garter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutoned, 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. Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. Ros. 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? Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. Ros. 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 punished and cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whippers are in love too: Yet I profess curing it by counsel. Orl. Did you ever cure any so? most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers, they do feign. Aud. Do you wish then, that the gods had made me poetical? Touch. 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. Aud. Would you not have me honest ? Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour'd: for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar. Jaq. A material fool! [Aside. Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest! Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut, were to put good meat into an unclean dish. Aud. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul. Touch. 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 Mar-text, the vicar of the next village; who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us. [Aside. Jaq. I would fain see this meeting. Aud. Well, the gods give us joy; Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearimagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him ful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have every day to woo me: At which time would I, no temple but the wood, no assembly but hornbeing but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, odious, they are necessary. It is said,-Many a apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of man knows no end of his goods: right: many a smiles; for every passion something, and for no man has good horns, and knows no end of them. passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his the most part cattle of this colour: would now like own getting. Horns? Even so:Poor men him, now loath him; then entertain him, then for- alone?—No, no; the noblest deer hath them as swear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, blessed? No: as a wall'd town is more worthier to a living humour of madness; which was, to for-than a village, so is the forehead of a married man swear the full stream of the world, and to live in a more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor. nook merely monastick: And thus I cured him; and by how much defence is better than no skill, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver by so much is a horn more precious than to want. as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't. Orl. I would not be cured, youth. Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques at a distance, observing them. Touch. 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? Aud. Your features! Lord warrant us! what features? Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than Jove in a thatch'd house! Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text. Here comes sir Oliver:-Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met: Will you despatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel ? Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman? Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man. Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. Jaq. [Discovering himself.] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her. Touch. Good eren, good master What ye_call't: How do you, sir? You are very well met: God'il you for your last company: I am very glad to see you:-Even a toy in hand here, sir:-Nay; pray, be cover'd. Jaq. Will you be married, motley? Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the faulcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. Jaq. 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 pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp. [Aside. Touch. I am not in the mind but I were better Touch. When a man's verses cannot be under- to be married of him than of another: for he is not stood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the for- like to marry me well; and not being well married, ward child, understanding, it strikes a man more it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave dead than a great reckoning in a little room :- my wife. [Aside. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. Aud. I do not know what poetical is: Is it honest in deed, and word? Is it a true thing? Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Not-O sweet Oliver, Leave me not behi' thee; But-Wind away, I will not to wedding wi' thee. Enter Rosalind and Celia. Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep. But first begs pardon; Will you sterner be I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down; consider, that tears do not become a man. Ros. But have I not cause to weep? Cel. As good cause as one would desire; there. fore weep. Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. his kisses are Judas's own children. Ros. I'faith, his hair is of a good colour. Cel. An excellent colour: your chesnut was ever the only colour. Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread. Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. Cel. Yes I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. Ros. Not true in love? Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think he is not in. Ros. You have heard him swear downright, he was. Cel. Was is not is: besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings: He attends here in the forest on the duke your father. Ros. 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 ? Cel. 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? Or, if thou ean'st not, O, for shame, for shame, Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt. Come not thou near me: and, when that time That you insult, exult, and all at once, I I (As, by my faith, I see no more in you I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. [house, Ros.. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, [Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight? Phe. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Ros. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects: and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me, is a most humor Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?ous sadness. Phe. That I shall think it a most plenteous crop Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the dif ference Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. him In parcels as I did, would have gone near I have more cause to hate him than to love him: ACT IV. SCENE I.-The same. [Exeunt. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. Ros. Those, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern censure, worse than drunkards. Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing. Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear, you have sold your own lands, to see other men's; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Juq. Yes, I have gained my experience. Enter Orlando. Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it too. Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! Jaq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse. [Exit. Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country: be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.-Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover?-An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more. Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. Ros. Break an hour's promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath clapp'd him o'the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole. Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight; I had as lief be woo'd of a snail. Orl. Of a snail? Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman: Besides, he brings his destiny with him. Orl. What's that? Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife. Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous. Ros. And I am your Rosalind. Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent:What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind? Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking (God warn us!) matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. Orl. How if the kiss be denied? Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter. Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress? Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit. Orl. What, of my suit? N Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind? Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her. Ros. Well, in her person, I say I will not have you. Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die. Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was-Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill me. Ros. 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. Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed. Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse that? Ros. Marry, to say,-she came to seek you there, You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband's occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool. Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. Ros. Alas, dear lore, I cannot lack thee two hours. Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again. Ros. 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? Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind. Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, 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 Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays, and Saturdays, you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the and all. Orl. And wilt thou have me? Ros. Ay, and twenty such. Orl. What say'st thou ? Ros. Are you not good? Orl. I hope so. Kross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise. Orl. With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: So, adieu. Ros. Well, time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try: Adieu ! [Exit Orlando. Cel. You have simply misus'd our sex in your Ros. 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:-love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose What do you say, sister? Orl. Pray thee, marry us. Cel. I cannot say the words. Ros. You must begin,Will you, Orlando,- this Rosalind? Orl. I will. Ros. Ay, but when? Orl. Why now; as fast as she can marry us. Ros. Then you must say,-I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. Ros. I might ask you for your commission; but, -I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: There a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her actions. Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winged. Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, after you have possessed her. Orl. For ever, and a day. Ros. Say a day, without the ever: No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cockpigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parr t against rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep. Orl. But will my Rosalind do so? Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. Orl. O, but she is wise. plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest. Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it e nnot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal. Cel. Or, rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out. Ros. No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge, how deep I am in love :-I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he 1. What shall he have, that kill'd the deer? Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn:The rest shall Rus. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till 1. Thy father's father wore it; 2. And thy father bore it : All. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. bear this burden. [Exeunt. SCENE III.-The Forest. Enter Rosalind and Celia. Ros. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? And here much Orlando! Cel. I warrant you, with pure love, and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth-to sleep :-Look, who comes here. Enter Silvius. Sl. My errand is to you, fair youth ;-My gentle Phebe bid me give you this: 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. [Exit Silvius. Enter Oliver. Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones: Pray you, if you Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands [know A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive-trees? Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream, I know not the contents; but, as I guess, Ros. Patience herself would startle at this letter, Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents: Ros. Come, come, you are a fool, And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand, A freestone-colour'd hand; I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands; She has a huswife's hand: but that's no matter: I say, she never did invent this letter: This is a man's invention, and his hand. Sil. Sure, it is hers. Ros. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style, Can a woman rail thus ? Warr'st thou with a woman's heart? Whiles the eye of man did woo me, Meaning me a beast. [Reads. If the scorn of your bright eyne Of me, and all that I can make ; Sil. Call you this chiding? Ros. Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a woman ?-What, to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee! not to be endured! Well, go your way to her, (for I see, love hath made thee a tame snake,) and say Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then I should know you by description; Such garments, and such years: The boy is fuir, of female favour, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister: but the woman low, And bronner than her brother. Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for? Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we are. Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both; And to that youth, he calls his Rosalind, He sends this bloody napkin; Are you he? Rcs. I am what must we understand by this? Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was stain'd. Cel. I pray you, tell it. A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: And he did render him the most unnatural Oli. Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so: Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling Ros. Was it you he rescued > Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him? Oli. Twas 1; 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. Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? Oli. By, and by. When from the first to last, betwixt us two, Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd, As, how I came into that desert place ;In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, Who gave me fresh array, and entertainment. |