The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  The motley fool thus moral on the time

  My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

  That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

  And I did laugh sans intermission

  An hour by his dial. O noble fool,

  A worthy foot—motley’s the only wear.

  DUKE SENIOR What fool is this? 35

  JAQUES

  O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier,

  And says ‘If ladies be but young and fair

  They have the gift to know it.’ And in his brain,

  Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

  After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed

  With observation, the which he vents

  In mangled forms. O that I were a fool,

  I am ambitious for a motley coat.

  DUKE SENIOR

  Thou shalt have one.

  JAQUES It is my only suit,

  Provided that you weed your better judgements

  Of all opinion that grows rank in them

  That I am wise. I must have liberty

  Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

  To blow on whom I please, for so fools have;

  And they that are most galled with my folly,

  They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?

  The why is plain as way to parish church:

  He that a fool doth very wisely hit

  Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

  Seem aught but senseless of the bob. If not,

  The wise man’s folly is anatomized

  Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

  Invest me in my motley. Give me leave

  To speak my mind, and I will through and through

  Cleanse the foul body of th’infected world,

  If they will patiently receive my medicine.

  DUKE SENIOR

  Fie on thee, I can tell what thou wouldst do.

  JAQUES

  What, for a counter, would I do but good?

  DUKE SENIOR

  Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;

  For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

  As sensual as the brutish sting itself,

  And all th’embossèd sores and headed evils

  That thou with licence of free foot hast caught

  Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

  JAQUES Why, who cries out on pride

  That can therein tax any private party?

  Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

  Till that the weary very means do ebb?

  What woman in the city do I name

  When that I say the city-woman bears

  The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?

  Who can come in and say that I mean her

  When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?

  Or what is he of basest function,

  That says his bravery is not on my cost,

  Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits

  His folly to the mettle of my speech?

  There then, how then, what then, let me see wherein

  My tongue hath wronged him. If it do him right,

  Then he hath wronged himself. If he be free,

  Why then my taxing like a wild goose flies,

  Unclaimed of any man. But who comes here?Enter Orlando, with sword drawn

  ORLANDO

  Forbear, and eat no more!

  JAQUES Why, I have eat none yet.

  ORLANDO

  Nor shalt not till necessity be served.

  JAQUES Of what kind should this cock come of?

  DUKE SENIOR

  Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress?

  Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

  That in civility thou seem’st so empty?

  ORLANDO

  You touched my vein at first. The thorny point

  Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show

  Of smooth civility. Yet am I inland bred,

  And know some nurture. But forbear, I say.

  He dies that touches any of this fruit

  Till I and my affairs are answered.

  JAQUES An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.

  DUKE SENIOR

  What would you have? Your gentleness shall force

  More than your force move us to gentleness.

  ORLANDO

  I almost die for food; and let me have it.

  DUKE SENIOR

  Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

  ORLANDO

  Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you.

  I thought that all things had been savage here,

  And therefore put I on the countenance

  Of stern commandment. But whate‘er you are

  That in this desert inaccessible,

  Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

  Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time,

  If ever you have looked on better days,

  If ever been where bells have knolled to church,

  If ever sat at any good man’s feast,

  If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear,

  And know what ’tis to pity, and be pitied,

  Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.

  In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

  DUKE SENIOR

  True is it that we have seen better days,

  And have with holy bell been knolled to church,

  And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes

  Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered.

  And therefore sit you down in gentleness,

  And take upon command what help we have

  That to your wanting may be ministered.

  ORLANDO

  Then but forbear your food a little while

  Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn

  And give it food. There is an old poor man

  Who after me hath many a weary step

  Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed,

  Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,

  I will not touch a bit.

  DUKE SENIOR

  Go find him out,

  And we will nothing waste till you return.

  ORLANDO

  I thank ye; and be blessed for your good comfortl Exit

  DUKE SENIOR

  Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy.

  This wide and universal theatre

  Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

  Wherein we play in.

  JAQUES

  All the world’s a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players.

  They have their exits and their entrances,

  And one man in his time plays many parts,

  His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

  Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

  Then the whining schoolboy with his satchel

  And shining morning face, creeping like snail

  Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

  Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

  Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then, a soldier,

  Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

  Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,

  Seeking the bubble reputation

  Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

  In fair round belly with good capon lined,

  With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

  Full of wise saws and modern instances;

  And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

  Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

  With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

  His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

  For his shrunk shank, and his big, manly voice,

  Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

  And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

  That ends thi
s strange, eventful history,

  Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

  Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

  Enter Orlando bearing Adam

  DUKE SENIOR

  Welcome. Set down your venerable burden

  And let him feed.

  ORLANDO I thank you most for him.

  ADAM So had you need;

  I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

  DUKE SENIOR

  Welcome. Fall to. I will not trouble you

  As yet to question you about your fortunes.

  Give us some music, and, good cousin, sing.

  [amiens] (sings)

  Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

  Thou art not so unkind

  As man’s ingratitude.

  Thy tooth is not so keen,

  Because thou art not seen,

  Although thy breath be rude.

  Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly.

  Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly.

  Then hey-ho, the holly;

  This life is most jolly.

  Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

  That dost not bite so nigh

  As benefits forgot.

  Though thou the waters warp,

  Thy sting is not so sharp

  As friend remembered not.

  Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly.

  Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly.

  Then hey-ho, the holly;

  This life is most jolly.

  DUKE SENIOR (to Orlando)

  If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,

  As you have whispered faithfully you were,

  And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

  Most truly limned and living in your face,

  Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke

  That loved your father. The residue of your fortune,

  Go to my cave and tell me. (To Adam) Good old man,

  Thou art right welcome, as thy master is.—

  (To Lords) Support him by the arm. (To Orlando) Give

  me your hand,

  And let me all your fortunes understand. Exeunt

  3.1 Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Oliver

  DUKE 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

  Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:

  Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is.

  Seek him with candle. Bring him, dead or living,

  Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

  To seek a living in our territory.

  Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine

  Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands

  Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth

  Of what we think against thee.

  OLIVER

  O that your highness knew my heart in this.

  I never loved my brother in my life.

  DUKE FREDERICK

  More villain thou. (To Lords) 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 severally

  3.2 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.

  O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books,

  And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character

  That every eye which in this forest looks

  Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.

  Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree

  The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit

  Enter Corin and Touchstone the clown

  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 naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

  CORIN No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is, and that he that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.

  TOUCHSTONE Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

  CORIN No, truly.

  TOUCHSTONE Then thou art damned.

  CORIN Nay, I hope.

  TOUCHSTONE Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

  CORIN For not being at court? Your reason?

  TOUCHSTONE Why, if thou never wast at court thou never sawest good manners. If thou never sawest good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art 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 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 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.

  CORIN And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.

  TOUCHSTONE Most shallow, man. Thou worms’ meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed, learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

  CORIN You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.

  TOUCHSTONE Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man. God make incision in thee, thou art raw.

  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 and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst scape.

  CORIN Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.

  Enter Rosalind as Ganymede

  ROSALIND (reads)

  ‘From the east to western Ind

  No jewel is like Rosalind.

  Her worth being mounted on the wind

  Through all the world bears Rosalind.

  All the pictures fairest lined

  Are but black to Rosalind.

  Let no face be kept in mind

  But the fair of Rosalind.’

  TOUCHSTONE I’ll rhyme y
ou so eight years together, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping-hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.

  ROSALIND Out, fool.

  TOUCHSTONE For a taste:

  If a hart do lack a hind,

  Let him seek out Rosalind.

  If the cat will after kind,

  So, be sure, will Rosalind.

  Wintered garments must be lined,

  So must slender Rosalind.

  They that reap must sheaf and bind,

  Then to cart with Rosalind.

  ‘Sweetest nut hath sourest rind’,

  Such a nut is Rosalind.

  He that sweetest rose will find

  Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind.

  This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself with them?

  ROSALIND Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.

  TOUCHSTONE Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

  ROSALIND I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar; then it will be the earliest fruit i’th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere you be half-ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

  TOUCHSTONE You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.

  Enter Celia, as Aliena, with a writing

  ROSALIND

  Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.

  CELIA (reads)

  ‘Why should this a desert be?

  For it is unpeopled? No.

  Tongues I’ll hang on every tree,

  That shall civil sayings show.

  Some, how brief the life of man

  Runs his erring pilgrimage,

  That the stretching of a span

  Buckles in his sum of age.

  Some of violated vows

  ’Twixt the souls of friend and friend.

  But upon the fairest boughs,

  Or at every sentence end,

  Will I ‘Rosalinda’ write,

  Teaching all that read to know

  The quintessence of every sprite

  Heaven would in little show.

  Therefore heaven nature charged

  That one body should be filled

  With all graces wide-enlarged.

  Nature presently distilled

  Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,

  Cleopatra’s majesty,

  Atalanta’s better part,

  Sad Lucretia’s modesty.

  Thus Rosalind of many parts

  By heavenly synod was devised