JAQUES
[Advancing]
Proceed, proceed I'll give her.
Go on, go on: I will give her away.
TOUCHSTONE
Good even, good Master What-ye-call't: how do you,
sir? You are very well met: God 'ild you for your
last company: I am very glad to see you: even a
toy in hand here, sir: nay, pray be covered.
Good evening, Master Whatever-Your-Name-Is: how are you,
sir? I’m glad you are here, and God bless you for your
company I am quite glad to see you, even though
this is a small matter, sir. No, keep your hat on.
JAQUES
Will you be married, motley?
And you are getting married, fool?
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.
The ox has his restraints, the horse his bridle,
the falcon her bells, so too does the man have his desires.
Just like pigeons need a restraint, so wedlock restrains a man.
JAQUES
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.
And will you, being a man bred nobly, be
married under a tree here, like a beggar? Go to a
church and have a good priest who can tell you
what marriage is. This fellow will only join you
together like a carpenter joins boards. Then one of you will
be a shrunken plank, and, like fresh wood, will warp, and ruin the joining.
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.
I don’t disagree, but I would rather be
married by this vicar than someone else – then he is less likely
to marry me well, and if he messes up, then
I have a good excuse to leave my wife later.
JAQUES
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Come with me and listen to my advice.
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,
Leave me not behind thee: but,--
Wind away,
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.
Come sweet Audrey,
we must be married or else we live in sin.
Goodbye, Master Oliver, not like I am singing:
O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Don’t leave me behind you, but
Go away wind,
Go away, I say,
I will not go to marry you.
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.
None of that matters: never will the most dreaming of tricksters
push me out of my calling.
Exit
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA
ROSALIND
Never talk to me; I will weep.
Don’t talk to me. I am going to cry.
CELIA
Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider
that tears do not become a man.
Go on, cry – but you still have to remember
that tears are not very manly.
ROSALIND
But have I not cause to weep?
Don’t I have reason to weep?
CELIA
As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
As good a reason as you can want, so go ahead and weep.
ROSALIND
His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
His hair is red, a lying color, like Judas’ hair.
CELIA
Something browner than Judas's marry, his kisses are
Judas's own children.
No, it is browner than Judas’ hair, but his kisses
are probably similar.
ROSALIND
I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.
ACtually, I think his hair is a very good color.
CELIA
An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.
Yes, an excellent color, chestnut is a very good color.
ROSALIND
And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch
of holy bread.
And his kissing is as holy as touching
the communion 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.
He must have a pair of lips bought from Diana, the goddess of purity. A nun
of old age does not kiss more religiously than he does –
they are chaste and cold kisses.
ROSALIND
But why did he swear he would come this morning, and
comes not?
Why did he swear to come here this morning, and
then never arrive.
CELIA
Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Certainly, the is not truthful.
ROSALIND
Do you think so?
Do you really 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 a covered goblet or a
worm-eaten nut.
Yes. I think he is not a pickpocket or a
horse thief, but as for his faithfulness in love, I do
think that he is as hollow as a goblet or a
nut hollowed out by worms.
ROSALIND
Not true in love?
He is not really in love?
CELIA
Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.
Yes, he is when he is – but I don’t think he is actually in love.
ROSALIND
You have heard him swear downright he was.
But you have heard him swear that he was.
CELIA
'Was' is not 'is:' besides, the oath of a lover is
no 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.
“Was” is different from “is.” Besides, the lover’s promises
are no stronger than the tab from a bartender: they are
both confirming a lie. He stays
here in the forest with 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 he; so he laughed and let me go.
But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a
man as Orlando?
I met the duke yesterday and talked to
him for a while. He asked me about my parents and I said
that they were as good as he is, and he laughed and let me go.
But why are we talking about fathers when there is a
man like Orlando in the world
?
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 puisny tilter, that 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?
O yes, what a brave man! He writes brave poems,
speaks brave words, swears brave promises and breaks
them bravely, quickly and across the heart
of his lover. This is just like a cowardly jouster who rides forward
and then breaks his staff across the other’s shield, like a noble
coward. But everyone is brave who is young and
guided by foolishness. Who is coming here?
Enter CORIN
CORIN
Mistress and master, you have oft inquired
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.
Mistress and master, you often asked me
about the shepherd who complains about his love,
whom you saw me sitting with on the grass,
praising the shepherdess who disdains him proudly,
and who was his mistress.
CELIA
Well, and what of him?
Yes, what about him?
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.
If you would like to see a play well-played
between a pale skinned lover
and a glowing, scornful woman,
come with me and I will show you
so you can see it.
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.
Come, let us leave here.
Seeing other lovers is good for those in love.
Bring us to see this and you will watch
me become an actor in their play.
Exeunt
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 the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon: will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Sweet Phebe, do not hate me, do not, Phebe.
Say that you don’t love me, but don’t say it so
bitterly and meanly. The executioner,
whose hard heart is used to the sight of death,
does not immediately swing the ax down on the bent neck,
but first asks to be excused: will you be more hard-hearted
than he who makes his living by killing others?
Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind
PHEBE
I would not be thy executioner:
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
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!
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!
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.
I don’t want to be your executioner:
I’m trying to leave you so I don’t hurt you.
You tell me that my eyes look murderous –
what a nice thought, and a probably one,
that eyes, which are so frail and soft,
which are so cowardly that they shut to keep dust out,
should be called tyrants, butchers, and murderers!
With all of my heart, I am frowning at you,
and if my eyes can hurt, then let them now kill you.
Now fake yourself fainting and fall down,
or if you cannot, you shameful man,
then stop lying by saying that my eyes are murderers!
Now, show me the wound that my eye made in you.
If I scratched you with a pin, there would be
a scar left. If you lean against a rush weed,
a mark from the pressure
is left for a moment on the palm. But my eyes,
which I looked at you with, did not hurt you,
nor is there any ability for eyes
to hurt someone.
SILVIUS
O dear Phebe,
If ever,--as that ever may be near,--
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
My dear Phebe,
If you ever – and hopefully soon –
fall in love with some man’s fresh cheek,
then you will see that the wounds are invisible
when they are made by love’s arrows.
PHEBE
But till that time
Come not thou near me: and when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
But until that time,
do not come near me. And when that time comes,
mock me mercilessly, without pity,
since I will not pity you until that time.
ROSALIND
And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
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?
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,
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
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.
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 yo
ur ear,
Sell when you can: you are not for all markets:
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer:
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd: fare you well.
And why won’t you? Please tell me. Who is your mother
that you insult the injury and exult over causing it, all at once,
that you made on some wretched man? You already aren’t beautiful –
truly, from what I can see in you,
you should go to bed in the dark without a candle –
do you need to be proud and mean as well?
What do you mean by this? Why are you looking at me?
I don’t see anything in you except the ordinary
work of nature. By God,
I think she wants to make me fall in love with her, too!
No, proud woman, do not put your hope in this:
your inky black eyebrows, your black, silky hair,
your eyes calling out to me, and your milky white cheek
do not tame me to worship you.
You foolish shepherd, why are you following her,
like fog following the wind and rain?
You are a much more proper man
than she is a proper woman: it’s fools like you
who by marrying poorly create ugly children.
It’s not her mirror, it’s you who flatters her,
and from you she sees a better version of herself
than any of her features can.
Mistress, be honest with yourself, bend down on your knees,
and thank heaven by fasting for giving you a good man to love you:
I must tell you honestly that
you should sell yourself when you can, because your price will not always be good.
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) Page 227