Act I, Scene 1

Orchard of OLIVER’S house

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM

• Orlando. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed
  me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st,
  charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there
  begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and 5
  report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me
  rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at
  home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my
  birth that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are
  bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, 10
  they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly
  hir'd; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for
  the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him
  as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the
  something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from 15
  me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a
  brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my
  education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of
  my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against
  this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no 20
  wise remedy how to avoid it.

[Enter OLIVER]

• Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother.

• Orlando. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me
  up. 25

[ADAM retires]

• Oliver. Now, sir! what make you here?

• Orlando. Nothing; I am not taught to make any thing.

• Oliver. What mar you then, sir?

• Orlando. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a 30
  poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.

• Oliver. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile.

• Orlando. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What
  prodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury?

• Oliver. Know you where you are, sir? 35

• Orlando. O, sir, very well; here in your orchard.

• Oliver. Know you before whom, sir?

• Orlando. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are
  my eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you
  should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better 40
  in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not
  away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as
  much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming
  before me is nearer to his reverence.

• Oliver. What, boy! [Strikes him] 45

• Orlando. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.

• Oliver. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

• Orlando. I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
  Boys. He was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such
  a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not 50
  take this hand from thy throat till this other had pull'd out thy
  tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself.

• Adam. [Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's
  remembrance, be at accord.

• Oliver. Let me go, I say. 55

• Orlando. I will not, till I please; you shall hear me. My father
  charg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have
  train'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all
  gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in
  me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such 60
  exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor
  allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy
  my fortunes.

• Oliver. And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? Well, sir,
  get you in. I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have 65
  some part of your will. I pray you leave me.

• Orlando. I no further offend you than becomes me for my good.

• Oliver. Get you with him, you old dog.

• Adam. Is 'old dog' my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in
  your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke 70
  such a word.
  Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM

• Oliver. Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic
  your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla,
  Dennis! 75

Enter DENNIS

• Dennis. Calls your worship?

• Oliver. Was not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?

• Dennis. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access
  to you. 80

• Oliver. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS] 'Twill be a good way; and
  to-morrow the wrestling is.

Enter CHARLES

• Charles. Good morrow to your worship.

• Oliver. Good Monsieur Charles! What's the new news at the new 85
  court?

• Charles. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that
  is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke;
  and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary
  exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; 90
  therefore he gives them good leave to wander.

• Oliver. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished
  with her father?

• Charles. O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,
  being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have 95
  followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at
  the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own
  daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.

• Oliver. Where will the old Duke live?

• Charles. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many 100
  merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood
  of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day,
  and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

• Oliver. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke?

• Charles. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a 105
  matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger
  brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against
  me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he
  that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well.
  Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would 110
  be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come
  in; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint
  you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment,
  or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is
  thing of his own search and altogether against my will. 115

• Oliver. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt
  find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my
  brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to
  dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee,
  Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of 120
  ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret
  and villainous contriver against me his natural brother.
  Therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his
  neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou
  dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace 125
  himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap
  thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he
  hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I
  assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one
  so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly 130
  of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush
  and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.

• Charles. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come
  to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again,
  I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship! Exit 135

• Oliver. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I
  hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why,
  hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and
  yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly
  beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and 140
  especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am
  altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler
  shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy
  thither, which now I'll go about. Exit

Act I, Scene 2

A lawn before the DUKE’S palace

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

• Celia. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

• Rosalind. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and
  would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget
  a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any
  extraordinary pleasure. 150

• Celia. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I
  love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy
  uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I
  could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst
  thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd 155
  as mine is to thee.

• Rosalind. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to
  rejoice in yours.

• Celia. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to
  have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what 160
  he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee
  again in affection. By mine honour, I will; and when I break that
  oath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear
  Rose, be merry.

• Rosalind. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. 165
  Let me see; what think you of falling in love?

• Celia. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love no man
  in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety
  of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.

• Rosalind. What shall be our sport, then? 170

• Celia. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her
  wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.

• Rosalind. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily
  misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her
  gifts to women. 175

• Celia. 'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes
  honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very
  ill-favouredly.

• Rosalind. Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's:
  Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of 180
  Nature.

Enter TOUCHSTONE

• Celia. No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by
  Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to
  flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off 185
  the argument?

• Rosalind. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when
  Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.

• Celia. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but
  Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of 190
  such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for
  always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How
  now, wit! Whither wander you?

• Touchstone. Mistress, you must come away to your father.

• Celia. Were you made the messenger? 195

• Touchstone. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you.

• Rosalind. Where learned you that oath, fool?

• Touchstone. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were
  good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught.
  Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard 200
  was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.

• Celia. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge?

• Rosalind. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.

• Touchstone. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear
  by your beards that I am a knave. 205

• Celia. By our beards, if we had them, thou art.

• Touchstone. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were. But if you
  swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn; no more was this
  knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he
  had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or 210
  that mustard.

• Celia. Prithee, who is't that thou mean'st?

• Touchstone. One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

• Celia. My father's love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no
  more of him; you'll be whipt for taxation one of these days. 215

• Touchstone. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise
  men do foolishly.

• Celia. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that
  fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have
  makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. 220

Enter LE BEAU

• Rosalind. With his mouth full of news.

• Celia. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young.

• Rosalind. Then shall we be news-cramm'd.

• Celia. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. Bon jour, 225
  Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news?

• Le Beau. Fair Princess, you have lost much good sport.

• Celia. Sport! of what colour?

• Le Beau. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?

• Rosalind. As wit and fortune will. 230

• Touchstone. Or as the Destinies decrees.

• Celia. Well said; that was laid on with a trowel.

• Touchstone. Nay, if I keep not my rank-

• Rosalind. Thou losest thy old smell.

• Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good 235
  wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.

• Rosalind. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.

• Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your
  ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and
  here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. 240

• Celia. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.

• Le Beau. There comes an old man and his three sons-

• Celia. I could match this beginning with an old tale.

• Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.

• Rosalind. With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men by 245
  these presents'-

• Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's
  wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of
  his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he serv'd
  the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man, 250
  their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the
  beholders take his part with weeping.

• Rosalind. Alas!

• Touchstone. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have
  lost? 255

• Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of.

• Touchstone. Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time
  that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.

• Celia. Or I, I promise thee.

• Rosalind. But is there any else longs to see this broken music in 260
  his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we
  see this wrestling, cousin?

• Le Beau. You must, if you stay here; for here is the place
  appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.

• Celia. Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us now stay and see it. 265

Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, LORDS, ORLANDO,

CHARLES, and ATTENDANTS

• Frederick. Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own
  peril on his forwardness.

• Rosalind. Is yonder the man? 270

• Le Beau. Even he, madam.

• Celia. Alas, he is too young; yet he looks successfully.

• Frederick. How now, daughter and cousin! Are you crept hither to
  see the wrestling?

• Rosalind. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave. 275

• Frederick. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,
  there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth
  I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to
  him, ladies; see if you can move him.

• Celia. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. 280

• Frederick. Do so; I'll not be by.
  [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart]

• Le Beau. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you.

• Orlando. I attend them with all respect and duty.

• Rosalind. Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the wrestler? 285

• Orlando. No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger. I come
  but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.

• Celia. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years.
  You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength; if you saw
  yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment, the 290
  fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal
  enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own
  safety and give over this attempt.

• Rosalind. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be
  misprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the 295
  wrestling might not go forward.

• Orlando. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts,
  wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent
  ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go
  with me to my trial; wherein if I be foil'd there is but one 300
  sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is
  willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none
  to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only
  in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when
  I have made it empty. 305

• Rosalind. The little strength that I have, I would it were with
  you.

• Celia. And mine to eke out hers.

• Rosalind. Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceiv'd in you!

• Celia. Your heart's desires be with you! 310

• Charles. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to
  lie with his mother earth?

• Orlando. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.

• Frederick. You shall try but one fall.

• Charles. No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a 315
  second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.

• Orlando. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mock'd me
  before; but come your ways.

• Rosalind. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!

• Celia. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the 320
  leg. [They wrestle]

• Rosalind. O excellent young man!

• Celia. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should
  down.

[CHARLES is thrown. Shout]

• Frederick. No more, no more.

• Orlando. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd.

• Frederick. How dost thou, Charles?

• Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord.

• Frederick. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man? 330

• Orlando. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
  Boys.

• Frederick. I would thou hadst been son to some man else.
  The world esteem'd thy father honourable,
  But I did find him still mine enemy. 335
  Thou shouldst have better pleas'd 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.

Exeunt DUKE, train, and LE BEAU

• Celia. 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. My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul, 345
  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.

• Celia. Gentle cousin, 350
  Let us go thank him, and encourage him;
  My father's rough and envious disposition
  Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd;
  If you do keep your promises in love
  But justly as you have exceeded all promise, 355
  Your mistress shall be happy.

• Rosalind. 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 means.
  Shall we go, coz? 360

• Celia. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

• Orlando. 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. He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes; 365
  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. Fare you well. 370

Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA

• Orlando. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
  I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference.
  O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown!
  Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. 375

Re-enter LE BEAU

• Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you
  To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd
  High commendation, true applause, and love,
  Yet such is now the Duke's condition 380
  That he misconstrues 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 385
  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 banish'd Duke,
  And here detain'd by her usurping uncle, 390
  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 395
  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, 400
  I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

• Orlando. I rest much bounden to you; fare you well.
  [Exit LE BEAU]
  Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
  From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother. 405
  But heavenly Rosalind! Exit

Act I, Scene 3

The DUKE’s palace

Enter CELIA and ROSALIND

• Celia. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy!
  Not a word?

• Rosalind. Not one to throw at a dog. 410

• 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 lam'd with reasons and the other mad without any.

• Celia. But is all this for your father? 415

• 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. 420

• 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. 425

• 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? 430

• Rosalind. The Duke my father lov'd 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. 435

• Celia. Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

• Rosalind. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I
  do. Look, here comes the Duke.

• Celia. With his eyes full of anger. 440

• Frederick. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
  And get you from our court.

• Rosalind. Me, uncle?

• Frederick. You, cousin.
  Within these ten days if that thou beest found 445
  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, 450
  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. 455

• 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. 460
  Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

• 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 banish'd him.
  Treason is not inherited, my lord; 465
  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. 470

• Frederick. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake,
  Else had she with her father rang'd 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, 475
  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. 480

• 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 485
  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.

• Celia. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege;
  I cannot live out of her company. 490

• Frederick. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself.
  If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
  And in the greatness of my word, you die.

Exeunt DUKE and LORDS

• Celia. O my poor Rosalind! Whither wilt thou go? 495
  Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
  I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am.

• Rosalind. I have more cause.

• Celia. Thou hast not, cousin.
  Prithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke 500
  Hath banish'd 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 sund'red? Shall we part, sweet girl? 505
  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 charge upon you,
  To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out; 510
  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, 515
  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, 520
  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 curtle-axe upon my thigh, 525
  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. 530

• 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 call'd?

• Celia. Something that hath a reference to my state: 535
  No longer Celia, but Aliena.

• Rosalind. 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?

• Celia. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me; 540
  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 545
  To liberty, and not to banishment. Exeunt

Act II, Scene 1

The Forest of Arden

Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters

• Duke. 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 550
  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, 555
  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 venomous, 560
  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.
  I would not change it. 565

• Amiens. Happy is your Grace,
  That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
  Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

• Duke. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
  And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, 570
  Being native burghers of this desert city,
  Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
  Have their round haunches gor'd.

• First Lord. Indeed, my lord,
  The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; 575
  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 580
  Upon the brook that brawls along this wood!
  To the which place a poor sequest'red stag,
  That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
  Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
  The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans 585
  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 Jaques, 590
  Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook,
  Augmenting it with tears.

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

• First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. 595
  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: 600
  '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; 605
  '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 610
  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. And did you leave him in this contemplation?

• Second Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting 615
  Upon the sobbing deer.

• Duke. 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. Exeunt 620

Act II, Scene 2

The DUKE’S palace

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

• 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. 625
  The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
  Saw her abed, and in the morning early
  They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.

• Second Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
  Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. 630
  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; 635
  And she believes, wherever they are gone,
  That youth is surely in their company.

• 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; 640
  And let not search and inquisition quail
  To bring again these foolish runaways. Exeunt

Act II, Scene 3

Before OLIVER’S house

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting

• Orlando. Who's there?

• Adam. What, my young master? O my gentle master! 645
  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 650
  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, 655
  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! 660
  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- 665
  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. 670
  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, 675
  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 680
  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 lame, 685
  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; 690
  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; 695
  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 700
  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 705
  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, 710
  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 715
  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 720

Act II, Scene 4

The Forest of Arden

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, 725
  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; 730
  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 travellers must be content. 735

Enter CORIN and SILVIUS

• Rosalind. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a
  young man and an old in solemn talk.

• Corin. That is the way to make her scorn you still.

• Silvius. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her! 740

• Corin. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.

• Silvius. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
  Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
  As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow.
  But if thy love were ever like to mine, 745
  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! 750
  If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly
  That ever love did make thee run into,
  Thou hast not lov'd;
  Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
  Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise, 755
  Thou hast not lov'd;
  Or if thou hast not broke from company
  Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
  Thou hast not lov'd.
  O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! Exit Silvius 760

• 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 765
  cow's dugs that her pretty chapt hands had milk'd; and I remember
  the wooing of 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 770
  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 775
  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. 780

• Touchstone. Holla, you clown!

• Rosalind. Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

• Corin. Who calls?

• Touchstone. Your betters, sir.

• Corin. Else are they very wretched. 785

• Rosalind. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

• Corin. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

• Rosalind. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
  Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
  Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. 790
  Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
  And faints for succour.

• Corin. Fair sir, I pity her,
  And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
  My fortunes were more able to relieve her; 795
  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. 800
  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. 805

• Rosalind. 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 any thing.

• Rosalind. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
  Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, 810
  And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

• Celia. 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 815
  The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
  I will your very faithful feeder be,
  And buy it with your gold right suddenly. Exeunt

Act II, Scene 5

Another part of the forest

Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS

• Amiens. Under the greenwood tree 820
  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 825
  No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

• Jaques (lord). More, more, I prithee, more.

• Amiens. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

• Jaques (lord). I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy 830
  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 (lord). 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. 835

• Jaques (lord). Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will
  you sing?

• Amiens. More at your request than to please myself.

• Jaques (lord). 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; 840
  and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks 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 845
  you.

• Jaques (lord). 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 850
  [All together here]
  Who doth ambition shun,
  And loves to live i' th' sun,
  Seeking the food he eats,
  And pleas'd with what he gets, 855
  Come hither, come hither, come hither.
  Here shall he see
  No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

• Jaques (lord). I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in 860
  despite of my invention.

• Amiens. And I'll sing it.

• Jaques (lord). Thus it goes:
  If it do come to pass
  That any man turn ass, 865
  Leaving his wealth and ease
  A stubborn will to please,
  Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
  Here shall he see
  Gross fools as he, 870
  An if he will come to me.

• Amiens. What's that 'ducdame'?

• Jaques (lord). '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. 875

• Amiens. And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepar'd.

Exeunt severally

Act II, Scene 6

The forest

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. 880

• 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 885
  arm's end. I will here be with thee presently; and if I bring thee
  not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou
  diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said!
  thou 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; 890
  and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live
  anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam! Exeunt

Act II, Scene 7

The forest

A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws

• Duke. I think he be transform'd into a beast;
  For I can nowhere find him like a man. 895

• First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
  Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

• Duke. 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. 900

Enter JAQUES

• First Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.

• Duke. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,
  That your poor friends must woo your company?
  What, you look merrily! 905

• Jaques (lord). 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 bask'd him in the sun,
  And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, 910
  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-lustre eye, 915
  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, 920
  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; 925
  And I did laugh sans intermission
  An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
  A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

• Duke. What fool is this?

• Jaques (lord). O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier, 930
  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 cramm'd
  With observation, the which he vents 935
  In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!
  I am ambitious for a motley coat.

• Duke. Thou shalt have one.

• Jaques (lord). It is my only suit,
  Provided that you weed your better judgments 940
  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, 945
  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, 950
  The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
  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, 955
  If they will patiently receive my medicine.

• Duke. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

• Jaques (lord). What, for a counter, would I do but good?

• Duke. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;
  For thou thyself hast been a libertine, 960
  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 (lord). Why, who cries out on pride 965
  That can therein tax any private party?
  Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
  Till that the wearer's very means do ebb?
  What woman in the city do I name
  When that I say the city-woman bears 970
  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 neighbour?
  Or what is he of basest function
  That says his bravery is not on my cost, 975
  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 wrong'd him: if it do him right,
  Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free, 980
  Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,
  Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here?

Enter ORLANDO with his sword drawn

• Orlando. Forbear, and eat no more.

• Jaques (lord). Why, I have eat none yet. 985

• Orlando. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.

• Jaques (lord). Of what kind should this cock come of?

• Duke. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress?
  Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
  That in civility thou seem'st so empty? 990

• Orlando. You touch'd 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 995
  Till I and my affairs are answered.

• Jaques (lord). An you will not be answer'd with reason, I must die.

• Duke. 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. 1000

• Duke. 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 1005
  That in this desert inaccessible,
  Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
  Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
  If ever you have look'd on better days,
  If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church, 1010
  If ever sat at any good man's feast,
  If ever from your eyelids wip'd 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. 1015

• Duke. True is it that we have seen better days,
  And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,
  And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes
  Of drops that sacred pity hath engend'red;
  And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 1020
  And take upon command what help we have
  That to your wanting may be minist'red.

• 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 1025
  Who after me hath many a weary step
  Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,
  Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,
  I will not touch a bit.

• Duke. Go find him out. 1030
  And we will nothing waste till you return.

• Orlando. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort! Exit

• Duke. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
  This wide and universal theatre
  Presents more woeful pageants than the scene 1035
  Wherein we play in.

• Jaques (lord). 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, 1040
  His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
  Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
  Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
  And shining morning face, creeping like snail
  Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, 1045
  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 honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
  Seeking the bubble reputation 1050
  Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
  In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
  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 1055
  Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
  With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
  His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
  For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
  Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 1060
  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 every thing.

Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM

• Duke. 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. 1070

• Duke. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you
  As yet to question you about your fortunes.
  Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.
  SONG
  Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 1075
  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. 1080
  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, 1085
  That dost not bite so nigh
  As benefits forgot;
  Though thou the waters warp,
  Thy sting is not so sharp
  As friend rememb'red not. 1090
  Heigh-ho! sing, &c.

• Duke. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,
  As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,
  And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
  Most truly limn'd and living in your face, 1095
  Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke
  That lov'd 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.
  Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, 1100
  And let me all your fortunes understand. Exeunt

Act III, Scene 1

The palace

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

Act III, Scene 2

The forest

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?

• Corin. No, truly.

• Touchstone. Then thou art damn'd.

• Corin. Nay, I hope.

• 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.

• Touchstone. Instance, briefly; come, instance.

• 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.

• Rosalind. Out, fool! 1210

• 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.

• Touchstone. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

• 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?

• Rosalind. Is it a man?

• Celia. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
  Change you colour? 1290

• Rosalind. I prithee, who?

• Celia. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but
  mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.

• Rosalind. Nay, but who is it?

• 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. Orlando? 1320

• Celia. Orlando.

• 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.

• Rosalind. Proceed.

• 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.

• Jaques (lord). God buy you; let's meet as little as we can.

• 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.

• Jaques (lord). Rosalind is your love's name?

• Orlando. Yes, just.

• Jaques (lord). I do not like her name. 1365

• Orlando. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was
  christen'd.

• Jaques (lord). What stature is she of?

• 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.

• Jaques (lord). The worst fault you have is to be in love.

• 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.

• Jaques (lord). There I shall see mine own figure. 1385

• 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.

• Orlando. Who ambles Time withal?

• 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

• Orlando. What were his marks?

• 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

Act III, Scene 3

The forest

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.

• Jaques (lord). [Aside] A material fool! 1530

• 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

• Jaques (lord). [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 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?

• Sir Oliver Martext. Is there none here to give the woman?

• Touchstone. I will not take her on gift of any man. 1560

• Sir Oliver Martext. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

• 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.

• Jaques (lord). 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. 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.

• Jaques (lord). Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. 1580

• 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

Act III, Scene 4

The forest

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.

• Rosalind. Do you think so?

• 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.

• 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 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

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

• Silvius. Sweet Phebe.

• Phebe. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?

• Silvius. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

• 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?

• Silvius. I would have you. 1745

• 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

Act IV, Scene 1

The forest

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES

• Jaques (lord). I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with
  thee.

• Rosalind. They say you are a melancholy fellow.

• Jaques (lord). I am so; I do love it better than laughing. 1800

• Rosalind. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable
  fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than
  drunkards.

• Jaques (lord). Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

• Rosalind. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. 1805

• Jaques (lord). 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 1810
  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. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be 1815
  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 (lord). Yes, I have gain'd my experience.

Enter ORLANDO

• Rosalind. 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.

• Orlando. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

• Jaques (lord). Nay, then, God buy you, an you talk in blank verse. 1825

• Rosalind. 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. [Exit JAQUES] Why, how now, Orlando! where 1830
  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. Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a
  minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the 1835
  thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said
  of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' th' shoulder, but I'll
  warrant him heart-whole.

• Orlando. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

• Rosalind. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had 1840
  as lief be woo'd of a snail.

• Orlando. Of a snail!

• Rosalind. 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. 1845

• Orlando. What's that?

• Rosalind. 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 horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous. 1850

• Rosalind. And I am your Rosalind.

• Celia. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a
  better leer than you.

• Rosalind. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour,
  and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I 1855
  were your very very Rosalind?

• Orlando. I would kiss before I spoke.

• Rosalind. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were
  gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss.
  Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for 1860
  lovers lacking- God warn us!- matter, the cleanliest shift is to
  kiss.

• Orlando. How if the kiss be denied?

• Rosalind. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new
  matter. 1865

• Orlando. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

• Rosalind. 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. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. 1870
  Am not I your Rosalind?

• Orlando. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking
  of her.

• Rosalind. Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.

• Orlando. Then, in mine own person, I die. 1875

• Rosalind. 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 dash'd out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he
  could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. 1880
  Leander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had
  turn'd 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 drown'd; and the foolish
  chroniclers of that age found it was- Hero of Sestos. But these 1885
  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. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I 1890
  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. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all.

• Orlando. And wilt thou have me? 1895

• Rosalind. Ay, and twenty such.

• Orlando. What sayest thou?

• Rosalind. Are you not good?

• Orlando. I hope so.

• Rosalind. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come, 1900
  sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us. Give me your hand,
  Orlando. What do you say, sister?

• Orlando. Pray thee, marry us.

• Celia. I cannot say the words.

• Rosalind. You must begin 'Will you, Orlando'- 1905

• Celia. Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

• Orlando. I will.

• Rosalind. Ay, but when?

• Orlando. Why, now; as fast as she can marry us.

• Rosalind. Then you must say 'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.' 1910

• Orlando. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

• Rosalind. 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 wing'd. 1915

• Rosalind. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have
  possess'd her.

• Orlando. For ever and a day.

• Rosalind. Say 'a day' without the 'ever.' No, no, Orlando; men are
  April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when 1920
  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 new-fangled 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 1925
  are dispos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when
  thou are inclin'd to sleep.

• Orlando. But will my Rosalind do so?

• Rosalind. By my life, she will do as I do.

• Orlando. O, but she is wise. 1930

• Rosalind. 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 key-hole; 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, 1935
  whither wilt?'

• Rosalind. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your
  wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.

• Orlando. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

• Rosalind. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never 1940
  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. 1945

• Rosalind. 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. 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 1950
  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. 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 1955
  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. 1960

• Orlando. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my
  Rosalind; so, adieu.

• Rosalind. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such
  offenders, and let Time try. Adieu. Exit ORLANDO

• Celia. You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate. We must 1965
  have your doublet and hose pluck'd 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. 1970

• 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, conceiv'd of spleen, and born of madness; that blind
  rascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are 1975
  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. Exeunt

Act IV, Scene 2

The forest

Enter JAQUES and LORDS, in the habit of foresters

• Jaques (lord). Which is he that killed the deer?

• Lord. Sir, it was I.

• Jaques (lord). 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? 1985

• Lord. Yes, sir.

• Jaques (lord). Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise
  enough.
  SONG.
  What shall he have that kill'd the deer? 1990
  His leather skin and horns to wear.
  [The rest shall hear this burden:]
  Then sing him home.
  Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;
  It was a crest ere thou wast born. 1995
  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. Exeunt

Act IV, Scene 3

The forest

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

• 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. Look, who
  comes here. 2005

Enter SILVIUS

• Silvius. My errand is to you, fair youth;
  My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this.
  I know not the contents; but, as I guess
  By the stern brow and waspish action 2010
  Which she did use as she was writing of it,
  It bears an angry tenour. Pardon me,
  I am but as a guiltless messenger.

• Rosalind. Patience herself would startle at this letter,
  And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all. 2015
  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, 2020
  This is a letter of your own device.

• Silvius. No, I protest, I know not the contents;
  Phebe did write it.

• Rosalind. Come, come, you are a fool,
  And turn'd into the extremity of love. 2025
  I saw her hand; she has a leathern hand,
  A freestone-colour'd 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: 2030
  This is a man's invention, and his hand.

• Silvius. Sure, it is hers.

• Rosalind. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style;
  A style for challengers. Why, she defies me,
  Like Turk to Christian. Women's gentle brain 2035
  Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
  Such Ethiope 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 Phebe's cruelty. 2040

• Rosalind. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads]
  'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
  That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?'
  Can a woman rail thus?

• Silvius. Call you this railing? 2045

• Rosalind. '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.' 2050
  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! 2055
  Whiles you chid me, I did love;
  How then might your prayers move!
  He that brings this love to the
  Little knows this love in me;
  And by him seal up thy mind, 2060
  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.' 2065

• Silvius. Call you this chiding?

• Celia. Alas, poor shepherd!

• Rosalind. 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 endur'd! Well, go your way to her, 2070
  for I see love hath made thee 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.

Exit SILVIUS

[Enter OLIVER]

• Oliver. Good morrow, fair ones; pray you, if you know,
  Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
  A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?

• Celia. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom. 2080
  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, 2085
  Then should I know you by description-
  Such garments, and such years: 'The boy is fair,
  Of female favour, and bestows himself
  Like a ripe sister; the woman low,
  And browner than her brother.' Are not you 2090
  The owner of the house I did inquire for?

• Celia. It is no boast, being ask'd, 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? 2095

• Rosalind. 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 stain'd.

• Celia. I pray you, tell it. 2100

• 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, 2105
  And mark what object did present itself.
  Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd 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 2110
  A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
  Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd
  The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
  Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
  And with indented glides did slip away 2115
  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 2120
  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. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;
  And he did render him the most unnatural 2125
  That liv'd amongst men.

• Oliver. And well he might so do,
  For well I know he was unnatural.

• Rosalind. But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,
  Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness? 2130

• Oliver. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd 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 2135
  From miserable slumber I awak'd.

• Celia. Are you his brother?

• Rosalind. Was't you he rescu'd?

• Celia. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

• Oliver. 'Twas I; but 'tis not I. I do not shame 2140
  To tell you what I was, since my conversion
  So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

• Rosalind. But for the bloody napkin?

• Oliver. By and by.
  When from the first to last, betwixt us two, 2145
  Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,
  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; 2150
  Who led me instantly unto his cave,
  There stripp'd 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. 2155
  Brief, I recover'd 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, 2160
  Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
  That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

[ROSALIND swoons]

• Celia. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

• Oliver. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. 2165

• Celia. There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede!

• Oliver. Look, he recovers.

• Rosalind. I would I were at home.

• Celia. We'll lead you thither.
  I pray you, will you take him by the arm? 2170

• Oliver. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man!
  You lack a man's heart.

• Rosalind. 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! 2175

• Oliver. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in
  your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.

• Rosalind. Counterfeit, I assure you.

• Oliver. Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.

• Rosalind. So I do; but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by 2180
  right.

• Celia. 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. 2185

• Rosalind. I shall devise something; but, I pray you, commend my
  counterfeiting to him. Will you go? Exeunt

Act V, Scene 1

The forest

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY

• Touchstone. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

• Audrey. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old 2190
  gentleman's saying.

• Touchstone. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext.
  But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to
  you.

• Audrey. Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no interest in me in the 2195
  world; here comes the man you mean.

Enter WILLIAM

• Touchstone. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth,
  we that have good wits have much to answer for: we shall be
  flouting; we cannot hold. 2200

• William. Good ev'n, Audrey.

• Audrey. God ye good ev'n, William.

• William. And good ev'n to you, sir.

• Touchstone. Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy
  head; nay, prithee be cover'd. How old are you, friend? 2205

• William. Five and twenty, sir.

• Touchstone. A ripe age. Is thy name William?

• William. William, sir.

• Touchstone. A fair name. Wast born i' th' forest here?

• William. Ay, sir, I thank God. 2210

• Touchstone. 'Thank God.' A good answer.
  Art rich?

• William. Faith, sir, so so.

• Touchstone. 'So so' is good, very good, very excellent good; and
  yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise? 2215

• William. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

• Touchstone. Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying: 'The
  fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be
  a fool.' The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a
  grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning 2220
  thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do
  love this maid?

• William. I do, sir.

• Touchstone. Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

• William. No, sir. 2225

• Touchstone. Then learn this of me: to have is to have; for it is a
  figure in rhetoric that drink, being pour'd out of cup into a
  glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your
  writers do consent that ipse is he; now, you are not ipse, for I
  am he. 2230

• William. Which he, sir?

• Touchstone. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you
  clown, abandon- which is in the vulgar leave- the society- which
  in the boorish is company- of this female- which in the common is
  woman- which together is: abandon the society of this female; or, 2235
  clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest;
  or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into
  death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee,
  or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction;
  will o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and 2240
  fifty ways; therefore tremble and depart.

• Audrey. Do, good William.

• William. God rest you merry, sir. Exit

Enter CORIN

• Corin. Our master and mistress seeks you; come away, away. 2245

• Touchstone. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. I attend, I attend.

Exeunt

Act V, Scene 2

The forest

Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER

• Orlando. Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you should
  like her? that but seeing you should love her? and loving woo? 2250
  and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoy
  her?

• Oliver. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty
  of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden
  consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she 2255
  loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It
  shall be to your good; for my father's house and all the revenue
  that was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and here live
  and die a shepherd.

• Orlando. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow. 2260
  Thither will I invite the Duke and all's contented followers. Go
  you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

Enter ROSALIND

• Rosalind. God save you, brother.

• Oliver. And you, fair sister. Exit 2265

• Rosalind. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear
  thy heart in a scarf!

• Orlando. It is my arm.

• Rosalind. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a
  lion. 2270

• Orlando. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.

• Rosalind. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon
  when he show'd me your handkercher?

• Orlando. Ay, and greater wonders than that.

• Rosalind. O, I know where you are. Nay, 'tis true. There was never 2275
  any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar's
  thrasonical brag of 'I came, saw, and overcame.' For your brother
  and my sister no sooner met but they look'd; no sooner look'd but
  they lov'd; no sooner lov'd but they sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd but
  they ask'd one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but 2280
  they sought the remedy- and in these degrees have they made pair
  of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else
  be incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of
  love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them.

• Orlando. They shall be married to-morrow; and I will bid the Duke 2285
  to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into
  happiness through another man's eyes! By so much the more shall I
  to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I
  shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.

• Rosalind. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for 2290
  Rosalind?

• Orlando. I can live no longer by thinking.

• Rosalind. I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking. Know
  of me then- for now I speak to some purpose- that I know you are
  a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should 2295
  bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you
  are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some
  little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and
  not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do
  strange things. I have, since I was three year old, convers'd 2300
  with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable.
  If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries
  it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I
  know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not
  impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set 2305
  her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any
  danger.

• Orlando. Speak'st thou in sober meanings?

• Rosalind. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I
  am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your 2310
  friends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to
  Rosalind, if you will.
  [Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE]
  Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.

• Phebe. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness 2315
  To show the letter that I writ to you.

• Rosalind. I care not if I have. It is my study
  To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.
  You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;
  Look upon him, love him; he worships you. 2320

• Phebe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

• Silvius. It is to be all made of sighs and tears;
  And so am I for Phebe.

• Phebe. And I for Ganymede.

• Orlando. And I for Rosalind. 2325

• Rosalind. And I for no woman.

• Silvius. It is to be all made of faith and service;
  And so am I for Phebe.

• Phebe. And I for Ganymede.

• Orlando. And I for Rosalind. 2330

• Rosalind. And I for no woman.

• Silvius. It is to be all made of fantasy,
  All made of passion, and all made of wishes;
  All adoration, duty, and observance,
  All humbleness, all patience, and impatience, 2335
  All purity, all trial, all obedience;
  And so am I for Phebe.

• Phebe. And so am I for Ganymede.

• Orlando. And so am I for Rosalind.

• Rosalind. And so am I for no woman. 2340

• Phebe. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

• Silvius. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

• Orlando. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

• Rosalind. Why do you speak too, 'Why blame you me to love you?'

• Orlando. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. 2345

• Rosalind. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish
  wolves against the moon. [To SILVIUS] I will help you if I can.
  [To PHEBE] I would love you if I could.- To-morrow meet me all
  together. [ To PHEBE ] I will marry you if ever I marry woman,
  and I'll be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if 2350
  ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To
  Silvius] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and
  you shall be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] As you love
  Rosalind, meet. [To SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;- and as I
  love no woman, I'll meet. So, fare you well; I have left you 2355
  commands.

• Silvius. I'll not fail, if I live.

• Phebe. Nor I.

• Orlando. Nor I. Exeunt

Act V, Scene 3

The forest

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY

• Touchstone. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we
  be married.

• Audrey. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no
  dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come
  two of the banish'd Duke's pages. 2365

Enter two PAGES

• First Page. Well met, honest gentleman.

• Touchstone. By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song.

• Second Page. We are for you; sit i' th' middle.

• First Page. Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or 2370
  spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues
  to a bad voice?

• Second Page. I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies
  on a horse.
  SONG. 2375
  It was a lover and his lass,
  With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
  That o'er the green corn-field did pass
  In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
  When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. 2380
  Sweet lovers love the spring.
  Between the acres of the rye,
  With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
  These pretty country folks would lie,
  In the spring time, &c. 2385
  This carol they began that hour,
  With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
  How that a life was but a flower,
  In the spring time, &c.
  And therefore take the present time, 2390
  With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
  For love is crowned with the prime,
  In the spring time, &c.

• Touchstone. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great
  matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable. 2395

• First Page. You are deceiv'd, sir; we kept time, we lost not our
  time.

• Touchstone. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such
  a foolish song. God buy you; and God mend your voices. Come,
  Audrey. Exeunt 2400

Act V, Scene 4

The forest

Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA

• Duke. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
  Can do all this that he hath promised?

• Orlando. I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not:
  As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. 2405

Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE

• Rosalind. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd:
  You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
  You will bestow her on Orlando here?

• Duke. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. 2410

• Rosalind. And you say you will have her when I bring her?

• Orlando. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

• Rosalind. You say you'll marry me, if I be willing?

• Phebe. That will I, should I die the hour after.

• Rosalind. But if you do refuse to marry me, 2415
  You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

• Phebe. So is the bargain.

• Rosalind. You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will?

• Silvius. Though to have her and death were both one thing.

• Rosalind. I have promis'd to make all this matter even. 2420
  Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter;
  You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter;
  Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me,
  Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd;
  Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her 2425
  If she refuse me; and from hence I go,
  To make these doubts all even.

Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA

• Duke. I do remember in this shepherd boy
  Some lively touches of my daughter's favour. 2430

• Orlando. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him
  Methought he was a brother to your daughter.
  But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,
  And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
  Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 2435
  Whom he reports to be a great magician,
  Obscured in the circle of this forest.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY

• Jaques (lord). There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are
  coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts which 2440
  in all tongues are call'd fools.

• Touchstone. Salutation and greeting to you all!

• Jaques (lord). Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded
  gentleman that I have so often met in the forest. He hath been a
  courtier, he swears. 2445

• Touchstone. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation.
  I have trod a measure; I have flatt'red a lady; I have been
  politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone
  three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought
  one. 2450

• Jaques (lord). And how was that ta'en up?

• Touchstone. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the
  seventh cause.

• Jaques (lord). How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow.

• Duke. I like him very well. 2455

• Touchstone. God 'ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in
  here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear
  and to forswear, according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A
  poor virgin, sir, an ill-favour'd thing, sir, but mine own; a
  poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that man else will. Rich 2460
  honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl
  in your foul oyster.

• Duke. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

• Touchstone. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet
  diseases. 2465

• Jaques (lord). But, for the seventh cause: how did you find the quarrel on
  the seventh cause?

• Touchstone. Upon a lie seven times removed- bear your body more
  seeming, Audrey- as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain
  courtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his beard was not 2470
  cut well, he was in the mind it was. This is call'd the Retort
  Courteous. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would
  send me word he cut it to please himself. This is call'd the Quip
  Modest. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment.
  This is call'd the Reply Churlish. If again it was not well cut, 2475
  he would answer I spake not true. This is call'd the Reproof
  Valiant. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie. This
  is call'd the Countercheck Quarrelsome. And so to the Lie
  Circumstantial and the Lie Direct.

• Jaques (lord). And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut? 2480

• Touchstone. I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial, nor
  he durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we measur'd swords
  and parted.

• Jaques (lord). Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?

• Touchstone. O, sir, we quarrel in print by the book, as you have 2485
  books for good manners. I will name you the degrees. The first,
  the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the
  Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the
  Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance;
  the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie 2490
  Direct; and you may avoid that too with an If. I knew when seven
  justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were
  met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as: 'If you
  said so, then I said so.' And they shook hands, and swore
  brothers. Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If. 2495

• Jaques (lord). Is not this a rare fellow, my lord?
  He's as good at any thing, and yet a fool.

• Duke. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the
  presentation of that he shoots his wit.
  [Enter HYMEN, ROSALIND, and CELIA. Still MUSIC] 2500
  HYMEN. Then is there mirth in heaven,
  When earthly things made even
  Atone together.
  Good Duke, receive thy daughter;
  Hymen from heaven brought her, 2505
  Yea, brought her hither,
  That thou mightst join her hand with his,
  Whose heart within his bosom is.

• Rosalind. [To DUKE] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
  [To ORLANDO] To you I give myself, for I am yours. 2510

• Duke. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

• Orlando. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

• Phebe. If sight and shape be true,
  Why then, my love adieu!

• Rosalind. I'll have no father, if you be not he; 2515
  I'll have no husband, if you be not he;
  Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.

• Hymen. Peace, ho! I bar confusion;
  'Tis I must make conclusion
  Of these most strange events. 2520
  Here's eight that must take hands
  To join in Hymen's bands,
  If truth holds true contents.
  You and you no cross shall part;
  You and you are heart in heart; 2525
  You to his love must accord,
  Or have a woman to your lord;
  You and you are sure together,
  As the winter to foul weather.
  Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, 2530
  Feed yourselves with questioning,
  That reason wonder may diminish,
  How thus we met, and these things finish.
  SONG
  Wedding is great Juno's crown; 2535
  O blessed bond of board and bed!
  'Tis Hymen peoples every town;
  High wedlock then be honoured.
  Honour, high honour, and renown,
  To Hymen, god of every town! 2540

• Duke. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me!
  Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

• Phebe. I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;
  Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
  Enter JAQUES DE BOYS 2545

• Jaques (son). Let me have audience for a word or two.
  I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
  That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
  Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day
  Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 2550
  Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot,
  In his own conduct, purposely to take
  His brother here, and put him to the sword;
  And to the skirts of this wild wood he came,
  Where, meeting with an old religious man, 2555
  After some question with him, was converted
  Both from his enterprise and from the world;
  His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,
  And all their lands restor'd to them again
  That were with him exil'd. This to be true 2560
  I do engage my life.

• Duke. Welcome, young man.
  Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding:
  To one, his lands withheld; and to the other,
  A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 2565
  First, in this forest let us do those ends
  That here were well begun and well begot;
  And after, every of this happy number,
  That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us,
  Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 2570
  According to the measure of their states.
  Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,
  And fall into our rustic revelry.
  Play, music; and you brides and bridegrooms all,
  With measure heap'd in joy, to th' measures fall. 2575

• Jaques (lord). Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,
  The Duke hath put on a religious life,
  And thrown into neglect the pompous court.

• Jaques (son). He hath.

• Jaques (lord). To him will I. Out of these convertites 2580
  There is much matter to be heard and learn'd.
  [To DUKE] You to your former honour I bequeath;
  Your patience and your virtue well deserves it.
  [To ORLANDO] You to a love that your true faith doth merit;
  [To OLIVER] You to your land, and love, and great allies 2585
  [To SILVIUS] You to a long and well-deserved bed;
  [To TOUCHSTONE] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
  Is but for two months victuall'd.- So to your pleasures;
  I am for other than for dancing measures.

• Duke. Stay, Jaques, stay. 2590

• Jaques (lord). To see no pastime I. What you would have
  I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. Exit

• Duke. Proceed, proceed. We will begin these rites,
  As we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A dance] Exeunt EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE.

• Rosalind. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but
  it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it
  be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play
  needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and
  good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a 2600
  case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot
  insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not
  furnish'd like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My
  way is to conjure you; and I'll begin with the women. I charge
  you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of 2605
  this play as please you; and I charge you, O men, for the love
  you bear to women- as I perceive by your simp'ring none of you
  hates them- that between you and the women the play may please.
  If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that
  pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that I defied 2610
  not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces,
  or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy,
  bid me farewell.

THE END