nature's natural the |
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cutter-off of Nature's wit. |
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CELIA Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, |
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but Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too |
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dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent |
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this natural for our whetstone, for always the dullness |
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of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. [To |
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Touchstone.] How now, wit, whither wander you? |
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TOUCHSTONE Mistress, you must come away to your |
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father. |
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CELIA Were you made the messenger? |
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TOUCHSTONE No, by mine honor, but I was bid to come |
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for you. |
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ROSALIND Where learned you that oath, fool? |
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TOUCHSTONE Of a certain knight that swore by his |
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honor they were good pancakes, and swore by his |
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honor the mustard was naught. Now, I'll stand to it, |
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the pancakes were naught and the mustard was |
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good, and yet was not the knight forsworn. |
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CELIA How prove you that in the great heap of your |
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knowledge? |
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ROSALIND Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom. |
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TOUCHSTONE Stand you both forth now: stroke your |
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chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave. |
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CELIA By our beards (if we had them), thou art. |
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TOUCHSTONE By my knavery (if I had it), then I were. |
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But if you swear by that that is not, you are not |
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forsworn. No more was this knight swearing by his |
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honor, for he never had any, or if he had, he had |
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sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or |
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that mustard. |
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CELIA Prithee, who is 't that thou mean'st? |
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TOUCHSTONE One that old Frederick, your father, loves. |
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CELIA My father's love is enough to honor him. |
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Enough. Speak no more of him; you'll be whipped |
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for taxation one of these days. |
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TOUCHSTONE The more pity that fools may not speak |
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wisely what wise men do foolishly. |
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CELIA By my troth, thou sayest true. For, since the little |
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wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery |
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that wise men have makes a great show. Here |
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comes Monsieur Le Beau. |
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[Enter Le Beau.] |
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ROSALIND With his mouth full of news. |
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CELIA Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their |
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young. |
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ROSALIND Then shall we be news-crammed. |
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CELIA All the better. We shall be the more |
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marketable.--Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's |
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the news? |
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LE BEAU Fair princess, you have lost much good sport. |
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CELIA Sport? Of what color? |
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LE BEAU What color, madam? How shall I answer you? |
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ROSALIND As wit and fortune will. |
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TOUCHSTONE Or as the destinies decrees. |
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CELIA Well said. That was laid on with a trowel. |
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TOUCHSTONE Nay, if I keep not my rank-- |
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ROSALIND Thou losest thy old smell. |
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LE BEAU You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of |
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good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of. |
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ROSALIND Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. |
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LE BEAU I will tell you the beginning, and if it please |
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your Ladyships, you may see the end, for the best is |
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yet to do, and here, where you are, they are coming |
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to perform it. |
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CELIA Well, the beginning that is dead and buried. |
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LE BEAU There comes an old man and his three sons-- |
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CELIA I could match this beginning with an old tale. |
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LE BEAU Three proper young men of excellent growth |
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and presence. |
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ROSALIND With bills on their necks: "Be it known unto |
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all men by these presents." |
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LE BEAU The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, |
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the Duke's wrestler, which Charles in a moment |
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threw him and broke three of his ribs, that there is |
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little hope of life in him. So he served the second, |
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and so the third. Yonder they lie, the poor old man |
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their father making such pitiful dole over them that |
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all the beholders take his part with weeping. |
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ROSALIND Alas! |
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TOUCHSTONE But what is the sport, monsieur, that the |
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ladies have lost? |
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LE BEAU Why, this that I speak of. |
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TOUCHSTONE Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is |
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the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was |
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sport for ladies. |
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CELIA Or I, I promise thee. |
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ROSALIND But is there any else longs to see this broken |
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music in his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon |
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rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin? |
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LE BEAU You must if you stay here, for here is the place |
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appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to |
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perform it. |
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CELIA Yonder sure they are coming. Let us now stay |
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and see it. |
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[Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, |
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Charles, and Attendants.] |
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DUKE FREDERICK Come on. Since the youth will not be |
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entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. |
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ROSALIND, [to Le Beau] Is yonder the man? |
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LE BEAU Even he, madam. |
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CELIA Alas, he is too young. Yet he looks successfully. |
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DUKE FREDERICK How now, daughter and cousin? Are |
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you crept hither to see the wrestling? |
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ROSALIND Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave. |
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DUKE FREDERICK You will take little delight in it, I can |
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tell you, there is such odds in the man. In pity of the |
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challenger's youth, I would fain dissuade him, but |
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he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if |
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you can move him. |
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CELIA Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. |
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DUKE FREDERICK Do so. I'll not be by. |
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[He steps aside.] |
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LE BEAU, [to Orlando] Monsieur the challenger, the |
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Princess calls for you. |
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ORLANDO I attend them with all respect and duty. |
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ROSALIND Young man, have you challenged Charles the |
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wrestler? |
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ORLANDO No, fair princess. He is the general challenger. |
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I come but in as others do, to try with him the |
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strength of my youth. |
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CELIA Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for |
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your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's |
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strength. If you saw yourself with your eyes or knew |
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yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure |
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would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. |
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We pray you for your own sake to embrace your |
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own safety and give over this attempt. |
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ROSALIND Do, young sir. Your reputation shall not |
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therefore be misprized. We will make it our suit to |
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the Duke that the wrestling might not go forward. |
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ORLANDO I beseech you, punish me not with your hard |
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thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny |
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so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your |
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fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, |
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wherein, if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that |
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was never gracious; if killed, but one dead that is |
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willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for |
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I have none to lament me; the world no injury, for |
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in it I have nothing. Only in the world I fill up a |
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place which may be better supplied when I have |
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made it empty. |
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ROSALIND The little strength that I have, I would it |
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were with you. |
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CELIA And mine, to eke out hers. |
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ROSALIND Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceived in |
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you. |
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CELIA Your heart's desires be with you. |
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CHARLES Come, where is this young gallant that is so |
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desirous to lie with his mother Earth? |
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ORLANDO Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more |
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modest working. |
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DUKE FREDERICK, [coming forward] You shall try but |
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one fall. |
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CHARLES No, I warrant your Grace you shall not entreat |
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him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded |
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him from a first. |
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ORLANDO You mean to mock me after, you should not |
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have mocked me before. But come your ways. |
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ROSALIND Now Hercules be thy speed, young man! |
|
|
|
CELIA I would I were invisible, to catch the strong |
|
fellow by the leg. |
|
[Orlando and Charles wrestle.] |
|
|
|
ROSALIND O excellent young man! |
|
|
|
CELIA If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who |
|
should down. |
|
[Orlando throws Charles. Shout.] |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK No more, no more. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Yes, I beseech your Grace. I am not yet well |
|
breathed. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK How dost thou, Charles? |
|
|
|
LE BEAU He cannot speak, my lord. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK Bear him away. |
|
[Charles is carried off by Attendants.] |
|
What is thy name, young man? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Orlando, my liege, the youngest son of Sir |
|
Rowland de Boys. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK |
|
I would thou hadst been son to some man else. |
|
The world esteemed thy father honorable, |
|
But I did find him still mine enemy. |
|
Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this |
|
deed |
|
Hadst thou descended from another house. |
|
But fare thee well. Thou art a gallant youth. |
|
I would thou hadst told me of another father. |
|
[Duke exits with Touchstone, Le Beau, |
|
Lords, and Attendants.] |
|
|
|
CELIA, [to Rosalind] |
|
Were I my father, coz, would I do this? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO |
|
I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son, |
|
His youngest son, and would not change that calling |
|
To be adopted heir to Frederick. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [to Celia] |
|
My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, |
|
And all the world was of my father's mind. |
|
Had I before known this young man his son, |
|
I should have given him tears unto entreaties |
|
Ere he should thus have ventured. |
|
|
|
CELIA Gentle cousin, |
|
Let us go thank him and encourage him. |
|
My father's rough and envious disposition |
|
Sticks me at heart.--Sir, you have well deserved. |
|
If you do keep your promises in love |
|
But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, |
|
Your mistress shall be happy. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [giving Orlando a chain from her neck] |
|
Gentleman, |
|
Wear this for me--one out of suits with Fortune, |
|
That could give more but that her hand lacks |
|
means.-- |
|
Shall we go, coz? |
|
|
|
CELIA Ay.--Fare you well, fair gentleman. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO, [aside] |
|
Can I not say "I thank you"? My better parts |
|
Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up |
|
Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [to Celia] |
|
He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes. |
|
I'll ask him what he would.--Did you call, sir? |
|
Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown |
|
More than your enemies. |
|
|
|
CELIA Will you go, coz? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Have with you. [To Orlando.] Fare you well. |
|
[Rosalind and Celia exit.] |
|
|
|
ORLANDO |
|
What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? |
|
I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference. |
|
O poor Orlando! Thou art overthrown. |
|
Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. |
|
|
|
[Enter Le Beau.] |
|
|
|
|
|
LE BEAU |
|
Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you |
|
To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved |
|
High commendation, true applause, and love, |
|
Yet such is now the Duke's condition |
|
That he misconsters all that you have done. |
|
The Duke is humorous. What he is indeed |
|
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO |
|
I thank you, sir, and pray you tell me this: |
|
Which of the two was daughter of the duke |
|
That here was at the wrestling? |
|
|
|
LE BEAU |
|
Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners, |
|
But yet indeed the smaller is his daughter. |
|
The other is daughter to the banished duke, |
|
And here detained by her usurping uncle |
|
To keep his daughter company, whose loves |
|
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. |
|
But I can tell you that of late this duke |
|
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece, |
|
Grounded upon no other argument |
|
But that the people praise her for her virtues |
|
And pity her for her good father's sake; |
|
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady |
|
Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well. |
|
Hereafter, in a better world than this, |
|
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO |
|
I rest much bounden to you. Fare you well. |
|
[Le Beau exits.] |
|
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother, |
|
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother. |
|
But heavenly Rosalind! |
|
[He exits.] |
|
|
|
Scene 3 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Celia and Rosalind.] |
|
|
|
|
|
CELIA Why, cousin! Why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy, |
|
not a word? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Not one to throw at a dog. |
|
|
|
CELIA No, thy words are too precious to be cast away |
|
upon curs. Throw some of them at me. Come, lame |
|
me with reasons. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Then there were two cousins laid up, when |
|
the one should be lamed with reasons, and the |
|
other mad without any. |
|
|
|
CELIA But is all this for your father? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND No, some of it is for my child's father. O, |
|
how full of briers is this working-day world! |
|
|
|
CELIA They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in |
|
holiday foolery. If we walk not in the trodden paths, |
|
our very petticoats will catch them. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND I could shake them off my coat. These burs |
|
are in my heart. |
|
|
|
CELIA Hem them away. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND I would try, if I could cry "hem" and have |
|
him. |
|
|
|
CELIA Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND O, they take the part of a better wrestler |
|
than myself. |
|
|
|
CELIA O, a good wish upon you. You will try in time, in |
|
despite of a fall. But turning these jests out of |
|
service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible on |
|
such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking |
|
with old Sir Rowland's youngest son? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND The Duke my father loved his father dearly. |
|
|
|
CELIA Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his |
|
son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, |
|
for my father hated his father dearly. Yet I hate not |
|
Orlando. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. |
|
|
|
CELIA Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Let me love him for that, and do you love |
|
him because I do. |
|
|
|
[Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.] |
|
|
|
Look, here comes the Duke. |
|
|
|
CELIA With his eyes full of anger. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK, [to Rosalind] |
|
Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, |
|
And get you from our court. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Me, uncle? |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK You, cousin. |
|
Within these ten days if that thou beest found |
|
So near our public court as twenty miles, |
|
Thou diest for it. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND I do beseech your Grace, |
|
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me. |
|
If with myself I hold intelligence |
|
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires, |
|
If that I do not dream or be not frantic-- |
|
As I do trust I am not--then, dear uncle, |
|
Never so much as in a thought unborn |
|
Did I offend your Highness. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK Thus do all traitors. |
|
If their purgation did consist in words, |
|
They are as innocent as grace itself. |
|
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND |
|
Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor. |
|
Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK |
|
Thou art thy father's daughter. There's enough. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND |
|
So was I when your Highness took his dukedom. |
|
So was I when your Highness banished him. |
|
Treason is not inherited, my lord, |
|
Or if we did derive it from our friends, |
|
What's that to me? My father was no traitor. |
|
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much |
|
To think my poverty is treacherous. |
|
|
|
CELIA Dear sovereign, hear me speak. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK |
|
Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake; |
|
Else had she with her father ranged along. |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
I did not then entreat to have her stay. |
|
It was your pleasure and your own remorse. |
|
I was too young that time to value her, |
|
But now I know her. If she be a traitor, |
|
Why, so am I. We still have slept together, |
|
Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, |
|
And, wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans |
|
Still we went coupled and inseparable. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK |
|
She is too subtle for thee, and her smoothness, |
|
Her very silence, and her patience |
|
Speak to the people, and they pity her. |
|
Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name, |
|
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more |
|
virtuous |
|
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips. |
|
Firm and irrevocable is my doom |
|
Which I have passed upon her. She is banished. |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege. |
|
I cannot live out of her company. |
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK |
|
You are a fool.--You, niece, provide yourself. |
|
If you outstay the time, upon mine honor |
|
And in the greatness of my word, you die. |
|
[Duke and Lords exit.] |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go? |
|
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. |
|
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND I have more cause. |
|
|
|
CELIA Thou hast not, cousin. |
|
Prithee, be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke |
|
Hath banished me, his daughter? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND That he hath not. |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love |
|
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. |
|
Shall we be sundered? 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. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Why, whither shall we go? |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND |
|
Alas, what danger will it be to us, |
|
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far? |
|
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
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. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND 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-ax 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-- |
|
As many other mannish cowards have |
|
That do outface it with their semblances. |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
What shall I call thee when thou art a man? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND |
|
I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, |
|
And therefore look you call me Ganymede. |
|
But what will you be called? |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
Something that hath a reference to my state: |
|
No longer Celia, but Aliena. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND |
|
But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal |
|
The clownish fool out of your father's court? |
|
Would he not be a comfort to our travel? |
|
|
|
CELIA |
|
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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
|
|
ACT 2 |
|
===== |
|
|
|
Scene 1 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords, like |
|
foresters.] |
|
|
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR |
|
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 counselors |
|
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 SENIOR |
|
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 antique 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 SENIOR 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 mak'st 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 friends: |
|
"'Tis right," quoth he. "Thus misery doth part |
|
The flux of company." Anon a careless herd, |
|
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him |
|
And never stays to greet him. "Ay," quoth Jaques, |
|
"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 SENIOR |
|
And did you leave him in this contemplation? |
|
|
|
SECOND LORD |
|
We did, my lord, weeping and commenting |
|
Upon the sobbing deer. |
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR 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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 2 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.] |
|
|
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK |
|
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 roinish 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 FREDERICK |
|
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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 3 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.] |
|
|
|
|
|
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 boist'rous 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 prun'st 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 fourscore |
|
Here lived I, but now live here no more. |
|
At seventeen years, many their fortunes seek, |
|
But at fourscore, it is too late a week. |
|
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better |
|
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 4 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Rosalind for Ganymede, Celia for Aliena, and |
|
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 |
|
travelers must be content. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Ay, be so, good Touchstone. |
|
|
|
[Enter Corin and Silvius.] |
|
|
|
Look you who comes here, a young man and an old |
|
in solemn talk. |
|
|
|
[Rosalind, Celia, and Touchstone step aside and |
|
eavesdrop.] |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CORIN, [to Silvius] |
|
That is the way to make her scorn you still. |
|
|
|
SILVIUS |
|
O Corin, that thou knew'st 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 rememb'rest 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 Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe! [He exits.] |
|
|
|
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 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. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Thou speak'st 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, [to Corin] 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, [to Touchstone] |
|
Peace, I say. [As Ganymede, to Corin.] |
|
Good even toyou, friend. |
|
|
|
CORIN |
|
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
|
I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold |
|
Can in this desert place buy entertainment, |
|
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. |
|
Here's a young maid with travel much oppressed, |
|
And faints for succor. |
|
|
|
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, [as Ganymede] |
|
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, [as Ganymede] |
|
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, [as Aliena] |
|
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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 5 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others.] |
|
|
|
Song. |
|
|
|
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. |
|
|
|
Song. |
|
|
|
|
|
ALL [together here.] |
|
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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 6 |
|
======= |
|
[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. [He lies down.] |
|
|
|
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. 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 labor. Well said. Thou look'st |
|
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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 7 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Duke Senior and Lords, like outlaws.] |
|
|
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR |
|
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 SENIOR |
|
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 labor by his own approach. |
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR, [to Jaques] |
|
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-luster 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 SENIOR What fool is this? |
|
|
|
JAQUES |
|
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 |
|
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 SENIOR |
|
Thou shalt have one. |
|
|
|
JAQUES It is my only suit, |
|
Provided that you weed your better judgments |
|
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 squand'ring 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 SENIOR |
|
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. |
|
|
|
JAQUES |
|
What, for a counter, would I do but good? |
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR |
|
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 license 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 neighbor? |
|
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. |
|
|
|
[Enter Orlando, brandishing a sword.] |
|
|
|
But who comes here? |
|
|
|
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 SENIOR, [to Orlando] |
|
Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress, |
|
Or else a rude despiser of good manners, |
|
That in civility thou seem'st 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 SENIOR, [to Orlando] |
|
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 SENIOR |
|
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. |
|
[He sheathes his sword.] |
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR |
|
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 SENIOR Go find him out, |
|
And we will nothing waste till you return. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO |
|
I thank you; and be blessed for your good comfort. |
|
[He exits.] |
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR |
|
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy. |
|
This wide and universal theater |
|
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 honor, 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, carrying Adam.] |
|
|
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR |
|
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 SENIOR |
|
Welcome. Fall to. I will not trouble you |
|
As yet to question you about your fortunes.-- |
|
Give us some music, and, good cousin, sing. |
|
|
|
[The Duke and Orlando continue their conversation, |
|
apart.] |
|
|
|
|
|
Song. |
|
|
|
|
|
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. |
|
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly. |
|
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. |
|
Then heigh-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. |
|
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly. |
|
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. |
|
Then heigh-ho, the holly. |
|
This life is most jolly. |
|
|
|
DUKE SENIOR, [to Orlando] |
|
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. |
|
[To Lords.] Support him by the arm. [To Orlando.] |
|
Give me your hand, |
|
And let me all your fortunes understand. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
|
|
ACT 3 |
|
===== |
|
|
|
Scene 1 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Oliver.] |
|
|
|
|
|
DUKE FREDERICK, [to Oliver] |
|
Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be. |
|
But were I not the better part made mercy, |
|
I should not seek an absent argument |
|
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: |
|
Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is. |
|
Seek him with candle. Bring him, dead or living, |
|
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more |
|
To seek a living in our territory. |
|
Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine, |
|
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands |
|
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth |
|
Of what we think against thee. |
|
|
|
OLIVER |
|
O, that your Highness knew my heart in this: |
|
I never loved my brother in my life. |
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|
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DUKE FREDERICK |
|
More villain thou.--Well, push him out of doors, |
|
And let my officers of such a nature |
|
Make an extent upon his house and lands. |
|
Do this expediently, and turn him going. |
|
[They exit.] |
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|
|
Scene 2 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Orlando, with a paper.] |
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|
|
|
|
ORLANDO |
|
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love. |
|
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey |
|
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, |
|
Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway. |
|
O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books, |
|
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character, |
|
That every eye which in this forest looks |
|
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere. |
|
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree |
|
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. |
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[He exits.] |
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|
|
[Enter Corin and Touchstone.] |
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|
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CORIN And how like you this shepherd's life, Master |
|
Touchstone? |
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TOUCHSTONE Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a |
|
good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it |
|
is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very |
|
well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile |
|
life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me |
|
well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is |
|
tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my |
|
humor well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it |
|
goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy |
|
in thee, shepherd? |
|
|
|
CORIN No more but that I know the more one sickens, |
|
the worse at ease he is, and that he that wants |
|
money, means, and content is without three good |
|
friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire |
|
to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that |
|
a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he |
|
that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may |
|
complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull |
|
kindred. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast |
|
ever in court, shepherd? |
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CORIN No, truly. |
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TOUCHSTONE Then thou art damned. |
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|
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CORIN Nay, I hope. |
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TOUCHSTONE Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted |
|
egg, all on one side. |
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|
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CORIN For not being at court? Your reason. |
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TOUCHSTONE Why, if thou never wast at court, thou |
|
never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st |
|
good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, |
|
and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou |
|
art in a parlous state, shepherd. |
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|
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CORIN Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good |
|
manners at the court are as ridiculous in the |
|
country as the behavior of the country is most |
|
mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at |
|
the court but you kiss your hands. That courtesy |
|
would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE Instance, briefly. Come, instance. |
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|
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CORIN Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their |
|
fells, you know, are greasy. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? |
|
And is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as |
|
the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better |
|
instance, I say. Come. |
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|
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CORIN Besides, our hands are hard. |
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TOUCHSTONE Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow |
|
again. A more sounder instance. Come. |
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|
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CORIN And they are often tarred over with the surgery |
|
of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The |
|
courtier's hands are perfumed with civet. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE Most shallow man. Thou worms' meat in |
|
respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed. Learn of the |
|
wise and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, |
|
the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, |
|
shepherd. |
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|
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CORIN You have too courtly a wit for me. I'll rest. |
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TOUCHSTONE Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, |
|
shallow man. God make incision in thee; thou art |
|
raw. |
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CORIN Sir, I am a true laborer. I earn that I eat, get that |
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I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, |
|
glad of other men's good, content with my harm, |
|
and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze |
|
and my lambs suck. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE That is another simple sin in you, to bring |
|
the ewes and the rams together and to offer to get |
|
your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to |
|
a bell-wether and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth |
|
to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of |
|
all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damned for |
|
this, the devil himself will have no shepherds. I |
|
cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape. |
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|
|
[Enter Rosalind, as Ganymede.] |
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CORIN Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new |
|
mistress's brother. |
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|
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede, reading a paper] |
|
From the east to western Ind |
|
No jewel is like Rosalind. |
|
Her worth being mounted on the wind, |
|
Through all the world bears Rosalind. |
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All the pictures fairest lined |
|
Are but black to Rosalind. |
|
Let no face be kept in mind |
|
But the fair of Rosalind. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE I'll rhyme you so eight years together, |
|
dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted. |
|
It is the right butter-women's rank to market. |
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|
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Out, fool. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE For a taste: |
|
If a hart do lack a hind, |
|
Let him seek out Rosalind. |
|
If the cat will after kind, |
|
So be sure will Rosalind. |
|
Wintered garments must be lined; |
|
So must slender Rosalind. |
|
They that reap must sheaf and bind; |
|
Then to cart with Rosalind. |
|
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind; |
|
Such a nut is Rosalind. |
|
He that sweetest rose will find |
|
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind. |
|
This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you |
|
infect yourself with them? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Peace, you dull fool. I found |
|
them on a tree. |
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|
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TOUCHSTONE Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. |
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|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] I'll graft it with you, and |
|
then I shall graft it with a medlar. Then it will be |
|
the earliest fruit i' th' country, for you'll be rotten |
|
ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of |
|
the medlar. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE You have said, but whether wisely or no, |
|
let the forest judge. |
|
|
|
[Enter Celia, as Aliena, with a writing.] |
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|
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|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Peace. Here comes my sister |
|
reading. Stand aside. |
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|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena, reads] |
|
Why should this a desert be? |
|
For it is unpeopled? No. |
|
Tongues I'll hang on every tree |
|
That shall civil sayings show. |
|
Some how brief the life of man |
|
Runs his erring pilgrimage, |
|
That the stretching of a span |
|
Buckles in his sum of age; |
|
Some of violated vows |
|
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend. |
|
But upon the fairest boughs, |
|
Or at every sentence' end, |
|
Will I "Rosalinda" write, |
|
Teaching all that read to know |
|
The quintessence of every sprite |
|
Heaven would in little show. |
|
Therefore heaven nature charged |
|
That one body should be filled |
|
With all graces wide-enlarged. |
|
Nature presently distilled |
|
Helen's cheek, but not her heart, |
|
Cleopatra's majesty, |
|
Atalanta's better part, |
|
Sad Lucretia's modesty. |
|
Thus Rosalind of many parts |
|
By heavenly synod was devised |
|
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts |
|
To have the touches dearest prized. |
|
Heaven would that she these gifts should have |
|
And I to live and die her slave. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] O most gentle Jupiter, what |
|
tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners |
|
withal, and never cried "Have patience, |
|
good people!" |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] How now?--Back, friends. Shepherd, |
|
go off a little.--Go with him, sirrah. |
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|
|
TOUCHSTONE Come, shepherd, let us make an honorable |
|
retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet |
|
with scrip and scrippage. |
|
[Touchstone and Corin exit.] |
|
|
|
CELIA Didst thou hear these verses? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for |
|
some of them had in them more feet than the verses |
|
would bear. |
|
|
|
CELIA That's no matter. The feet might bear the verses. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Ay, but the feet were lame and could not |
|
bear themselves without the verse, and therefore |
|
stood lamely in the verse. |
|
|
|
CELIA But didst thou hear without wondering how thy |
|
name should be hanged and carved upon these |
|
trees? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND I was seven of the nine days out of the |
|
wonder before you came, for look here what I |
|
found on a palm tree. [She shows the paper she |
|
read.] I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras' |
|
time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly |
|
remember. |
|
|
|
CELIA Trow you who hath done this? |
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|
|
ROSALIND Is it a man? |
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|
|
CELIA And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. |
|
Change you color? |
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|
|
ROSALIND I prithee, who? |
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|
|
CELIA O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to |
|
meet, but mountains may be removed with earthquakes |
|
and so encounter. |
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|
|
ROSALIND Nay, but who is it? |
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|
|
CELIA Is it possible? |
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|
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ROSALIND Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary |
|
vehemence, tell me who it is. |
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|
|
CELIA O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful |
|
wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that |
|
out of all whooping! |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Good my complexion, dost thou think |
|
though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a |
|
doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of |
|
delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee, |
|
tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would |
|
thou couldst stammer, that thou might'st pour this |
|
concealed man out of thy mouth as wine comes out |
|
of a narrow-mouthed bottle--either too much at |
|
once, or none at all. I prithee take the cork out of |
|
thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings. |
|
|
|
CELIA So you may put a man in your belly. |
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|
|
ROSALIND Is he of God's making? What manner of |
|
man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a |
|
beard? |
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|
|
CELIA Nay, he hath but a little beard. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Why, God will send more, if the man will be |
|
thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if |
|
thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. |
|
|
|
CELIA It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's |
|
heels and your heart both in an instant. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Nay, but the devil take mocking. Speak sad |
|
brow and true maid. |
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CELIA I' faith, coz, 'tis he. |
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|
|
ROSALIND Orlando? |
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|
|
CELIA Orlando. |
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|
ROSALIND Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet |
|
and hose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What |
|
said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What |
|
makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains |
|
he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou |
|
see him again? Answer me in one word. |
|
|
|
CELIA You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first. |
|
'Tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size. |
|
To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to |
|
answer in a catechism. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND But doth he know that I am in this forest and |
|
in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the |
|
day he wrestled? |
|
|
|
CELIA It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the |
|
propositions of a lover. But take a taste of my |
|
finding him, and relish it with good observance. I |
|
found him under a tree like a dropped acorn. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND It may well be called Jove's tree when it |
|
drops forth such fruit. |
|
|
|
CELIA Give me audience, good madam. |
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|
|
ROSALIND Proceed. |
|
|
|
CELIA There lay he, stretched along like a wounded |
|
knight. |
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|
|
ROSALIND Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well |
|
becomes the ground. |
|
|
|
CELIA Cry "holla" to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets |
|
unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart. |
|
|
|
CELIA I would sing my song without a burden. Thou |
|
bring'st me out of tune. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND Do you not know I am a woman? When I |
|
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. |
|
|
|
CELIA You bring me out. |
|
|
|
[Enter Orlando and Jaques.] |
|
|
|
Soft, comes he not here? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND 'Tis he. Slink by, and note him. |
|
[Rosalind and Celia step aside.] |
|
|
|
JAQUES, [to Orlando] I thank you for your company, |
|
but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I |
|
thank you too for your society. |
|
|
|
JAQUES God be wi' you. Let's meet as little as we can. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I do desire we may be better strangers. |
|
|
|
JAQUES I pray you mar no more trees with writing love |
|
songs in their barks. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I pray you mar no more of my verses with |
|
reading them ill-favoredly. |
|
|
|
JAQUES Rosalind is your love's name? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Yes, just. |
|
|
|
JAQUES I do not like her name. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO There was no thought of pleasing you when |
|
she was christened. |
|
|
|
JAQUES What stature is she of? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Just as high as my heart. |
|
|
|
JAQUES You are full of pretty answers. Have you not |
|
been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives and |
|
conned them out of rings? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Not so. But I answer you right painted cloth, |
|
from whence you have studied your questions. |
|
|
|
JAQUES You have a nimble wit. I think 'twas made of |
|
Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? And we |
|
two will rail against our mistress the world and all |
|
our misery. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I will chide no breather in the world but |
|
myself, against whom I know most faults. |
|
|
|
JAQUES The worst fault you have is to be in love. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best |
|
virtue. I am weary of you. |
|
|
|
JAQUES By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I |
|
found you. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and |
|
you shall see him. |
|
|
|
JAQUES There I shall see mine own figure. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. |
|
|
|
JAQUES I'll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good |
|
Signior Love. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good |
|
Monsieur Melancholy. [Jaques exits.] |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [aside to Celia] I will speak to him like a |
|
saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave |
|
with him. [As Ganymede.] Do you hear, forester? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Very well. What would you? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] I pray you, what is 't |
|
o'clock? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO You should ask me what time o' day. There's |
|
no clock in the forest. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Then there is no true lover |
|
in the forest; else sighing every minute and |
|
groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of |
|
time as well as a clock. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO And why not the swift foot of time? Had not |
|
that been as proper? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] By no means, sir. Time |
|
travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell |
|
you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, |
|
who time gallops withal, and who he stands still |
|
withal. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I prithee, who doth he trot withal? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Marry, he trots hard with a |
|
young maid between the contract of her marriage |
|
and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a |
|
se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems the |
|
length of seven year. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Who ambles time withal? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] With a priest that lacks Latin |
|
and a rich man that hath not the gout, for the one |
|
sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other |
|
lives merrily because he feels no pain--the one |
|
lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, |
|
the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious |
|
penury. These time ambles withal. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Who doth he gallop withal? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] With a thief to the gallows, |
|
for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks |
|
himself too soon there. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Who stays it still withal? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] With lawyers in the vacation, |
|
for they sleep between term and term, and |
|
then they perceive not how time moves. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Where dwell you, pretty youth? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] With this shepherdess, my |
|
sister, here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe |
|
upon a petticoat. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Are you native of this place? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] As the cony that you see |
|
dwell where she is kindled. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Your accent is something finer than you |
|
could purchase in so removed a dwelling. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] I have been told so of many. |
|
But indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught |
|
me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man, |
|
one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in |
|
love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, |
|
and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched |
|
with so many giddy offenses as he hath generally |
|
taxed their whole sex withal. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Can you remember any of the principal evils |
|
that he laid to the charge of women? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] There were none principal. |
|
They were all like one another as halfpence are, |
|
every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow |
|
fault came to match it. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I prithee recount some of them. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] No, I will not cast away my |
|
physic but on those that are sick. There is a man |
|
haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with |
|
carving "Rosalind" on their barks, hangs odes upon |
|
hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, |
|
deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet |
|
that fancy-monger, I would give him some good |
|
counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love |
|
upon him. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you tell |
|
me your remedy. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] There is none of my uncle's |
|
marks upon you. He taught me how to know a man |
|
in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are |
|
not prisoner. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO What were his marks? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] A lean cheek, which you |
|
have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have |
|
not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a |
|
beard neglected, which you have not--but I pardon |
|
you for that, for simply your having in beard is a |
|
younger brother's revenue. Then your hose should |
|
be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve |
|
unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything |
|
about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But |
|
you are no such man. You are rather point-device in |
|
your accouterments, as loving yourself than seeming |
|
the lover of any other. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe |
|
I love. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Me believe it? You may as |
|
soon make her that you love believe it, which I |
|
warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does. |
|
That is one of the points in the which women still |
|
give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, |
|
are you he that hangs the verses on the trees |
|
wherein Rosalind is so admired? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of |
|
Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] But are you so much in love |
|
as your rhymes speak? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Neither rhyme nor reason can express how |
|
much. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Love is merely a madness, |
|
and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a |
|
whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are |
|
not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so |
|
ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I |
|
profess curing it by counsel. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Did you ever cure any so? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Yes, one, and in this manner. |
|
He was to imagine me his love, his mistress, |
|
and I set him every day to woo me; at which time |
|
would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be |
|
effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, |
|
fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, |
|
full of smiles; for every passion something, and for |
|
no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, |
|
for the most part, cattle of this color; would now |
|
like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then |
|
forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him, |
|
that I drave my suitor from his mad humor of love |
|
to a living humor of madness, which was to forswear |
|
the full stream of the world and to live in a |
|
nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and |
|
this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as |
|
clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not |
|
be one spot of love in 't. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I would not be cured, youth. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] I would cure you if you |
|
would but call me Rosalind and come every day to |
|
my cote and woo me. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me |
|
where it is. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Go with me to it, and I'll |
|
show it you; and by the way you shall tell me where |
|
in the forest you live. Will you go? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO With all my heart, good youth. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Nay, you must call me |
|
Rosalind.--Come, sister, will you go? |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 3 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Touchstone and Audrey, followed by Jaques.] |
|
|
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up |
|
your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? Am I the |
|
man yet? Doth my simple feature content you? |
|
|
|
AUDREY Your features, Lord warrant us! What |
|
features? |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE I am here with thee and thy goats, as the |
|
most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the |
|
Goths. |
|
|
|
JAQUES, [aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than |
|
Jove in a thatched house. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE When a man's verses cannot be understood, |
|
nor a man's good wit seconded with the |
|
forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more |
|
dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I |
|
would the gods had made thee poetical. |
|
|
|
AUDREY I do not know what "poetical" is. Is it honest |
|
in deed and word? Is it a true thing? |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most |
|
feigning, and lovers are given to poetry, and what |
|
they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do |
|
feign. |
|
|
|
AUDREY Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me |
|
poetical? |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou |
|
art honest. Now if thou wert a poet, I might have |
|
some hope thou didst feign. |
|
|
|
AUDREY Would you not have me honest? |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favored; |
|
for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a |
|
sauce to sugar. |
|
|
|
JAQUES, [aside] A material fool. |
|
|
|
AUDREY Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the |
|
gods make me honest. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a |
|
foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean |
|
dish. |
|
|
|
AUDREY I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am |
|
foul. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness; |
|
sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may |
|
be, I will marry thee; and to that end I have been |
|
with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, |
|
who hath promised to meet me in this place of the |
|
forest and to couple us. |
|
|
|
JAQUES, [aside] I would fain see this meeting. |
|
|
|
AUDREY Well, the gods give us joy. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful |
|
heart, stagger in this attempt, for here we have no |
|
temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. |
|
But what though? Courage. As horns are odious, |
|
they are necessary. It is said "Many a man knows no |
|
end of his goods." Right: many a man has good |
|
horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the |
|
dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his own getting. |
|
Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no. The |
|
noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the |
|
single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled town |
|
is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of |
|
a married man more honorable than the bare brow |
|
of a bachelor. And by how much defense is better |
|
than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious |
|
than to want. |
|
|
|
[Enter Sir Oliver Martext.] |
|
|
|
Here comes Sir Oliver.--Sir Oliver Martext, you are |
|
well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, |
|
or shall we go with you to your chapel? |
|
|
|
OLIVER MARTEXT Is there none here to give the |
|
woman? |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE I will not take her on gift of any man. |
|
|
|
OLIVER MARTEXT Truly, she must be given, or the |
|
marriage is not lawful. |
|
|
|
JAQUES, [coming forward] Proceed, proceed. I'll give |
|
her. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE Good even, good Monsieur What-you-call-'t. |
|
How do you, sir? You are very well met. God |
|
'ild you for your last company. I am very glad to see |
|
you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay, pray be |
|
covered. |
|
|
|
JAQUES Will you be married, motley? |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his |
|
curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his |
|
desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be |
|
nibbling. |
|
|
|
JAQUES And will you, being a man of your breeding, be |
|
married under a bush like a beggar? Get you to |
|
church, and have a good priest that can tell you |
|
what marriage is. This fellow will but join you |
|
together as they join wainscot. Then one of you will |
|
prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, |
|
warp. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE I am not in the mind but I were better to |
|
be married of him than of another, for he is not like |
|
to marry me well, and not being well married, it |
|
will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my |
|
wife. |
|
|
|
JAQUES Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. |
|
|
|
TOUCHSTONE Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, |
|
or we must live in bawdry.--Farewell, good |
|
Master Oliver, not |
|
O sweet Oliver, |
|
O brave Oliver, |
|
Leave me not behind thee, |
|
But |
|
Wind away, |
|
Begone, I say, |
|
I will not to wedding with thee. |
|
[Audrey, Touchstone, and Jaques exit.] |
|
|
|
OLIVER MARTEXT 'Tis no matter. Ne'er a fantastical |
|
knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. |
|
[He exits.] |
|
|
|
Scene 4 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Rosalind, dressed as Ganymede, and Celia, |
|
dressed as Aliena.] |
|
|
|
|
|
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 color. |
|
|
|
CELIA Something browner than Judas's. Marry, his |
|
kisses are Judas's own children. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND I' faith, his hair is of a good color. |
|
|
|
CELIA An excellent color. Your chestnut was ever the |
|
only color. |
|
|
|
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 pickpurse 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. |
|
|
|
[Enter Corin.] |
|
|
|
Who comes here? |
|
|
|
CORIN |
|
Mistress and master, you have oft inquired |
|
After the shepherd that complained of love, |
|
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, |
|
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess |
|
That was his mistress. |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] 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, [aside to Celia] O come, let us remove. |
|
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. |
|
[As Ganymede, to Corin.] |
|
Bring us to this sight, andyou shall say |
|
I'll prove a busy actor in their play. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 5 |
|
======= |
|
[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, unobserved, Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as |
|
Aliena, and Corin.] |
|
|
|
|
|
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 no 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, [as Ganymede, coming forward] |
|
And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, |
|
That you insult, exult, and all at once, |
|
Over the wretched? What though you have no |
|
beauty-- |
|
As, by my faith, I see no more in you |
|
Than without candle may go dark to bed-- |
|
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? |
|
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? |
|
I see no more in you than in the ordinary |
|
Of nature's sale-work.--'Od's my little life, |
|
I think she means to tangle my eyes, too.-- |
|
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it. |
|
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, |
|
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream |
|
That can entame my spirits to your worship.-- |
|
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, |
|
Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain? |
|
You are a thousand times a properer man |
|
Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you |
|
That makes the world full of ill-favored 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[,as Ganymede] He's fall'n in love with your |
|
foulness. [(To Silvius.)] And she'll fall in love with |
|
my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with |
|
frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. [(To |
|
Phoebe.)] Why look you so upon me? |
|
|
|
PHOEBE For no ill will I bear you. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
|
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. |
|
[She exits, with Celia and Corin.] |
|
|
|
PHOEBE, [aside] |
|
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 neighborly? |
|
|
|
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 offense, 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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
|
|
ACT 4 |
|
===== |
|
|
|
Scene 1 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, and Celia as Aliena, |
|
and Jaques.] |
|
|
|
|
|
JAQUES I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better |
|
acquainted with thee. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] They say you are a melancholy |
|
fellow. |
|
|
|
JAQUES I am so. I do love it better than laughing. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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. |
|
[Jaques exits.] |
|
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, [as Ganymede] 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' th' shoulder, but I'll |
|
warrant him heart-whole. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Pardon me, dear Rosalind. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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 hornmaker, and my Rosalind is |
|
virtuous. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] And I am your Rosalind. |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] It pleases him to call you so, but he |
|
hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede, to Orlando] Come, woo me, |
|
woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] Then she puts you to entreaty, |
|
and there begins new matter. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Who could be out, being before his beloved |
|
mistress? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] Well, in her person I say I |
|
will not have you. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Then, in mine own person I die. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and |
|
Saturdays and all. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO And wilt thou have me? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Ay, and twenty such. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO What sayest thou? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Are you not good? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I hope so. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [to Celia] Pray thee marry us. |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] I cannot say the words. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] You must begin "Will you, |
|
Orlando--" |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] Go to.--Will you, Orlando, have to |
|
wife this Rosalind? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I will. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Ay, but when? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Why now, as fast as she can marry us. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Then you must say "I take |
|
thee, Rosalind, for wife." |
|
|
|
ORLANDO I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] Now tell me how long you |
|
would have her after you have possessed her? |
|
|
|
ORLANDO Forever and a day. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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 newfangled 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 |
|
art inclined to sleep. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO But will my Rosalind do so? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] By my life, she will do as I |
|
do. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO O, but she is wise. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] Nay, you might keep that |
|
check for it till you met your wife's wit going to |
|
your neighbor's bed. |
|
|
|
ORLANDO And what wit could wit have to excuse that? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] Well, time is the old justice |
|
that examines all such offenders, and let time try. |
|
Adieu. |
|
[Orlando exits.] |
|
|
|
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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 2 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Jaques and Lords, like foresters.] |
|
|
|
|
|
JAQUES Which is he that killed the deer? |
|
|
|
FIRST LORD Sir, it was I. |
|
|
|
JAQUES, [to the other Lords] 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. |
|
|
|
Music. 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. |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
Scene 3 |
|
======= |
|
[Enter Rosalind dressed as Ganymede and Celia |
|
dressed as Aliena.] |
|
|
|
|
|
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, [to Rosalind] |
|
My errand is to you, fair youth. |
|
My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this. |
|
[He gives Rosalind a paper.] |
|
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 reads the letter.] |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
|
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, [as Ganymede] Come, come, you are a |
|
fool, |
|
And turned into the extremity of love. |
|
I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand, |
|
A freestone-colored 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, [as Ganymede] |
|
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, [as Ganymede] |
|
She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes. |
|
[Read.] |
|
Art thou god to shepherd turned, |
|
That a maiden's heart hath burned? |
|
Can a woman rail thus? |
|
|
|
SILVIUS Call you this railing? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
|
[Read.] |
|
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, [as Aliena] Alas, poor shepherd. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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. [Silvius exits.] |
|
|
|
[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, [as Aliena] |
|
West of this place, down in the neighbor 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 favor, 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, [as Aliena] |
|
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? |
|
[He shows a stained handkerchief.] |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
|
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 handkercher was stained. |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] 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 old 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, [as Aliena] |
|
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, [as Ganymede] |
|
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, [as Aliena] Are you his brother? |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Was 't you he rescued? |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] |
|
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, [as Ganymede] |
|
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, [as Aliena] |
|
Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede? |
|
|
|
OLIVER |
|
Many will swoon when they do look on blood. |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] |
|
There is more in it.--Cousin Ganymede. |
|
|
|
OLIVER Look, he recovers. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND I would I were at home. |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] We'll lead you thither.--I pray you, |
|
will you take him by the arm? |
|
|
|
OLIVER, [helping Rosalind to rise] Be of good cheer, |
|
youth. You a man? You lack a man's heart. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] 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, [as Ganymede] Counterfeit, I assure you. |
|
|
|
OLIVER Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to |
|
be a man. |
|
|
|
ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] So I do; but, i' faith, I should |
|
have been a woman by right. |
|
|
|
CELIA, [as Aliena] 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, [as Ganymede] I shall devise something. |
|
But I pray you commend my counterfeiting to him. |
|
Will you go? |
|
[They exit.] |
|
|
|
|
|
ACT 5 |
|
===== |
|
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Scene 1 |
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======= |
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[Enter Touchstone and Audrey.] |
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TOUCHSTONE We shall find a time, Audrey. Patience, |
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gentle Audrey. |
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AUDREY Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the |
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old gentleman's saying. |
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TOUCHSTONE A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most |
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vile Martext. But Audrey, there is a youth here in |
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the forest lays claim to you. |
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AUDREY Ay, I know who 'tis. He hath no interest in me |
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in the world. |
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[Enter William.] |
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Here comes the man you mean. |
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TOUCHSTONE It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. |
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By my troth, we that have good wits have much to |
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answer for. We shall be flouting. We cannot hold. |
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WILLIAM Good ev'n, Audrey. |
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AUDREY God gi' good ev'n, William. |
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WILLIAM, [to Touchstone] And good ev'n to you, sir. |
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TOUCHSTONE Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, |
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cover thy head. Nay, prithee, be covered. How old |
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are you, friend? |
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WILLIAM Five-and-twenty, sir. |
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TOUCHSTONE A ripe age. Is thy name William? |
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WILLIAM William, sir. |
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TOUCHSTONE A fair name. Wast born i' th' forest here? |
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WILLIAM Ay, sir, I thank God. |
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TOUCHSTONE "Thank God." A good answer. Art rich? |
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WILLIAM 'Faith sir, so-so. |
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TOUCHSTONE "So-so" is good, very good, very excellent |
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good. And yet it is not: it is but so-so. Art thou wise? |
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WILLIAM Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. |
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TOUCHSTONE Why, thou sayst well. I do now remember |
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a saying: "The fool doth think he is wise, but the |
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wise man knows himself to be a fool." The heathen |
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philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, |
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would open his lips when he put it into his mouth, |
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meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and |
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lips to open. You do love this maid? |
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WILLIAM I do, sir. |
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TOUCHSTONE Give me your hand. Art thou learned? |
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WILLIAM No, sir. |
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TOUCHSTONE Then learn this of me: to have is to have. |
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For it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured |
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out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth |
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empty the other. For all your writers do consent |
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that ipse is "he." Now, you are not ipse, for I am he. |
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WILLIAM Which he, sir? |
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TOUCHSTONE He, sir, that must marry this woman. |
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Therefore, you clown, abandon--which is in the |
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vulgar "leave"--the society--which in the boorish |
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is "company"--of this female--which in the common |
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is "woman"; which together is, abandon the |
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society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, |
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to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill |
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thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, |
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thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with |
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thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy with |
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thee in faction. I will o'errun thee with policy. I |
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will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways. Therefore |
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tremble and depart. |
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AUDREY Do, good William. |
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WILLIAM, [to Touchstone] God rest you merry, sir. |
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[He exits.] |
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[Enter Corin.] |
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CORIN Our master and mistress seeks you. Come away, |
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away. |
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TOUCHSTONE Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey.--I attend, I |
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attend. |
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[They exit.] |
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Scene 2 |
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======= |
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[Enter Orlando, with his arm in a sling, and Oliver.] |
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ORLANDO Is 't possible that on so little acquaintance |
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you should like her? That, but seeing, you should |
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love her? And loving, woo? And wooing, she should |
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grant? And will you persever to enjoy her? |
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OLIVER Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the |
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poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden |
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wooing, nor her sudden consenting, but say with |
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me "I love Aliena"; say with her that she loves me; |
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consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It |
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shall be to your good, for my father's house and all |
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the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's will I estate |
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upon you, and here live and die a shepherd. |
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[Enter Rosalind, as Ganymede.] |
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ORLANDO You have my consent. Let your wedding be |
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tomorrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all 's |
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contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena, |
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for, look you, here comes my Rosalind. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede, to Oliver] God save you, |
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brother. |
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OLIVER And you, fair sister. [He exits.] |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] O my dear Orlando, how it |
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grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf. |
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ORLANDO It is my arm. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] I thought thy heart had been |
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wounded with the claws of a lion. |
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ORLANDO Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Did your brother tell you |
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how I counterfeited to swoon when he showed me |
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your handkercher? |
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ORLANDO Ay, and greater wonders than that. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] O, I know where you are. |
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Nay, 'tis true. There was never anything so sudden |
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but the fight of two rams, and Caesar's thrasonical |
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brag of "I came, saw, and overcame." For your |
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brother and my sister no sooner met but they |
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looked, no sooner looked but they loved, no sooner |
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loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they |
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asked one another the reason, no sooner knew the |
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reason but they sought the remedy; and in these |
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degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage, |
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which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent |
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before marriage. They are in the very wrath |
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of love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part |
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them. |
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ORLANDO They shall be married tomorrow, and I will |
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bid the Duke to the nuptial. But O, how bitter a |
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thing it is to look into happiness through another |
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man's eyes. By so much the more shall I tomorrow |
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be at the height of heart-heaviness by how much I |
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shall think my brother happy in having what he |
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wishes for. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Why, then, tomorrow I cannot |
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serve your turn for Rosalind? |
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ORLANDO I can live no longer by thinking. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] I will weary you then no |
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longer with idle talking. Know of me then--for |
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now I speak to some purpose--that I know you are |
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a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that |
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you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, |
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insomuch I say I know you are. Neither do I labor |
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for a greater esteem than may in some little measure |
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draw a belief from you to do yourself good, and |
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not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I |
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can do strange things. I have, since I was three year |
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old, conversed with a magician, most profound in |
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his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind |
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so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, |
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when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry |
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her. I know into what straits of fortune she is |
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driven, and it is not impossible to me, if it appear |
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not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes |
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tomorrow, human as she is, and without any |
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danger. |
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ORLANDO Speak'st thou in sober meanings? |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] By my life I do, which I |
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tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore |
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put you in your best array, bid your friends; for |
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if you will be married tomorrow, you shall, and to |
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Rosalind, if you will. |
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[Enter Silvius and Phoebe.] |
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Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of |
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hers. |
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PHOEBE, [to Rosalind] |
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Youth, you have done me much ungentleness |
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To show the letter that I writ to you. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
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I care not if I have. It is my study |
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To seem despiteful and ungentle to you. |
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You are there followed by a faithful shepherd. |
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Look upon him, love him; he worships you. |
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PHOEBE, [to Silvius] |
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Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love. |
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SILVIUS |
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It is to be all made of sighs and tears, |
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And so am I for Phoebe. |
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PHOEBE And I for Ganymede. |
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ORLANDO And I for Rosalind. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] And I for no woman. |
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SILVIUS |
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It is to be all made of faith and service, |
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And so am I for Phoebe. |
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PHOEBE And I for Ganymede. |
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ORLANDO And I for Rosalind. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] And I for no woman. |
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SILVIUS |
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It is to be all made of fantasy, |
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All made of passion and all made of wishes, |
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All adoration, duty, and observance, |
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All humbleness, all patience and impatience, |
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All purity, all trial, all observance, |
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And so am I for Phoebe. |
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PHOEBE And so am I for Ganymede. |
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ORLANDO And so am I for Rosalind. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] And so am I for no |
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woman. |
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PHOEBE |
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If this be so, why blame you me to love you? |
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SILVIUS |
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If this be so, why blame you me to love you? |
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ORLANDO |
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If this be so, why blame you me to love you? |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Why do you speak too, |
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"Why blame you me to love you?" |
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ORLANDO To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] Pray you, no more of this. |
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'Tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the |
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moon. [(To Silvius.)] I will help you if I can. [(To |
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Phoebe.)] I would love you if I could.--Tomorrow |
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meet me all together. [(To Phoebe.)] I will marry |
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you if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married |
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tomorrow. [(To Orlando.)] I will satisfy you if ever I |
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satisfy man, and you shall be married tomorrow. |
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[(To Silvius.)] I will content you, if what pleases you |
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contents you, and you shall be married tomorrow. |
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[(To Orlando.)] As you love Rosalind, meet. [(To |
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Silvius.)] As you love Phoebe, meet.--And as I love |
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no woman, I'll meet. So fare you well. I have left |
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you commands. |
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SILVIUS I'll not fail, if I live. |
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PHOEBE Nor I. |
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ORLANDO Nor I. |
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[They exit.] |
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Scene 3 |
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======= |
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[Enter Touchstone and Audrey.] |
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TOUCHSTONE Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey. Tomorrow |
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will we be married. |
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AUDREY I do desire it with all my heart, and I hope it is |
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no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the |
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world. |
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[Enter two Pages.] |
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Here come two of the banished duke's pages. |
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FIRST PAGE Well met, honest gentleman. |
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TOUCHSTONE By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and |
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a song. |
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SECOND PAGE We are for you. Sit i' th' middle. |
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[They sit.] |
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FIRST PAGE Shall we clap into 't roundly, without |
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hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which |
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are the only prologues to a bad voice? |
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SECOND PAGE I' faith, i' faith, and both in a tune like |
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two gypsies on a horse. |
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Song. |
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PAGES [sing] |
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It was a lover and his lass, |
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With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no, |
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That o'er the green cornfield did pass |
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In springtime, the only pretty ring time, |
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When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. |
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Sweet lovers love the spring. |
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Between the acres of the rye, |
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With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no, |
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These pretty country folks would lie |
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In springtime, the only pretty ring time, |
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When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. |
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Sweet lovers love the spring. |
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This carol they began that hour, |
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With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no, |
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How that a life was but a flower |
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In springtime, the only pretty ring time, |
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When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. |
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Sweet lovers love the spring. |
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And therefore take the present time, |
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With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no, |
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For love is crowned with the prime, |
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In springtime, the only pretty ring time, |
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When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. |
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Sweet lovers love the spring. |
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TOUCHSTONE Truly, young gentlemen, though there |
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was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was |
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very untunable. |
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FIRST PAGE You are deceived, sir. We kept time. We lost |
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not our time. |
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TOUCHSTONE By my troth, yes. I count it but time lost |
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to hear such a foolish song. God be wi' you, and |
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God mend your voices.--Come, Audrey. |
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[They rise and exit.] |
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Scene 4 |
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======= |
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[Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, |
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and Celia as Aliena.] |
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DUKE SENIOR |
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Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy |
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Can do all this that he hath promised? |
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ORLANDO |
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I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not, |
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As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. |
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[Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Silvius, and Phoebe.] |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
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Patience once more whiles our compact is urged. |
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[To Duke.] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, |
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You will bestow her on Orlando here? |
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DUKE SENIOR |
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That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede, to Orlando] |
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And you say you will have her when I bring her? |
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ORLANDO |
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That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede, to Phoebe] |
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You say you'll marry me if I be willing? |
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PHOEBE |
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That will I, should I die the hour after. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
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But if you do refuse to marry me, |
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You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd? |
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PHOEBE So is the bargain. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede, to Silvius] |
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You say that you'll have Phoebe if she will? |
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SILVIUS |
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Though to have her and death were both one thing. |
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ROSALIND, [as Ganymede] |
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I have promised to make all this matter even. |
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Keep you your word, O duke, to give your |
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daughter,-- |
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You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter.-- |
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Keep you your word, Phoebe, that you'll marry me, |
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Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd.-- |
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Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her |
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If she refuse me. And from hence I go |
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To make these doubts all even. |
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[Rosalind and Celia exit.] |
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DUKE SENIOR |
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I do remember in this shepherd boy |
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Some lively touches of my daughter's favor. |
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ORLANDO |
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My lord, the first time that I ever saw him |
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Methought he was a brother to your daughter. |
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But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born |
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And hath been tutored in the rudiments |
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Of many desperate studies by his uncle, |
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Whom he reports to be a great magician |
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Obscured in the circle of this forest. |
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[Enter Touchstone and Audrey.] |
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JAQUES There is sure another flood toward, and these |
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couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of |
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very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called |
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fools. |
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TOUCHSTONE Salutation and greeting to you all. |
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JAQUES, [to Duke] Good my lord, bid him welcome. |
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This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so |
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often met in the forest. He hath been a courtier, he |
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swears. |
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TOUCHSTONE If any man doubt that, let him put me to |
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my purgation. I have trod a measure. I have flattered |
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a lady. I have been politic with my friend, |
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smooth with mine enemy. I have undone three |
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tailors. I have had four quarrels, and like to have |
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fought one. |
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JAQUES And how was that ta'en up? |
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TOUCHSTONE Faith, we met and found the quarrel was |
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upon the seventh cause. |
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JAQUES How "seventh cause"?--Good my lord, like |
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this fellow. |
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DUKE SENIOR I like him very well. |
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TOUCHSTONE God 'ild you, sir. I desire you of the like. I |
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press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country |
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copulatives, to swear and to forswear, according as |
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marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir, |
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an ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own. A poor |
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humor of mine, sir, to take that that no man else |
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will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor |
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house, as your pearl in your foul oyster. |
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DUKE SENIOR By my faith, he is very swift and |
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sententious. |
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TOUCHSTONE According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such |
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dulcet diseases. |
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JAQUES But for the seventh cause. How did you find the |
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quarrel on the seventh cause? |
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TOUCHSTONE Upon a lie seven times removed.--Bear |
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your body more seeming, Audrey.--As thus, sir: I |
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did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard. He |
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sent me word if I said his beard was not cut well, he |
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was in the mind it was. This is called "the retort |
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courteous." If I sent him word again it was not well |
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cut, he would send me word he cut it to please |
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himself. This is called "the quip modest." If again it |
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was not well cut, he disabled my judgment. This is |
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called "the reply churlish." If again it was not well |
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cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is called |
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"the reproof valiant." If again it was not well cut, he |
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would say I lie. This is called "the countercheck |
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quarrelsome," and so to "the lie circumstantial," |
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and "the lie direct." |
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JAQUES And how oft did you say his beard was not well |
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cut? |
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TOUCHSTONE I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial, |
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nor he durst not give me the lie direct, and |
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so we measured swords and parted. |
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JAQUES Can you nominate in order now the degrees of |
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the lie? |
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TOUCHSTONE O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book, as |
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you have books for good manners. I will name you |
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the degrees: the first, "the retort courteous"; the |
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second, "the quip modest"; the third, "the reply |
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churlish"; the fourth, "the reproof valiant"; the |
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fifth, "the countercheck quarrelsome"; the sixth, |
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"the lie with circumstance"; the seventh, "the lie |
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direct." All these you may avoid but the lie direct, |
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and you may avoid that too with an "if." I knew |
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when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but |
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when the parties were met themselves, one of them |
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thought but of an "if," as: "If you said so, then I said |
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so." And they shook hands and swore brothers. |
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Your "if" is the only peacemaker: much virtue in |
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"if." |
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JAQUES, [to Duke] Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? |
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He's as good at anything and yet a fool. |
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DUKE SENIOR He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, |
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and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit. |
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[Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia. Still music.] |
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HYMEN |
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Then is there mirth in heaven |
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When earthly things made even |
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Atone together. |
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Good duke, receive thy daughter. |
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Hymen from heaven brought her, |
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Yea, brought her hither, |
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That thou mightst join her hand with his, |
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Whose heart within his bosom is. |
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ROSALIND, [to Duke] |
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To you I give myself, for I am yours. |
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[To Orlando.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. |
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DUKE SENIOR |
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If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. |
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ORLANDO |
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If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind. |
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PHOEBE |
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If sight and shape be true, |
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Why then, my love adieu. |
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ROSALIND, [to Duke] |
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I'll have no father, if you be not he. |
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[To Orlando.] I'll have no husband, if you be not he, |
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[To Phoebe.] Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not |
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she. |
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HYMEN |
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Peace, ho! I bar confusion. |
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'Tis I must make conclusion |
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Of these most strange events. |
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Here's eight that must take hands |
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To join in Hymen's bands, |
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If truth holds true contents. |
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[To Rosalind and Orlando.] |
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You and you no cross shall part. |
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[To Celia and Oliver.] |
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You and you are heart in heart. |
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[To Phoebe.] |
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You to his love must accord |
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Or have a woman to your lord. |
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[To Audrey and Touchstone.] |
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You and you are sure together |
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As the winter to foul weather. |
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[To All.] |
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Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing, |
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Feed yourselves with questioning, |
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That reason wonder may diminish |
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How thus we met, and these things finish. |
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Song. |
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Wedding is great Juno's crown, |
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O blessed bond of board and bed. |
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'Tis Hymen peoples every town. |
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High wedlock then be honored. |
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Honor, high honor, and renown |
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To Hymen, god of every town. |
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DUKE SENIOR, [to Celia] |
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O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me, |
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Even daughter, welcome in no less degree. |
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PHOEBE, [to Silvius] |
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I will not eat my word. Now thou art mine, |
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Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. |
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[Enter Second Brother, Jaques de Boys.] |
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SECOND BROTHER |
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Let me have audience for a word or two. |
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I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, |
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That bring these tidings to this fair assembly. |
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Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day |
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Men of great worth resorted to this forest, |
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Addressed a mighty power, which were on foot |
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In his own conduct, purposely to take |
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His brother here and put him to the sword; |
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And to the skirts of this wild wood he came, |
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Where, meeting with an old religious man, |
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After some question with him, was converted |
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Both from his enterprise and from the world, |
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His crown bequeathing to his banished brother, |
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And all their lands restored to them again |
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That were with him exiled. This to be true |
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I do engage my life. |
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DUKE SENIOR Welcome, young man. |
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Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding: |
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To one his lands withheld, and to the other |
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A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.-- |
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First, in this forest let us do those ends |
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That here were well begun and well begot, |
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And, after, every of this happy number |
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That have endured shrewd days and nights with us |
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Shall share the good of our returned fortune |
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According to the measure of their states. |
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Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity, |
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And fall into our rustic revelry.-- |
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Play, music.--And you brides and bridegrooms all, |
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With measure heaped in joy to th' measures fall. |
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JAQUES, [to Second Brother] |
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Sir, by your patience: if I heard you rightly, |
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The Duke hath put on a religious life |
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And thrown into neglect the pompous court. |
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SECOND BROTHER He hath. |
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JAQUES |
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To him will I. Out of these convertites |
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There is much matter to be heard and learned. |
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[To Duke.] You to your former honor I bequeath; |
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Your patience and your virtue well deserves it. |
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[To Orlando.] You to a love that your true faith doth |
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merit. |
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[To Oliver.] You to your land, and love, and great |
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allies. |
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[To Silvius.] You to a long and well-deserved bed. |
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[To Touchstone.] And you to wrangling, for thy |
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loving voyage |
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Is but for two months victualled.--So to your |
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pleasures. |
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I am for other than for dancing measures. |
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DUKE SENIOR Stay, Jaques, stay. |
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JAQUES |
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To see no pastime, I. What you would have |
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I'll stay to know at your abandoned cave. [He exits.] |
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DUKE SENIOR |
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Proceed, proceed. We'll begin these rites, |
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As we do trust they'll end, in true delights. |
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[Dance. All but Rosalind exit.] |
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EPILOGUE. |
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========= |
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ROSALIND It is not the fashion to see the lady the |
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epilogue, but it is no more unhandsome than to see |
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the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine |
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needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no |
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epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes, |
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and good plays prove the better by the help of good |
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epilogues. What a case am I in then that am neither |
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a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in |
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the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a |
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beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My |
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way is to conjure you, and I'll begin with the |
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women. I charge you, O women, for the love you |
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bear to men, to like as much of this play as please |
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you. And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear |
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to women--as I perceive by your simpering, none |
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of you hates them--that between you and the |
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women the play may please. If I were a woman, I |
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would kiss as many of you as had beards that |
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pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths |
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that I defied not. And I am sure as many as have |
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good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths will for |
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my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell. |
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[She exits.] |