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For his bounty,
There was no winter in't; an autumn't was
That grew the more by reaping.

      — Antony and Cleopatra, Act V Scene 2

As You Like It

Act III

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Scene 1. The palace

Scene 2. The forest

Scene 3. The forest

Scene 4. The forest

Scene 5. Another part of the forest

---
       

Act III, Scene 1

The palace

      next scene .
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Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS

  • Frederick. 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 1105
    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. 1110
    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! 1115
    I never lov'd my brother in my life.
  • 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. Exeunt 1120
---
. previous scene      

Act III, Scene 2

The forest

      next scene .
---

Enter ORLANDO, with a paper

  • 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. 1125
    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 witness'd every where.
    Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree, 1130
    The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit

Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

  • Corin. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?
  • Touchstone. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good
    life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is nought. 1135
    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 humour well; but as there is no more plenty 1140
    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, 1145
    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.
  • Touchstone. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in 1150
    court, shepherd?
  • Touchstone. Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-roasted egg, all on 1155
    one side.
  • Corin. For not being at court? Your reason.
  • 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 1160
    in a parlous state, shepherd.
  • Corin. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the
    court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour 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 1165
    uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.
  • Corin. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you
    know, are greasy.
  • Touchstone. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And is not the 1170
    grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow,
    shallow. A better instance, I say; come.
  • Corin. Besides, our hands are hard.
  • Touchstone. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A
    more sounder instance; come. 1175
  • Corin. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our
    sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are
    perfum'd with civet.
  • Touchstone. Most shallow man! thou worm's meat in respect of a good
    piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is 1180
    of a baser birth than tar- the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend
    the instance, shepherd.
  • Corin. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.
  • Touchstone. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man! God
    make incision in thee! thou art raw. 1185
  • Corin. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that 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.
  • Touchstone. That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewes 1190
    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 crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,
    out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd for this,
    the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how 1195
    thou shouldst scape.
  • Corin. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.

Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper

  • Rosalind. 'From the east to western Inde,
    No jewel is like Rosalinde. 1200
    Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
    Through all the world bears Rosalinde.
    All the pictures fairest lin'd
    Are but black to Rosalinde.
    Let no face be kept in mind 1205
    But the fair of Rosalinde.'
  • 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.
  • Touchstone. For a taste:
    If a hart do lack a hind,
    Let him seek out Rosalinde.
    If the cat will after kind,
    So be sure will Rosalinde. 1215
    Winter garments must be lin'd,
    So must slender Rosalinde.
    They that reap must sheaf and bind,
    Then to cart with Rosalinde.
    Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, 1220
    Such a nut is Rosalinde.
    He that sweetest rose will find
    Must find love's prick and Rosalinde.
    This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect
    yourself with them? 1225
  • Rosalind. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.
  • Rosalind. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff 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 1230
    virtue of the medlar.
  • Touchstone. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest
    judge.
    Enter CELIA, with a writing
  • Rosalind. Peace! 1235
    Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.
  • Celia. 'Why should this a desert be?
    For it is unpeopled? No;
    Tongues I'll hang on every tree
    That shall civil sayings show. 1240
    Some, how brief the life of man
    Runs his erring pilgrimage,
    That the streching of a span
    Buckles in his sum of age;
    Some, of violated vows 1245
    '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 1250
    The quintessence of every sprite
    Heaven would in little show.
    Therefore heaven Nature charg'd
    That one body should be fill'd
    With all graces wide-enlarg'd. 1255
    Nature presently distill'd
    Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
    Cleopatra's majesty,
    Atalanta's better part,
    Sad Lucretia's modesty. 1260
    Thus Rosalinde of many parts
    By heavenly synod was devis'd,
    Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
    To have the touches dearest priz'd.
    Heaven would that she these gifts should have, 1265
    And I to live and die her slave.'
  • Rosalind. O most gentle Jupiter! What tedious homily of love have
    you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have
    patience, good people.'
  • Celia. How now! Back, friends; shepherd, go off a little; go with 1270
    him, sirrah.
  • Touchstone. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;
    though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

  • Celia. Didst thou hear these verses? 1275
  • 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. 1280
  • Celia. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be
    hang'd 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. I was never so
    berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat, which I 1285
    can hardly remember.
  • Celia. Trow you who hath done this?
  • Celia. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
    Change you colour? 1290
  • Celia. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but
    mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.
  • Celia. Is it possible? 1295
  • Rosalind. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell
    me who it is.
  • Celia. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet
    again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
  • Rosalind. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am 1300
    caparison'd 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 could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd man
    out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle- 1305
    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.
  • Rosalind. Is he of God's making? What manner of man?
    Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard? 1310
  • 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 tripp'd up the wrestler's heels 1315
    and your heart both in an instant.
  • Rosalind. Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true
    maid.
  • Celia. I' faith, coz, 'tis he.
  • 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 look'd 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 1325
    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 1330
    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
    dropp'd acorn. 1335
  • Rosalind. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth
    such fruit.
  • Celia. Give me audience, good madam.
  • Celia. There lay he, stretch'd along like a wounded knight. 1340
  • 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 furnish'd like a hunter.
  • Rosalind. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart. 1345
  • 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. Soft! comes he not here? 1350

Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES

  • Rosalind. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him.
  • Jaques (lord). 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 1355
    for your society.
  • Orlando. I do desire we may be better strangers.
  • Jaques (lord). I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in
    their barks. 1360
  • Orlando. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them
    ill-favouredly.
  • Orlando. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was
    christen'd.
  • Orlando. Just as high as my heart.
  • Jaques (lord). You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been 1370
    acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of rings?
  • Orlando. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence
    you have studied your questions.
  • Jaques (lord). 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 1375
    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.
  • Orlando. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am 1380
    weary of you.
  • Jaques (lord). By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
  • Orlando. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see
    him.
  • Orlando. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
  • Jaques (lord). I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior Love.
  • Orlando. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur
    Melancholy.

Exit JAQUES

  • Rosalind. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,
    and under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear,
    forester?
  • Orlando. Very well; what would you?
  • Rosalind. I pray you, what is't o'clock? 1395
  • Orlando. You should ask me what time o' day; there's no clock in
    the forest.
  • Rosalind. 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. 1400
  • Orlando. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as
    proper?
  • Rosalind. 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 1405
    withal.
  • Orlando. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
  • Rosalind. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the
    contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the
    interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems 1410
    the length of seven year.
  • Rosalind. 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 1415
    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. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly 1420
    as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
  • Orlando. Who stays it still withal?
  • Rosalind. 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? 1425
  • Rosalind. 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 the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.
  • Orlando. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in 1430
    so removed a dwelling.
  • Rosalind. 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 1435
    am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he
    hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.
  • Orlando. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid
    to the charge of women?
  • Rosalind. There were none principal; they were all like one another 1440
    as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his
    fellow-fault came to match it.
  • Orlando. I prithee recount some of them.
  • Rosalind. 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 1445
    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. 1450
  • Orlando. I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you tell me your
    remedy.
  • Rosalind. 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. 1455
  • Rosalind. 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. 1460
    Then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your
    sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing about you
    demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you
    are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself
    than seeming the lover of any other. 1465
  • Orlando. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
  • Rosalind. 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 1470
    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. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
  • Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. 1475
  • Rosalind. 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 punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so
    ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing
    it by counsel. 1480
  • Orlando. Did you ever cure any so?
  • Rosalind. 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, 1485
    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 colour; 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 1490
    mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to
    forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook
    merely monastic. And thus I cur'd 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. 1495
  • Orlando. I would not be cured, youth.
  • Rosalind. 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. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and, by the way, 1500
    you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
  • Orlando. With all my heart, good youth.
  • Rosalind. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you
    go? Exeunt
---
. previous scene      

Act III, Scene 3

The forest

      next scene .
---

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind

  • 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 1510
    capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.
  • Jaques (lord). [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a
    thatch'd house!
  • Touchstone. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's
    good wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it 1515
    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, 1520
    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 1525
    feign.
  • Audrey. Would you not have me honest?
  • Touchstone. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty
    coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
  • 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. 1535
  • 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 promis'd to meet me in
    this place of the forest, and to couple us. 1540
  • 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 1545
    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 1550
    blessed? No; as a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, so
    is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare
    brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no
    skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes
    Sir Oliver. 1555
    [Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT]
    Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here
    under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
  • Touchstone. I will not take her on gift of any man. 1560
  • Jaques (lord). [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.
  • Touchstone. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you, sir?
    You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I am
    very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be 1565
    cover'd.
  • 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. 1570
  • Jaques (lord). 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. 1575
  • Touchstone. [Aside] 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.
  • 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, 1585
    Leave me not behind thee.
    But-
    Wind away,
    Begone, I say,
    I will not to wedding with thee. 1590
    Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY
  • Sir Oliver Martext. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all
    shall flout me out of my calling. Exit
---
. previous scene      

Act III, Scene 4

The forest

      next scene .
---

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

  • Rosalind. Never talk to me; I will weep. 1595
  • Celia. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears
    do not become a man.
  • Rosalind. But have I not cause to weep?
  • Celia. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
  • Rosalind. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. 1600
  • Celia. Something browner than Judas's.
    Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.
  • Rosalind. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.
  • Celia. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.
  • Rosalind. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of 1605
    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 1610
    comes not?
  • Celia. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
  • Celia. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but
    for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as covered 1615
    goblet or a worm-eaten nut.
  • 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 1620
    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 1625
    he; so he laugh'd 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 1630
    spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble
    goose. But all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who
    comes here?

Enter CORIN

  • Corin. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired 1635
    After the shepherd that complain'd of love,
    Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
    Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
    That was his mistress.
  • Celia. Well, and what of him? 1640
  • Corin. If you will see a pageant truly play'd
    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. 1645
  • Rosalind. O, come, let us remove!
    The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
    Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
    I'll prove a busy actor in their play. Exeunt
---
. previous scene      

Act III, Scene 5

Another part of the forest

       
---

Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE

  • Silvius. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe.
    Say that you love me not; but say not so
    In bitterness. The common executioner,
    Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
    Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck 1655
    But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
    Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance

  • Phebe. I would not be thy executioner;
    I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 1660
    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 call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers! 1665
    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. 1670
    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, 1675
    Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
    Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes
    That can do hurt.
  • Silvius. O dear Phebe,
    If ever- as that ever may be near- 1680
    You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
    Then shall you know the wounds invisible
    That love's keen arrows make.
  • Phebe. But till that time
    Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, 1685
    Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
    As till that time I shall not pity thee.
  • Rosalind. [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your
    mother,
    That you insult, exult, and all at once, 1690
    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? 1695
    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, 1700
    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 1705
    Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you
    That makes the world full of ill-favour'd 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. 1710
    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; 1715
    Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
    So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
  • Phebe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
    I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
  • Rosalind. He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fall 1720
    in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee
    with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look
    you so upon me?
  • Phebe. For no ill will I bear you.
  • Rosalind. I pray you do not fall in love with me, 1725
    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, 1730
    And be not proud; though all the world could see,
    None could be so abus'd in sight as he.
    Come, to our flock. Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN
  • Phebe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
    'Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?' 1735
  • Phebe. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?
  • Phebe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
  • Silvius. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. 1740
    If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
    By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
    Were both extermin'd.
  • Phebe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?
  • Phebe. 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, 1750
    I will endure; and I'll employ thee too.
    But do not look for further recompense
    Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
  • Silvius. So holy and so perfect is my love,
    And I in such a poverty of grace, 1755
    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 scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon.
  • Phebe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? 1760
  • 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.
  • Phebe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
    'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well. 1765
    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 1770
    Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
    Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
    He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall;
    His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well.
    There was a pretty redness in his lip, 1775
    A little riper and more lusty red
    Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
    Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
    There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him
    In parcels as I did, would have gone near 1780
    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, 1785
    And, now I am rememb'red, scorn'd at me.
    I marvel why I answer'd 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? 1790
  • Silvius. Phebe, with all my heart.
  • Phebe. I'll write it straight;
    The matter's in my head and in my heart;
    I will be bitter with him and passing short.
    Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt 1795

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