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Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull,
In his youth
He had the wit, which I can well observe
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled; such a man
The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
Helena's Hopeless Love for Bertram.
Then, I confess,
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
* Hand of a clock; the word clock in a previous line being used metaphorically.
I love your son :—
My friends were poor, but honest; so's my
Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him;
The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,
Honour due to Personal Virtue, not to Birth.
From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
Is good, without a name; vileness is so :‡
Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;
In these to nature she's immediate heir;
And these breed honour; that is honour's scorn,
And is not like the sire: Honours best thrive,
*Captious and intenible sieve-able to receive, but not to
Good is good in itself, and so is vileness vile, without reference to worldly considerations.
When rather from our acts we them derive
Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Self-accusation of too great Love.
Poor lord! is 't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Of the non-sparing war? and is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Fly with false aim; move the still-piercing air,
I met the ravin* lion when he roar'd
With sharp constraint of hunger: better 't were
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once: No, come thou home, Roussillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all; I will be gone:
My being here it is that holds thee hence:
The air of paradise did fan the house,
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
A Cowardly Braggart.
Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great,
Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,
That every braggart shall be found an ass.
Praise of a Lost Object.
Praising what is lost,
Makes the remembrance dear.
Let's take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
The inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals ere we can effect them.
Excuse for Unreasonable Dislike.
I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
To a most hideous object: thence it came,
AS YOU LIKE IT.
The play commences with a quarrel between the brothers Oliver and Orlando, sons of the deceased Sir Rowland de Bois, after which Orlando engages in a bout of wrestling with Charles, a noted wrestler, whom he overthrows. Rosalind and Celia, who are cousins, and inseparable friends, witness the combat, and the former falls in love with Orlando. The reigning Duke Frederick, father of Celia, has usurped the government and banished his brother, the rightful duke and father of Rosalind, from his dominions. The exiled duke retires with Jaques, a cynical lord, and other courtiers, to the forest of Arden, where he is followed by Rosalind and Celia, who are accompanied by Touchstone, a clownish servitor. Orlando, attended by Adam, an old and faithful servant,