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 knoll’d to church
And sat at good men’s feasts and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness
And take upon command what help we have
That to your wanting may be minister’d.
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
Limp’d in pure love: till he be first sufficed,
Oppress’d 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 blest for your good comfort!
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.
And then the whining school-boy, 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 slipper’d 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 this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Re-enter Orlando, with Adam
Duke Senior
Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen,
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.
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,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember’d not.
Heigh-ho! sing, & c.
Duke Senior
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,
Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke
That loved 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,
And let me all your fortunes understand.
Exeunt
ACT III
SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.
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 brothers 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. 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
SCENE II. 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.
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
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 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 is it 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. Wa
st 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 behavior 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, with a paper, reading
Rosalind
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 fair be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalind.
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!
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.
Winter 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 graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit i’ the 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, 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 fill’d
With all graces wide-enlarged:
Nature presently distill’d
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,
Of many faces, eyes and hearts,
To have the touches dearest prized.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.
Rosalind
O most gentle pulpiter! 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 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?
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.
Celia
But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged 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 be-rhymed since Pythagoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat, which I 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?
Rosalind
I prithee, who?
Celia
O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.
Rosalind
Nay, but who is it?
Celia
Is it possible?
Rosalind
Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.
Celia
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping!
Rosalind
Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparisoned 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 couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow- mouthed bottle, either too much at once, or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that 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?
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 tripped up the wrestler’s heels 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?
Celia
Orlando.
Rosalind
Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes him here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him 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 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 dropped acorn.
Rosalind
It may well be called Jove’s tree, when it drops forth such fruit.
Celia
Give me audience, good madam.
Rosalind
Proceed.
Celia
There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight.
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 furnished like a hunter.
Rosalind
O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
Complete Plays, The Page 262