﻿1
Salutation and greeting to you all.
Let me have audience for a word or two.
What's the new news at the new court?
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.
They say he is already in the Forest of Arden
and a many 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.
Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished with her father.
Oh no.
For the Duke's daughter, her cousin so loves her,
being ever from their cradles bred together,
that she would have followed her exile
or died to stay behind her.
And thereby hangs a tale.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my cuz, be merry.
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.
Herein I see thou lovest me not
with the full weight I love thee.
If my uncle, thy banished father had banished thy uncle,
the Duke my father, so thou hadst been s'til 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 tempered as mine is to thee.
Well, I will forget the condition of my estate
to rejoice in yours.
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 he hath taken away from thy father perforce,
I will render thee again in affection.
By mine honor I will, and when I break that oath,
let me turn monster.
Therefore my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.
From henceforth I will, cuz, and devise sports.
What think you of falling in love?
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 mayest in honor come off again.
As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion
bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns,
and, as thou sayest, charged my brother,
on his blessing, to breed me well.
And there begins my sadness.
He keeps me rustically at home.
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 wise remedy how to avoid it.
Now, sir, what make you here?
Nothing.
I am not taught to make anything.
What mar you then, sir?
Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made.
Know you where you are.
O sir, very well.
Know you before whom, sir?
I know you are my eldest brother,
and in the gentle condition of blood you should so know me.
I have as much of my father in me as you,
albeit I confess your coming before me
is nearer to his reverence.
What, boy!
Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
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 take this hand from thy throat
'til this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so.
Thou hast railed on thyself.
Sweet masters, be patient.
For your father's remembrance, be at accord.
Let me go, I say.
I will not 'til I please.
You shall hear me.
My father charged you in his will to give me good education.
You have trained me like a peasant,
obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities.
I will no longer endure it.
Therefore allow me such 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.
And what wilt thou do?
Beg, when that is spent?
You shall have some part of your will.
I pray you, leave me.
I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
Get you with him, you old dog.
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 such a word.
Is it even so?
Begin you to grow upon me?
I will physic your rankness,
and yet give no thousand crowns neither.
I am given, sir, secretly to understand
that your younger brother Orlando hath a disposition
to come in disguised against me to try a fall.
He is resolute; full of 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 he didst break his neck as his finger.
he will practice against thee by poison,
entrap thee by some treacherous device
and never leave thee 'til 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 of him,
but should I anatomize him to thee as he is,
I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
I will give him his payment.
If ever he go alone again,
I'll never wrestle for prize more.
Bonjour, Monsieurs Le Beau.
What's the news?
Fair princess, you have lost much...
good sport.
Sport?
Of what color?
What color, madam?
How shall we answer you?
As wit and fortune will.
Or as the destinies decrees.
Well said.
That was laid on with a trowel.
Nay, if I keep not my rank.
Thou losest thy old smell.
You amaze us, ladies.
We would have told you of good wrestling.
Which you have lost the sight of.
And if it please your ladyships...
You may see the end for the best is yet to do.
Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?
Alas, he is too young.
Yet he looks successfully.
How now, daughter?
Are you crept hither to watch the wrestling?
Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.
You will take little delight in it, I can tell you.
Come, where is this young gallant
that is so desirous to lie with his Mother Earth?
You mean to mock me after,
you should not have mocked me before.
I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son.
And I would not change that calling
to be adopted heir to Frederick.
Gentle cousin, let us go thank him and encourage him.
My father's rough and envious disposition
sticks me at heart.
What is thy name, young man?
Orlando, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.
My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,
and all the world was of my father's mind.
Sir, you have well deserved.
If you do keep your promises in love but justly,
as you have exceeded all promise,
your mistress shall be happy.
Gentleman, wear this for me.
One out of suits with fortune,
that could give more but that her hand lacks means.
Sir, you have wrestled well
and overthrown more than your enemies.
Will you go, cuz?
Have with you.
Fare ye well.
What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.
O poor Orlando!
Thou art overthrown.
Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.
Good sir, we do in friendship counsel you
to leave this place.
The Duke is humorous.
What he is indeed more suits you
to conceive than we to speak of.
I thank you, sirs.
I rest much bounden to you.
Fare you well.
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother,
from tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.
But heavenly Rosalind!
Why, cousin!
Why, Rosalind!
Cupid have mercy, not a word?
But is all this for your father?
No, some of it is for my child's father.
Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
Is it possible on such a sudden you should fall
into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?
The Duke my father loved his father dearly.
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.
No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Look, here comes the Duke.
With his eyes full of anger.
Mistress, dispatch you
with your safest haste and get you from our court.
Me, uncle?
You, cousin.
Within these 10 days if that thou beest found
so near our public court as 20 miles thou...
I do beseech your grace,
let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.
Thou art thy father's daughter.
There's enough.
So was I when your Highness took his dukedom.
So was I when your Highness banished him.
Never so much as an athought unborn
did I offend your highness.
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.
If she be a traitor, why, so am I?
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
which I have passed upon her.
She is banished.
Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege.
I cannot live out of her company.
You are a fool.
You, niece, provide yourself.
If you outstay the time,
upon mine honor and in the greatness of my word.
O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers?
I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
I have more cause.
Thou hast not, cousin.
I prithee, be cheerful.
Know'st thou not the Duke hath banished me, his daughter?
That he hath not.
No, hath not?
Rosalind lacks then the love which teacheth thee
that thou and I am one.
Shall we be sundered?
Shall we part, sweet girl?
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 bear your griefs yourself
and leave me out.
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Why, whither shall we go?
To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.
Alas, what danger will it be to us,
maids as we are, to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
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 and never stir assailants.
Were it not better,
because that I am more than common tall,
that I did suit me all points like a man?
What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,
and therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be called?
Something that hath a reference to my state:
no longer Celia, but Aliena.
But, cousin, what if we assayed
to steal master Touchstone out of your father's court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
He'll go along o'er the wide world with me.
Leave me alone to woo him.
Let's away and get our jewels and our wealth together.
Now go we in content to liberty and not to banishment.
O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.
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 more free from peril
than the envious court?
Sweet are the uses of adversity.
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.
Happy is your grace, that can translate the stubbornness
of fortune into so quiet and so sweet a style.
Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
Who's there?
O, my gentle master, O my sweet master,
O you memory of old Sir Rowland!
Why, what make you here?
Come not within these doors.
This is no place, this house is but a butchery.
With a base and boisterous sword
enforce a thievish living on the common road.
This I must do, or know not what to do.
But do not so.
I have 500 crowns,
the thrifty hire I saved under your father,
which I did store to be my foster nurse
when service should in my old limbs lie lame.
Here is the gold.
All this I give you.
Let me be your servant.
Let me go with you.
O good old man, how well in thee
appears the constant service of the antique world.
But come thy ways; we'll go along together,
and ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
we'll light upon some settled low content.
Master, go on, and I will follow thee to the last gasp,
with truth and loyalty.
Can it be possible that no man saw them?
It cannot be.
Some villains of my court
are of consent and sufferance in this.
I cannot hear of any that did see her.
My lord, I 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.
And I believe wherever they are gone
that youth is surely in their company.
Fetch that gallant hither.
If he be absent, bring his brother to me.
I'll make him find him.
Do this suddenly, and let not search and inquisition
quail to bring again these foolish runaways.
That is the way to make her scorn you s'til.
O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!
I partly guessed, for I have loved ere now.
But if thy love were ever like to mine
as sure I think did never man love so
how many actions most ridiculous
hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily.
If thou remembr'est not the slightest folly
that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not loved.
Or if thou hast not broke from company abruptly,
as my passion now makes me, thou hast not loved.
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
But as all is mortal in nature,
so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
Good even to you, friend.
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
can in this desert place buy entertainment,
bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here's a young maid with travel much oppressed.
And faints for succor.
My master is of churlish disposition
and little recks to find the way to heaven
by doing deeds of hospitality.
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.
♪ Under the greenwood tree 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 no enemy ♪
♪ But winter and rough weather ♪
More, more, I prithee, more.
It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
I thank it.
I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs.
More, I prithee, more.
My voice is ragged.
I know I cannot please you.
I do not desire you to please me.
I do desire you to sing.
Come, more; another stanzo.
Call you 'em stanzos?
What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
Nay, I care not for their names.
They owe me nothing.
Will you sing?
More at your request than to please myself.
Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you.
♪ Who doth ambition shun and loves to live in the sun ♪
♪ Seeking the food he eats and pleased with what he gets ♪
♪ Come hither, come hither, come hither ♪
♪ Here shall he see no enemy ♪
♪ But winter and rough weather ♪
I'll give you a verse to this note
that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.
Thus it goes.
♪ If it do come to pass that any man turn ass ♪
♪ Leaving his wealth and ease ♪
♪ A stubborn will to please ♪
♪ Here shall he see gross fools as he ♪
♪ An if he will come to me ♪
What's that?
'Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle.
I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
and thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
And we will mend thy wages.
I like this place, and willingly could waste my time in it.
Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
If you like upon report the soil,
the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be
and buy it with your gold right suddenly.
Not see him since?
Sir, sir, that cannot be.
But look to it, find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is.
Bring him, or turn thou no more
to seek a living in our territory.
Dear master, I can go no further.
O, I die for food.
Here lie I down and measure out my grave.
Farewell, kind master.
Why, how now, Adam?
No greater heart in thee?
If this uncouth forest yield any thing savage,
I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee.
Hold death awhile at the 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 labor.
Thou lookest cheerly, and I'll be with thee quickly.
Thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner,
if there live any thing in this desert.
Give me leave to speak my mind,
and I will through and through
cleanse the foul body of this infected world,
if they will patiently receive my medicine.
Fie on thee!
I can tell what thou wouldst do.
What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Most mischievous foul sin in chiding sin,
for thou thyself hast been a libertine.
But who comes here?
Forbear, and eat no more.
Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress,
or else a rude despiser of good manners,
that in civility thou seem'st so empty?
You touched my vein at first.
The thorny point of bare distress
hath ta'en from me the show of smooth civility.
He dies that touches any of this fruit
'til I and my affairs are answered.
An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.
What would you have?
Your gentleness shall force
more than your force move us to gentleness.
I almost die for food, and let me have it.
Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Speak you so gently?
Pardon me, I pray you.
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
and take upon command what help we have
that to your wanting may be ministered.
Then but forbear your food a little while,
as 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.
'Til he be first sufficed, oppressed with two weak evils,
age and hunger, I will not touch a bit.
Go find him out,
and we will nothing waste 'til you return.
I thank you; and be blessed for your good comfort.
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy.
This wide and universal theater
presents more woeful pageants
than the scene wherein we play in.
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 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 honor,
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 this strange eventful history,
is second childishness and mere oblivion,
sans teeth,
sans eyes,
sans taste,
sans everything.
Welcome.
Set down your venerable burden, and let him feed.
I thank you most for him.
So had you need.
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
DUKE, SR.: Give us some music, and good Amiens, sing.
♪ 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 ♪
♪ Though thy breath be rude ♪
♪ 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 ♪
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love.
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.
And how like you this country life, Master Touchstone?
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life;
but in respect that it is a country 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 humor well;
but as there is no more plenty in it,
it goes much against my stomach.
Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?
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.
Such a one is a natural philosopher.
Wast ever in court, shepherd?
No, truly.
Why, if thou never wast at court,
thou never sawest good manners.
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.
God help thee shallow man, thou art raw.
Sir, I am a true laborer.
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.
From the east to western Ind, no jewel is like Rosalind.
Here comes young Master Ganymede,
my new mistress's brother.
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.
I'll rhyme you so eight years together.
Out, fool.
For a taste: If a hart do lack a hind
let him seek out Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lined
so must slender 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?
Peace, you dull fool.
I found them on a tree.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Peace.
Here comes my sister reading.
Therefore heaven nature charged
that one body should be filled
with all graces wide-enlarged.
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.
Didst thou hear these verses?
O yes, I heard them all.
For look here what I found on a palm tree.
Trow you who hath done this?
Is it a man?
And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
Change you color?
Nay, but who is it?
Is it possible?
Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence,
tell me who it is.
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful,
and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!
I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth,
that I may drink thy tidings.
So you may put a man in your belly.
What manner of man?
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's heels
and your heart both in an instant.
Nay, but the devil take mocking.
Speak sad brow and true maid.
In faith, cuz, 'tis he.
Orlando?
Orlando.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose?
What did he when thou saw'st him?
What said he?
How looked 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 again?
Answer me in one word.
You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first.
'Tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size.
To say aye and no to these particulars
is more than to answer in a catechism.
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?
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.
It may well be called Jove's tree,
when it drops forth such fruit.
Give me audience, good madam.
Proceed.
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.
Though it be pity to see such a sight,
it well becomes the ground.
Cry holla to thy tongue, I prithee.
It curvets unseasonably.
He was furnished like a hunter.
O, ominous!
He comes to kill my heart.
I would sing my song without a burden.
Thou bring'st me out of tune.
Do you not know I am a woman?
When I think, I must speak.
Sweet, say on.
You bring me out.
'Tis he.
Slink by, and note him.
I thank you for your company, but, good faith,
I had as lief have been myself alone.
And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake,
I thank you too for your society.
God be wi' you.
Let's meet as little as we can.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
I pray you mar no more trees
with writing love songs in their barks.
I pray you mar no more of my verses
with reading them ill-favoredly.
Rosalind is your love's name?
Yes, just.
I do not like her name.
There was no thought of pleasing you
when she was christened.
What stature is she of?
Just as high as my heart.
You have a nimble wit.
Will you sit down with me?
And we two will rail against our mistress
the world and all our misery.
I will chide no breather in the world but myself,
against whom I know most faults.
The worst fault you have is to be in love.
'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue.
By my troth, I was out
seeking for a fool when I found you.
He is drowned in the brook.
Look but in, and you shall see him.
There I shall see mine own figure.
Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
I'll tarry no longer with you.
Farewell, good Senor Love.
Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.
I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,
and under that habit play the knave with him.
Do you hear, forester?
Very well.
What would you?
I pray you, what is 't o'clock?
You should ask me what time o' day.
There's no clock in the forest.
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.
And why not the swift foot of time?
Had not that been as proper?
By no means, sir.
Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persons.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
With this shepherdess.
My sister, here in the skirts of the forest,
like fringe upon a petticoat.
Are you native of this place?
As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Your accent is something finer
than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.
I have been told so of many:
but indeed an old religious uncle of mine
taught me to speak.
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 am not a woman,
to be touched with so many giddy offenses
as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.
Can you remember any of the principal evils
that he laid to the charge of women?
There were none principal.
They were all like one another as halfpence are,
every one fault seeming monstrous
'til his fellow fault came to match it.
I prithee recount some of them.
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 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.
I am he that is so love-shaked.
I pray you tell me your remedy.
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.
What were his marks?
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.
Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded,
your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied
and everything 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.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee
believe I love.
Me believe it!
You may as soon make her that you love believe it.
But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses
on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?
I swear to thee, youth,
by the white hand of Rosalind,
I am that he, that unfortunate he.
But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Love is merely a madness.
Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Did you ever cure any so?
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, 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 color;
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 mad humor of love
to a living humor of madness,
which was to forswear the full stream of the world,
and to live in a nook merely monastic.
And thus I cured 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.
I would not be cured, youth.
I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind
and come every day to my cote and woo me.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will.
Tell me where it is.
Go with me to it, and I'll show it you;
and by the way you shall tell me
where in the forest you live.
Will you go?
With all my heart, good youth.
Nay, you must call me
Rosalind.
Come, sister, will you go?
And how, Audrey?
Am I the man yet?
Doth my simple features content you?
Your features, Lord warrant us!
What features?
I am here with thee, as the most capricious poet,
honest Ovid, was among the Goths.
When a man's verses cannot be understood,
nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child,
understanding, it strikes a man more dead
than a great reckoning in a little room.
Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
I do not know what poetical is.
Is it honest in deed and word?
Is it a true thing?
No, truly, for the truest poetry
is the most feigning;
and lovers are given to poetry,
and what they swear in poetry may be said
as lovers they do feign.
Do you wish, then,
that the gods had made me poetical?
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 feign.
Would you not have me honest?
No, truly, unless thou wert hardfavored;
for honesty coupled to beauty
is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
Well, I am not fair,
and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.
Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut
were to put good meat into an unclean dish.
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness;
sluttishness may come hereafter.
But be it as it may be,
I will marry thee.
Is there none here to give the woman?
Will you be married, motley?
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.
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.
It will be a good excuse for me hereafter
to leave my wife.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Come, sweet Audrey.
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Never talk to me.
I will weep.
Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace
to consider that tears do not become a man.
But have I not cause to weep?
As good cause as one would desire.
Therefore weep.
His very hair is of the dissembling color.
And his kissing is as full of sanctity
as the touch of holy bread.
The very ice of chastity is in them.
But why did he say he would come this morning,
and comes not?
Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Do you think so?
Yes.
I think he is not a pickpurse 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.
Not true in love?
Yes, when he is in, but I think he is not in.
You have heard him swear downright he was.
Was is not is.
Besides, the oath of a lover
is no stronger than the word of a tapster.
He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.
What talk we of fathers
when there is such a man as Orlando?
Who comes here?
Mistress and master, you have oft inquired
after the shepherd that complained of love.
Well, and what of him?
If you will see a pageant truly played,
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.
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.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me.
Say that you love me not, but say not so in bitterness.
Will you sterner be
than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
I would not be thy executioner.
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
O dear Phoebe, 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.
But 'til that time come not thou near me:
and when that time comes, afflict me with thy mocks,
pity me not, as 'til that time I shall not pity thee.
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 look you 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-favored children.
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.
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd.
Fare you well.
Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together.
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
He's fall'n in love with your foulness.
Why look you so upon me?
For no ill will I bear you.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
for I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not.
Will you go, sister?
Shepherd, ply her hard.
Shepherdess, look on him better, and be not proud.
Though all the world could see,
none could be so abused in sight as he.
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
Sweet Phoebe.
What sayst thou, Silvius?
Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
by giving love your sorrow and my grief
were both extermined.
Thou hast my love.
Is not that neighborly?
I would have you.
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,
I will endure, and I'll employ thee too.
But do not look for further recompense
than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
Loose now and then a scattered smile
and that I'll live upon.
Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Not very well, but I have met him oft,
and he hath bought the cottage and the grounds
that the old carlot once was master of.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
'Tis but a peevish boy.
Yet he talks well, 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 is his complexion;
and faster than his tongue did make offense
his eye did heal it up.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
a little riper and more lusty red
than that mixed in his cheek.
There be some women, Silvius,
had they marked him in parcels as I did,
would have gone near 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.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
and thou shalt bear it.
Wilt thou, Silvius?
Phoebe, with all my heart.
I'll write it straight.
The matter is in my head and in my heart.
I will be bitter with him and passing short.
Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while?
You a lover?
And you serve me such another trick,
never come in my sight more.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
Break an hour's promise in love!
He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts
and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute
in the affairs of love, it may be said of him
that Cupid hath clapped him o' th' shoulder,
but I'll warrant him heart-whole.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight.
I had as lief be wooed of a snail.
A snail?
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.
What's that?
Why, horns.
Virtue is no hornmaker, and my Rosalind is virtuous.
And I am your Rosalind.
It pleases him to call you so,
but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
Come, woo me, woo me,
for now I am in a holiday humor
and like enough to consent.
What would you say to me now,
an I were your very, very Rosalind?
I would kiss before I spoke.
Nay, you were better speak first,
and if you were gravel=led for lack of matter,
you might take occasion to kiss.
What if the kiss be denied?
Then she puts you to entreaty,
and there begins new matter.
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
Marry, that should you if I were your mistress,
or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
What, of my suit?
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit.
Am not I your Rosalind?
I take some joy to say you are
because I would be talking of her.
Well, in her person I say I will not have you.
Then, in mine own person I die.
No, faith, die by attorney.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them,
but not for love.
I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind,
for I protest, her frown might kill me.
By this hand, it will not kill a fly.
But come, now I will be your Rosalind
in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will.
I will grant it.
Then love me, Rosalind.
Yes, faith, will I,
Fridays and Saturdays and all.
Wilt thou have me?
Ay, and 20 such.
What sayest thou?
Are you not good?
I hope so.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?
Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.
Give me your hand, Orlando.
What do you say, sister?
Pray thee marry us.
I cannot say the words.
You must begin will you, Orlando.
Go to.
Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
I will.
Ay, but when?
Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
Then you must say I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
I might ask you for your commission,
but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband.
But will my Rosalind do so?
By my life, she will do as I do.
These two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
I must attend the duke at dinner.
By two o'clock I will be with thee again.
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 flattering tongue of yours won me.
'Tis but one cast away, and so, come, death.
Two o'clock is your hour?
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
By my troth, and in good earnest,
if you break one jot 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.
With no less religion
than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind.
So, adieu.
Well, time is the old justice
that examines all such offenders, and let time try.
Adieu.
Is it not past two o'clock?
And here much Orlando.
I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain
he hath ta'en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep.
My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.
I know not the contents,
but as I guess by the stern brow
and waspish action which she did use
as she was writing of it, it bears an angry tenor.
Pardon me.
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
Patience herself would startle at this letter
and play the swaggerer.
Bear this, bear all.
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?
'Tis a boisterous and a cruel style.
Will you hear the letter?
So please you, for I never heard it yet,
yet heard too much of Phoebe's cruelty.
Mark how the tyrant writes.
"Art thou god to shepherd turned,
"that a maiden's heart hath burned?
"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?"
Did you ever hear such railing?
Call you this railing?
Alas, poor shepherd.
Do you pity him?
No, he deserves no pity.
Wilt thou love such a woman?
Well, go your way to her,
for I see love hath made thee a 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.
Good morrow, fair ones.
If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
then should I know you by description,
such garments, and such years.
"The boy is fair, of female favor,
"and bestows himself like a ripe sister;
"the woman low and browner than her brother."
Orlando doth commend him to you both,
and to that youth he calls his Rosalind
he sends this bloody napkin.
Are you he?
I am.
What must we understand by this?
Some of my shame, if you will know of me
what man I am, and how, and why,
and where this handkercher was stained.
I pray you, tell it.
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.
Now, sir, what make you here?
It was his brother, his elder brother.
A most wicked Sir Oliver.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
and he did render him
the most unnatural that lived amongst men.
And well he might so do
for well I know he was unnatural.
Are you his brother?
Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
'Twas I, but 'tis not I.
I do not shame to tell you what I was,
since my conversion so sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
For the bloody napkin?
The gilded snake had torn some flesh away,
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 dyed in his blood
unto the shepherd youth
that he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
There is more in it.
Cousin Ganymede.
Look, he recovers.
I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
Be of good cheer, youth.
You a man?
You lack a man's heart.
I do so, I confess it.
Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was wellcounterfeited.
I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited.
Heigh-ho.
This was not counterfeit.
There is too great testimony in your complexion
that it was a passion of earnest.
Counterfeit, I assure you.
Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.
So I do; but i' faith,
I should have been a woman by right.
We shall find a time, Audrey.
Patience, gentle Audrey.
But, Audrey, there is a youth
here in the forest lays claim to you.
Ay, I know who 'tis.
He hath no interest in me in the world.
Here's the man you mean.
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.
Good ev'n, Audrey.
God gi' good ev'n, William.
And good ev'n to you, sir.
Good ev'n, gentle friend.
Cover thy head, cover thy head.
Nay, prithee, be covered.
How old are you, friend?
Five and 20 sir.
A ripe age.
Is thy name William?
William, sir.
A fair name.
Wast born in th' forest here?
Ay, sir, I thank God.
"Thank God."
Good answer.
Art rich?
'Faith, sir, so-so.
"So-so" is good, very good, very excellent good.
And yet it is not: it is but so-so.
Art thou wise?
Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
Why, thou sayest well.
I do now remember a saying:
The fool doth think he is wise,
but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
You do love this maid?
I do, sir.
Art thou learned?
No, sir.
- Then learn this of me: to have, is to have.
For it is a figure in rhetoric that drink,
being poured out of a 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.
Which he, sir?
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, 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.
I will overrun thee with policy.
I will kill thee 150 ways.
Therefore tremble and depart.
Do, good William.
God rest you merry, sir.
Is't possible that on so little acquaintance
you should like her?
That but seeing you should love her?
And loving woo?
And, wooing, she should grant?
And will you persever to enjoy her?
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 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.
Let your wedding be tomorrow.
Thither will I invite the Duke
and all's contented followers.
Go you and prepare Aliena,
for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
God save you, brother.
And you, fair sister.
O my dear Orlando, how it grieves me
to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf.
It is my arm.
I thought thy heart had been wounded.
Wounded it is, with the eyes of a lady.
Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited
to swoon when he showed me your handkercher?
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
Nay, 'tis true.
There was never 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 looked, no sooner looked but they loved,
no sooner loved but they sighed,
no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason,
no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy.
They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together.
Clubs cannot part them.
They shall be married tomorrow.
But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness
through another man's eyes.
By so much the more shall I tomorrow
be at the height of heart-heaviness
by how much I shall think my brother happy
in having what he wishes for.
Why then, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?
I can live no longer by thinking.
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.
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 her before your eyes tomorrow, human as she is.
Speak'st thou in sober meanings?
By my life I do.
Therefore, put you in your best array, bid your friends;
for if you will be married tomorrow, you shall,
and to Rosalind, if you will.
Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
Youth, you have done me much ungentleness
to show the letter that I writ to you.
I care not if I have.
It is my study to seem despiteful and ungentle to you.
You are there followed by a faithful shepherd.
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.
It is to be all made of sighs and tears,
and so am I for Phoebe.
And I for Ganymede.
And I for Rosalind.
And I for no woman.
It is to be all made of faith and service,
and so am I for Phoebe.
And I for Ganymede.
And I for Rosalind.
And I for no woman.
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,
all purity, all trial and all obedience.
And so am I for Phoebe.
And so am I for Ganymede.
And so am I for Rosalind.
And so am I for no woman.
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
Why do you speak too,
why blame you me to love you?
To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.
Pray you, no more of this.
'Tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon.
I will help you, if I can.
I would love you, if I could.
Tomorrow meet me all together.
I will marry you, if ever I marry woman,
and I'll be married tomorrow.
I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfy man,
and you shall be married tomorrow.
I will content you, if what pleases you contents you,
and you shall be married tomorrow.
As you love Rosalind, meet.
As you love Phoebe, meet.
And as I love no woman, I'll meet.
So fare you well.
I have left you commands.
I'll not fail, if I live.
Nor I.
It is 10:00 o'clock.
Tomorrow will I be married.
Thus may we see how the world wags.
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
and after one hour more 'twill be 11.
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
and then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot.
♪ It was a lover and his lass, with a hey, and a ho ♪
♪ And a hey-nonny-no, that life was but a flower ♪
♪ And therefore take the present time, with a hey, and a ho ♪
♪ And a hey-nonny-no, for love is crowned with the prime ♪
♪ In springtime ♪
♪ The only pretty ring time, when birds do sing ♪
♪ Hey ding a ding ♪
♪ Sweet lovers love the spring ♪
♪ The only pretty ring time, when birds do sing ♪
♪ Hey ding a ding ♪
♪ Sweet lovers love the spring ♪
Here comes a pair a pair of very strange beasts,
in which all tongues are called fools.
Good my lord, this is the motleyminded gentleman
I have so often met in the forest.
He hath been a courtier, he swears.
If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation.
I've trod a measure.
I have flattered a lady.
I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy.
I have undone three tailors.
I have had four quarrels, and I like to have fought one.
And how was that ta'en up?
Faith, we met,
and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.
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 cut well,
he was in the mind that it was.
This is called 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 called the quip modest.
If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment.
This is called the reply churlish.
If again it was not well cut,
he would answer I spake not true.
This is called the reproof valiant.
If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie.
This is called the countercheck quarrelsome,
and so to the lie circumstantial and the lie direct.
And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?
I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial,
nor he durst not give me the lie direct;
and so we measured swords and parted.
Is not this a rare fellow, my lord?
He's as good at anything and yet a fool.
He uses his folly like a stalkinghorse,
and under the presentation of that
he shoots his wit.
Then is there mirth in heaven
when Earthly things made even atone together.
Good Duke, receive thy daughter.
Hymen from heaven brought her, yea, brought her hither,
that thou mightst join her hand with his,
whose heart within his bosom is.
To you I give myself, for I am yours.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
If sight and shape be true, why then, my love adieu.
I'll have no father, if you be not he.
I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.
'Tis I must make conclusion of these most strange events.
Here's eight that must take hands to join in Hymen's bands,
if truth holds true contents.
So is the bargain.
You and you no cross shall part.
You and you
are heart in heart.
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.
Let me have audience for a word or two.
I bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
Frederick Duke, hearing how that every day men
of great worth resorted to this forest,
addressed a mighty power 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,
after some question with him,
was converted both from his enterprise and from the world
his crown bequeathing to his banished brother.
This to be true, I do engage my life.
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 endured shrewd days
and nights with us
shall share the good of our returned fortune.
Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,
and fall into our rustic revelry.
Play, music.
And you, brides and bridegrooms all,
with measure heaped in joy, to thy measures fall.
Sir, by your patience: if I heard you rightly,
the Duke hath put on a religious life
and thrown into neglect the pompous court.
He hath.
To him will I.
DUKE, SR.: Stay, Jaques, stay.
Your former honor I bequeath.
Your patience and your virtue well deserves it.
To your pleasures.
I am for other than for dancing measures.
We will begin these rites,
as we do trust they'll end, in true delights.
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 this play as please you.
And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women,
as I perceive by your simpering,
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 pleased me,
complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied 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.
Let's cut.