ACT II. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden  Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters    DUKE SENIOR. 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?     Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,     The seasons' difference; as the icy fang     And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,     Which when it bites and blows upon my body,     Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say     'This is no flattery; these are counsellors     That feelingly persuade me what I am.'     Sweet are the uses of adversity,     Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,     Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;     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.   AMIENS. Happy is your Grace,     That can translate the stubbornness of fortune     Into so quiet and so sweet a style.   DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?     And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,     Being native burghers of this desert city,     Should, in their own confines, with forked heads     Have their round haunches gor'd.   FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord,     The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;     And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp     Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.     To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself     Did steal behind him as he lay along     Under an oak whose antique root peeps out     Upon the brook that brawls along this wood!     To the which place a poor sequest'red stag,     That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,     Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,     The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans     That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat     Almost to bursting; and the big round tears     Cours'd one another down his innocent nose     In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,     Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,     Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook,     Augmenting it with tears.   DUKE SENIOR. But what said Jaques?     Did he not moralize this spectacle?   FIRST LORD. O, yes, into a thousand similes.     First, for his weeping into the needless stream:     'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testament     As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more     To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone,     Left and abandoned of his velvet friends:     ''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part     The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd,     Full of the pasture, jumps along by him     And never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques     'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;     'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look     Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'     Thus most invectively he pierceth through     The body of the country, city, court,     Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we     Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,     To fright the animals, and to kill them up     In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.   DUKE SENIOR. And did you leave him in this contemplation?   SECOND LORD. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting     Upon the sobbing deer.   DUKE SENIOR. Show me the place;     I love to cope him in these sullen fits,     For then he's full of matter.   FIRST LORD. I'll bring you to him straight.             Exeunt     SCENE II. The DUKE'S palace  Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS    FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them?     It cannot be; some villains of my court     Are of consent and sufferance in this.   FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her.     The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,     Saw her abed, and in the morning early     They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.   SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft     Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.     Hisperia, the Princess' gentlewoman,     Confesses that she 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 she believes, wherever they are gone,     That youth is surely in their company.   FREDERICK. Send to his brother; 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.                Exeunt     SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S house  Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting    ORLANDO. Who's there?   ADAM. What, my young master? O my gentle master!     O my sweet master! O you memory     Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?     Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?     And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?     Why would you be so fond to overcome     The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?     Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.     Know you not, master, to some kind of men     Their graces serve them but as enemies?     No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master,     Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.     O, what a world is this, when what is comely     Envenoms him that bears it!   ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter?   ADAM. O unhappy youth!     Come not within these doors; within this roof     The enemy of all your graces lives.     Your brother- no, no brother; yet the son-     Yet not the son; I will not call him son     Of him I was about to call his father-     Hath heard your praises; and this night he means     To burn the lodging where you use to lie,     And you within it. If he fail of that,     He will have other means to cut you off;     I overheard him and his practices.     This is no place; this house is but a butchery;     Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.   ORLANDO. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?   ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here.   ORLANDO. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food,     Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce     A thievish living on the common road?     This I must do, or know not what to do;     Yet this I will not do, do how I can.     I rather will subject me to the malice     Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.   ADAM. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,     The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,     Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,     When service should in my old limbs lie lame,     And unregarded age in corners thrown.     Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,     Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,     Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;     All this I give you. Let me be your servant;     Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;     For in my youth I never did apply     Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,     Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo     The means of weakness and debility;     Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,     Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;     I'll do the service of a younger man     In all your business and necessities.   ORLANDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears     The constant service of the antique world,     When service sweat for duty, not for meed!     Thou art not for the fashion of these times,     Where none will sweat but for promotion,     And having that do choke their service up     Even with the having; it is not so with thee.     But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree     That cannot so much as a blossom yield     In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.     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.   ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow the     To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.     From seventeen years till now almost four-score     Here lived I, but now live here no more.     At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,     But at fourscore it is too late a week;     Yet fortune cannot recompense me better     Than to die well and not my master's debtor.          Exeunt     SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden  Enter ROSALIND for GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA, and CLOWN alias TOUCHSTONE    ROSALIND. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!   TOUCHSTONE. I Care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.   ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,     and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as     doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat;     therefore, courage, good Aliena.   CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I cannot go no further.   TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you;     yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you     have no money in your purse.   ROSALIND. Well,. this is the Forest of Arden.   TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at     home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.                          Enter CORIN and SILVIUS    ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a     young man and an old in solemn talk.   CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still.   SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!   CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.   SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,     Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover     As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow.     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?   CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.   SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily!     If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly     That ever love did make thee run into,     Thou hast not lov'd;     Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,     Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,     Thou hast not lov'd;     Or if thou hast not broke from company     Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,     Thou hast not lov'd.     O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!                          Exit Silvius   ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,     I have by hard adventure found mine own.   TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my     sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to     Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the     cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember     the wooing of  peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods,     and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these     for my sake.' 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.   ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.   TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break     my shins against it.   ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion     Is much upon my fashion.   TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.   CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man     If he for gold will give us any food;     I faint almost to death.   TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!   ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman.   CORIN. Who calls?   TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.   CORIN. Else are they very wretched.   ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.   CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.   ROSALIND. 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 oppress'd,     And faints for succour.   CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her,     And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,     My fortunes were more able to relieve her;     But I am shepherd to another man,     And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.     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.   ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?   CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,     That little cares for buying any thing.   ROSALIND. 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.   CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,     And willingly could waste my time in it.   CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold.     Go with me; 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.             Exeunt     SCENE V. Another part of the forest  Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS                         SONG   AMIENS.    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.    JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more.   AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.   JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy     out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.   AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.   JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing.     Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos?   AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.   JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will     you sing?   AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself.   JAQUES. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but     that they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes;     and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a     penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you     that will not, hold your tongues.   AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the Duke     will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look     you.   JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is to     disputable for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but     I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble,     come.                         SONG               [All together here]             Who doth ambition shun,            And loves to live i' th' sun,            Seeking the food he eats,            And pleas'd with what he gets,          Come hither, come hither, come hither.            Here shall he see            No enemy            But winter and rough weather.    JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in     despite of my invention.   AMIENS. And I'll sing it.   JAQUES. Thus it goes:               If it do come to pass              That any man turn ass,              Leaving his wealth and ease              A stubborn will to please,            Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;              Here shall he see              Gross fools as he,              An if he will come to me.    AMIENS. What's that 'ducdame'?   JAQUES. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll     go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the     first-born of Egypt.   AMIENS. And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepar'd.                                                 Exeunt severally     SCENE VI. The forest  Enter ORLANDO and ADAM    ADAM. Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food! Here lie     I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.   ORLANDO. Why, how now, Adam! No greater heart in thee? Live a     little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth     forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or     bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy     powers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the     arm's end. I will here be with the 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 labour. Well said!     thou look'st cheerly; and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou     liest in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter;     and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live     anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam!          Exeunt     SCENE VII. The forest  A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws    DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transform'd into a beast;     For I can nowhere find him like a man.   FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;     Here was he merry, hearing of a song.   DUKE SENIOR. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,     We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.     Go seek him; tell him I would speak with him.                           Enter JAQUES    FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach.   DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,     That your poor friends must woo your company?     What, you look merrily!   JAQUES. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest,     A motley fool. A miserable world!     As I do live by food, I met a fool,     Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,     And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,     In good set terms- and yet a motley fool.     'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I; 'No, sir,' quoth he,     'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.'     And then he drew a dial from his poke,     And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,     Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock;     Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags;     'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;     And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;     And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,     And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;     And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear     The motley fool thus moral on the time,     My lungs began to crow like chanticleer     That fools should be so deep contemplative;     And I did laugh sans intermission     An hour by his dial. O noble fool!     A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.   DUKE SENIOR. What fool is this?   JAQUES. O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,     And says, if ladies be but young and fair,     They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,     Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit     After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd     With observation, the which he vents     In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!     I am ambitious for a motley coat.   DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one.   JAQUES. It is my only suit,     Provided that you weed your better judgments     Of all opinion that grows rank in them     That I am wise. I must have liberty     Withal, as large a charter as the wind,     To blow on whom I please, for so fools have;     And they that are most galled with my folly,     They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?     The why is plain as way to parish church:     He that a fool doth very wisely hit     Doth very foolishly, although he smart,     Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,     The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd     Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool.     Invest me in my motley; give me leave     To speak my mind, and I will through and through     Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,     If they will patiently receive my medicine.   DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.   JAQUES. What, for a counter, would I do but good?   DUKE SENIOR. Most Mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;     For thou thyself hast been a libertine,     As sensual as the brutish sting itself;     And all th' embossed sores and headed evils     That thou with license of free foot hast caught     Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.   JAQUES. Why, who cries out on pride     That can therein tax any private party?     Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,     Till that the wearer's very means do ebb?     What woman in the city do I name     When that I say the city-woman bears     The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?     Who can come in and say that I mean her,     When such a one as she such is her neighbour?     Or what is he of basest function     That says his bravery is not on my cost,     Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits     His folly to the mettle of my speech?     There then! how then? what then? Let me see wherein     My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,     Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,     Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,     Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here?               Enter ORLANDO with his sword drawn    ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more.   JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet.   ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.   JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of?   DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress?     Or else a rude despiser of good manners,     That in civility thou seem'st so empty?   ORLANDO. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point     Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show     Of smooth civility; yet arn I inland bred,     And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;     He dies that touches any of this fruit     Till I and my affairs are answered.   JAQUES. An you will not be answer'd with reason, I must die.   DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force     More than your force move us to gentleness.   ORLANDO. I almost die for food, and let me have it.   DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.   ORLANDO. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you;     I thought that all things had been savage here,     And therefore put I on the countenance     Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are     That in this desert inaccessible,     Under the shade of melancholy boughs,     Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;     If ever you have look'd on better days,     If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,     If ever sat at any good man's feast,     If ever from your eyelids wip'd 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 wip'd our eyes     Of drops that sacred pity hath engend'red;     And therefore sit you down in gentleness,     And take upon command what help we have     That to your wanting may be minist'red.   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 suffic'd,     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;     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 lin'd,     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 sav'd, 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 every thing.                    Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM    DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden.     And let him feed.   ORLANDO. I thank you most for him.   ADAM. So had you need;     I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.   DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you     As yet to question you about your fortunes.     Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.                           SONG             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 rememb'red 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 lov'd 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. The palace  Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS    FREDERICK. Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be.     But were I not the better part made mercy,     I should not seek an absent argument     Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:     Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is;     Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living     Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more     To seek a living in our territory.     Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine     Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,     Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth     Of what we think against thee.   OLIVER. O that your Highness knew my heart in this!     I never lov'd my brother in my life.   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 nought.     In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in     respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in     respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect     it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life,     look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty     in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in     thee, shepherd?   CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at     ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is     without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet,     and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a     great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath     learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding,     or comes of a very dull kindred.   TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in     court, shepherd?   CORIN. No, truly.   TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damn'd.   CORIN. Nay, I hope.   TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, 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 saw'st good     manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must     be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art     in a parlous state, shepherd.   CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the     court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the     country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not     at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be     uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.   TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance.   CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you     know, are greasy.   TOUCHSTONE. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And is not the     grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow,     shallow. A better instance, I say; come.   CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard.   TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A     more sounder instance; come.   CORIN. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our     sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are     perfum'd with civet.   TOUCHSTONE. Most shallow man! thou worm's 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 damn'd? 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 crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,     out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd 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, reading a paper    ROSALIND.   'From the east to western Inde,               No jewel is like Rosalinde.               Her worth, being mounted on the wind,               Through all the world bears Rosalinde.               All the pictures fairest lin'd               Are but black to Rosalinde.               Let no face be kept in mind               But the fair of Rosalinde.'   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 Rosalinde.                 If the cat will after kind,                 So be sure will Rosalinde.                 Winter garments must be lin'd,                 So must slender Rosalinde.                 They that reap must sheaf and bind,                 Then to cart with Rosalinde.                 Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,                 Such a nut is Rosalinde.                 He that sweetest rose will find                 Must find love's prick and Rosalinde.     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' th' country; for     you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right     virtue of the medlar.   TOUCHSTONE. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest     judge.                        Enter CELIA, with a writing    ROSALIND. Peace!     Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.   CELIA.   '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 streching 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 charg'd              That one body should be fill'd            With all graces wide-enlarg'd.              Nature presently distill'd            Helen's cheek, but not her heart,              Cleopatra's majesty,            Atalanta's better part,              Sad Lucretia's modesty.            Thus Rosalinde of many parts              By heavenly synod was devis'd,            Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,              To have the touches dearest priz'd.            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     hang'd 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     berhym'd 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 remov'd 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, most wonderful wonderful, and yet     again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!   ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am     caparison'd 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 could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd man     out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle-     either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork     out of thy mouth that I 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 tripp'd 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 saw'st him? What said he? How look'd 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.   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     dropp'd acorn.   ROSALIND. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth     such fruit.   CELIA. Give me audience, good madam.   ROSALIND. Proceed.   CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd 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 furnish'd like a hunter.   ROSALIND. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.   CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring'st me out     of tune.   ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.     Sweet, say on.   CELIA. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?                     Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES    ROSALIND. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him.   JAQUES. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as     lief have been myself alone.   ORLANDO. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too     for your society.   JAQUES. God buy you; let's meet as little as we can.   ORLANDO. I do desire we may be better strangers.   JAQUES. I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in     their barks.   ORLANDO. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them     ill-favouredly.   JAQUES. Rosalind is your love's name?   ORLANDO. Yes, just.   JAQUES. I do not like her name.   ORLANDO. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was     christen'd.   JAQUES. What stature is she of?   ORLANDO. Just as high as my heart.   JAQUES. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been     acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of rings?   ORLANDO. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence     you have studied your questions.   JAQUES. You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of Atalanta's     heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against     our mistress the world, and all our misery.   ORLANDO. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against     whom I know most faults.   JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love.   ORLANDO. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am     weary of you.   JAQUES. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.   ORLANDO. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see     him.   JAQUES. There I shall see mine own figure.   ORLANDO. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.   JAQUES. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior Love.   ORLANDO. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur     Melancholy.                                                      Exit JAQUES   ROSALIND. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,     and under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear,     forester?   ORLANDO. Very well; what would you?   ROSALIND. I pray you, what is't o'clock?   ORLANDO. You should ask me what time o' day; there's no clock in     the forest.   ROSALIND. 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.   ORLANDO. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as     proper?   ROSALIND. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with     divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time     trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still     withal.   ORLANDO. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?   ROSALIND. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the     contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the     interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems     the length of seven year.   ORLANDO. Who ambles Time withal?   ROSALIND. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath     not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study,     and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one     lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other     knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles     withal.   ORLANDO. Who doth he gallop withal?   ROSALIND. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly     as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.   ORLANDO. Who stays it still withal?   ROSALIND. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term     and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.   ORLANDO. Where dwell you, pretty youth?   ROSALIND. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of     the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.   ORLANDO. Are you native of this place?   ROSALIND. As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.   ORLANDO. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in     so removed a dwelling.   ROSALIND. I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious     uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland     man; 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 touch'd with so many giddy offences as he     hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.   ORLANDO. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid     to the charge of women?   ROSALIND. There were none principal; they were all like one another     as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his     fellow-fault came to match it.   ORLANDO. I prithee recount some of them.   ROSALIND. 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.   ORLANDO. I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you tell me your     remedy.   ROSALIND. 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.   ORLANDO. What were his marks?   ROSALIND. 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 ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your     sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing 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.   ORLANDO. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.   ROSALIND. Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love     believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess     she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give     the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that     hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?   ORLANDO. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I     am that he, that unfortunate he.   ROSALIND. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?   ORLANDO. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.   ROSALIND. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as     well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why     they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so     ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing     it by counsel.   ORLANDO. Did you ever cure any so?   ROSALIND. 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 colour; 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 humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to     forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook     merely monastic. And thus I cur'd 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.   ORLANDO. I would not be cured, youth.   ROSALIND. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and     come every day to my cote and woo me.   ORLANDO. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.   ROSALIND. 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?   ORLANDO. With all my heart, good youth.   ROSALIND. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you     go?                                                   Exeunt     SCENE III. The forest  Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind    TOUCHSTONE. Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats,     Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature     content you?   AUDREY. Your features! Lord warrant us! What features?   TOUCHSTONE. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most     capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.   JAQUES. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a     thatch'd house!   TOUCHSTONE. 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.   AUDREY. I do not know what 'poetical' is. Is it honest in deed and     word? Is it a true thing?   TOUCHSTONE. 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.   AUDREY. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?   TOUCHSTONE. 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.   AUDREY. Would you not have me honest?   TOUCHSTONE. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd; for honesty     coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.   JAQUES. [Aside] A material fool!   AUDREY. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me     honest.   TOUCHSTONE. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were     to put good meat into an unclean dish.   AUDREY. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.   TOUCHSTONE. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness;     sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will     marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext,     the vicar of the next village, who hath promis'd to meet me in     this place of the forest, and to couple us.   JAQUES. [Aside] I would fain see this meeting.   AUDREY. Well, the gods give us joy!   TOUCHSTONE. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger     in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no     assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are     odious, they are necessary. It is said: 'Many a man knows no end     of his goods.' Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no end     of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his     own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest     deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore     blessed? No; as a wall'd town is more worthier than a village, so     is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare     brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no     skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes     Sir Oliver.                         Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT      Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here     under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?   MARTEXT. Is there none here to give the woman?   TOUCHSTONE. I will not take her on gift of any man.   MARTEXT. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.   JAQUES. [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.   TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you, sir?     You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I am     very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be     cover'd.   JAQUES. Will you be married, motley?   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.   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.   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.   JAQUES. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.   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.                            Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY   MARTEXT. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all     shall flout me out of my calling.                       Exit     SCENE IV. The forest  Enter ROSALIND and CELIA    ROSALIND. Never talk to me; I will weep.   CELIA. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears     do not become a man.   ROSALIND. But have I not cause to weep?   CELIA. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.   ROSALIND. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.   CELIA. Something browner than Judas's.     Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.   ROSALIND. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.   CELIA. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.   ROSALIND. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of     holy 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.   ROSALIND. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and     comes not?   CELIA. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.   ROSALIND. Do you 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 covered     goblet or a worm-eaten nut.   ROSALIND. Not true in love?   CELIA. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.   ROSALIND. You have heard him swear downright 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.   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 laugh'd and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when     there is such a man as Orlando?   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 puny 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?                           Enter CORIN    CORIN. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired     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.   CELIA. Well, and what of 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.   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.                Exeunt     SCENE V. Another part of the forest  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 th' 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?            Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance    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 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 not force in eyes     That can do hurt.   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.   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.   ROSALIND. [Advancing] 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 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.   PHEBE. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;     I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.   ROSALIND. He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fall     in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee     with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look     you so upon me?   PHEBE. For no ill will I bear you.   ROSALIND. I pray you do not fall in love with me,     For I am falser than vows made in wine;     Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,     'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.     Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.     Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,     And be not proud; though all the world could see,     None could be so abus'd in sight as he.     Come, to our flock.        Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN   PHEBE. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:     'Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?'   SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe.   PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?   SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, pity me.   PHEBE. Why, I arn sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.   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 extermin'd.   PHEBE. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?   SILVIUS. I would have you.   PHEBE. 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 employ'd.   SILVIUS. So holy and so perfect is my love,     And I in such a poverty of grace,     That I shall think it a most plenteous crop     To glean the broken ears after the man     That the main harvest reaps; loose now and then     A scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon.   PHEBE. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?   SILVIUS. Not very well; but I have met him oft;     And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds     That the old carlot once was master of.   PHEBE. 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 offence, his eye did heal it up.     He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall;     His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well.     There was a pretty redness in his lip,     A little riper and more lusty red     Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference     Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.     There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd 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;     For what had he to do to chide at me?     He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black,     And, now I am rememb'red, scorn'd at me.     I marvel why I answer'd not again;     But that's all one: omittance is no quittance.     I'll write to him a very taunting letter,     And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius?   SILVIUS. Phebe, with all my heart.   PHEBE. I'll write it straight;     The matter's in my head and in my heart;     I will be bitter with him and passing short.     Go with me, Silvius.                                  Exeunt