The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)

by William Shakespeare

  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.