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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 eye-lids wiped a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.

The Seven Ages of Man.

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 school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school; and then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eye-brow. 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 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 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 everything.

Ingratitude. A 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 remember'd not.

Heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! etc.


A Shepherd's Philosophy.

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.

Character of an Honest and Simple Shepherd.

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.

Humorous Description of a Lover.


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 net 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.

Real Passion Dissembled.

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

*The want of good breeding.

† Content with my own misfortunes.

Over careful.

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not 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 differ


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 remember'd, scorn'd at me:
I marvel why I answer'd not again:
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.


Jaques' Description of Melancholy.

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 politic; nor the lady's, which is nice ;* nor the lover's, which is all these.

Marriage alters the Temper.

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 * Assumed, feigned.

of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot 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.

Oliver's Exposure to Danger whilst Sleeping. Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age, And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back; about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush: under which bush's shade

A lioness with udders all drawn dry,

Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch, When that sleeping man should stir: for 'tis

The royal disposition of that beast


prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.


Humorous Epilogue spoken by Rosalind.

It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue: but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that "good wine needs no bush," 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue: Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a

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