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.

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake.
Else had she with her father rang'd along.

Cel. 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, learn'd, play'd, eat together;

And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,

Still we went coupled, and inseparable.

Duke F. 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 pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.

Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege;

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F. You are a fool :-You, niece, provide yourself; If you out-stay the time, upon mine honor,

And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK, and Lords Cel. O my poor Rosalind: whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am. Ros. I have more cause. Cel. Thou hast not, cousin, Pr'ythee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke Hath banish'd me his daughter?

Ros.

That he hath not.

Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one :

Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me, now we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us:
And do not seek to take your charge 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.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?
Cel.
To seex my uncle.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, lo travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
The like do you; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.

Ros.
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
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.

Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a mar?
Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,
And therefore, look you, call me, Ganymede.

But what will you be call'd?

Cel Something that hath a reference to my state :

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

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

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me; Leave me alone to woo him: Let's away,

And get our jewels and our wealth together;

Devise the fittest time, and safest way

To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight: Now go we in content,

To liberty, and not to banishment.

[Exeunt.

The action now begins in the Forest of Arden, where the exile Dake and his followers have found refuge.

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?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which, w en it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,-

This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venonious,
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 every thing.

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

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,— Being native burghers of this desert city,Should, in their own confines, with forked heads Have their round haunches gor❜d.

1st Lord.

Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jacques 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 Cours'd one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jacques, Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.
But what said Jacques }
Did he not moralize this spectacle?

1st Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping in 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 alone,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
Tis right, quoth he; this 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 Jacques,
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? 2nd Lord. We did, my lord, weeping, and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S.

Show me the place;

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he's full of matter.

2nd Lord. I'll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt

Oliver, foiled in his scheme to destroy Orlando at the wrestling-match, plots other means "to cut his brother off."

reveals them to Orlando.

Adam learns his intentions, and the faithful old was

SCENE III.-Before Oliver's House.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.

Orl. 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 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 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!

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 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 used to lie,
And you withir 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.

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?
Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce

A thievish living on the common road?

This I must do, or know not what to dc:
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 sav'd under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,

When service should in my old limbs lie ame,
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.

Orl. 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.

[Exeunt.