should not have mocked me before: but come your ways. [man! Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? Ros. Now Hercules be thy speed, young I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! strong fellow by the leg. Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee. Re-enter Le Beau. [Charles and Orlando wrestle. Ros. O excellent young man! Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. [Charles is thrown. Shout. Duke F. No more, no more. Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace: I am not yet well breathed. Duke F. How dost thou, Charles? [Charles is borne out. What is thy name, young man? Orl. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois. Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to The world esteem'd thy father honourable, son, Ros. My father lov'd 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 ventur'd. Cel. 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 deIf you do keep your promises in iove [serv'd: But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, Your mistress shall be happy. Ros. Gentleman, [Giving him a chain from her neck. Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks Shall we go, coz? [means. Cel. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. Orl. Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts [stands up Are all thrown down; and that which here Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. Ros. He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes; [sir? I'll ask him what he would.-Did you call, Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown More than your enemies. Cel. Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship coun- To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd Which of the two was daughter of the duke, Le Beau. Neither his daughter if we judge by manners; But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter: [Exit. SCENE III.-A Room in the Palace. Enter Celia and Rosalind. Cel. Why, cousin; why, Rosalind ;-Cupid have mercy!-Not a word? Ros. Not one to throw at a dog. Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me: come, lame me with reasons. Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad without any. Cel. But is all this for your father? Ros. No, some of it for my father's child. O, how full of briers is this working-day world! Cel. They are but burrs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. Ros. I could shake them off my coat : these burrs are in my heart. [have him. Cel. Hem them away. Ros. O, they take the part of a better wrest-Still we went coupled and inseparable. ler than myself! Cel. 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? [dearly. Ros. The duke my father lov'd his father Cel. 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. Ros. No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake. Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well? Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do.-Look, here comes the duke. Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. Duke F. Ros. Duke F. Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her Her very silence, and her patience, When she is gone. Then, open not thy lips : I vide yourself: If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour, Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. Thus do all traitors: traitor : Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. Or, if we did derive it from our friends, Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. Else had she with her father rang'd along. Cel. Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us, Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire, Were it not better, Ros. Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay,That do outface it with their semblances. 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, learn'd, play'd, eat together; And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's Cel. Something that hath a reference to my Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal | Cours'd one another down his innocent nose The clownish fool out of your father's court? In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool, Would he not be a comfort to our travel? Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with Stood on the extremest verge of the swift Augmenting it with tears. [brook, But what said Jaques? me; Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away, ACT II. SCENE I.-The Forest of Arden. Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of Foresters. Duke S. 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? Sermons in stones, and good in everything. your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style. Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines, with forked heads Have their round haunches gor'd. 1 Lord. Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you. To-day my lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him, as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood: To the which place a poor sequester'd stag, That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting; and the big round tears Duke S. Did he not moralize this spectacle? I Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream; Poor dear," quoth he, "thou mak'st a tes tament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends; The flux of company:" anon, a careless herd, " Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; 'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?" Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life: swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, To fright the animals, and to kill them up, In their assign'd and native dwelling-place. Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation? [menting 2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and comUpon the sobbing deer. Duke S. Show me the place: I love to cope him in these sullen fits, 2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-A Room in the Palace. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants. Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be some villains of my court [her. 1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early, They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress. [so oft 2 Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Hesperia, 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 S. Send to his brother; fetch that gal lant hither: If he be absent, bring his brother to me; I'll make him find him: do this suddenly; SCENE III.-Oliver's House. Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. Orl. Who's there? [gentle master! Adam. What, my young master?-O my O my sweet master! O you memory [here? Of old Sir Kowland! why, what make you Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you? [valiant? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and Why would you be so fond to overcome The bony priser 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 inore 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! Orl. 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 sonYet not the son-I will not call him sonOf him I was about to call his father,)— Hath heard your praises; and this night he means To burn the lodging where you used to lie, This is no place; this house is but a butchery: [here. Adam. No matter whither, so you come not Orl. What! wouldst thou have me go and beg my food? Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, Frosty, but kindly let me go with you; [pears Orl. O good old man, how well in thee apThe constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for need! 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 four score, Here lived I, but now live here no more. SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden. Enter Rosalind dressed like a boy, Celia like a shepherdess, and Touchstone. Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. Ros. 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. Cel. I pray you, bear with me; I can go no farther. Touch. 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. Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden. Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a better place but travellers must be content. Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone.-Look you, who comes here; a young man, and an old, in solemn talk. Enter Corin and Silvius. Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still. [love her! Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do Cor. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now. Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess; Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. Or if thou hast not sat, as I do now, Or if thou hast not broke from company Ros. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy I have by hard adventure found mine own. Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cows' dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, "Wear these for my sake." We, that are true lovers, run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. Ros. Thou speakest wiser than thou art 'ware of. Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine Touch. And mine; but it grows something Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond' If he for gold will give us any food: I faint almost to death. Touch. Holla, you clown! [man, Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture? [but erewhile, Cor. That young swain that you saw here That little cares for buying anything. Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I like And willingly could waste my time in it. SCENE V. Another part of the Forest. But winter and rough weather. Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more. Ami. My voice is ragged: I know I cannot please you. Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another Ros. Peace, fool: he's not thy kinsman. stanza: call you them stanzas? Cor. Who calls? Cor. Else are they very wretched. Good even to you, friend. Peace, I say.— Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. Cor. Ami. What you will, monsieur Jaques. Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing? [myself. Ami. More at your request, than to please Jaq. Well, then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues. Ami. Well, I'll end the song.-Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree. -He hath been all this day to look you. Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come. |