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-favoured ; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar. Jaq. [Aside.] A material fool. 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.1 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. Jaq. [Aside.] I would fain see this meeting. Touch. Amen. A man might, 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: 't is none of his own getting. Are horns given to poor men alone ?2-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 a horn more precious than to want. Enter Sir OLIVER MAR-TEXT. Here comes sir Oliver.-Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met: will you dispatch 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. [coming forward.] Proceed, proceed: I'll give her. Touch. Good even, good Mr. What-ye-call 't: how do you, sir? You are very well met: God'ild 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,5 sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon 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. Touch. 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. Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. Touch. Come, sweet Audrey : O sweet Oliver! O brave Oliver! But wend away, begone, I say, I will not to wedding bind' thee. [Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY. Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter: ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit. SCENE IV.—The Same. Before a Cottage. Enter ROSALIND and CELIA. Ros. Never talk to me: I will weep. Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to consider, that tears do not become a man. Ros. But have I not cause to weep? Cel. As good cause as one would desire: therefore weep. Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. Cel. Something browner than Judas's. Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children. Ros. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour. Cel. An excellent colour: your chestnut 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: a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not? 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 covered 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 laughed, 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? Enter CORIN. Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquir'd 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. Cel. Well; and what of him? Cor. 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. 1 Homely. 2 in f. e. : Horns? Even so :-Poor men alone? 3 Lean, poor deer. f. e. 7 with in f. e. 8 Empty. 4 Yield you. Yoke, shaped like a bow. 6 wind in Ros. [Exeunt. SCENE V.-Another Part of the Forest. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE. Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe : For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Whose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard, her with bitter words.-Why look you so upon me? Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind. I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee; Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, Sil. O! dear Phebe, If ever, (as that ever may be near) You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, But till that time Phe. As till that time I shall not pity thee. Phe. For no ill will I bear you. Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine: Will you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard.- [Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Phe. Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly? Phe. Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd. Ros. [Advancing.] And why, I pray you? Who That I shall think it a most plenteous crop That you insult, exult, and all at once, To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty, A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon. As, by my faith, I see no more in you Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him. A little riper, and more lusty red Than that mix'd in his cheek: 't was just the difference 1 dies in f. e. 2 capable in f. e. 3 An allusion to Marlowe and his Hero and Leander, where the quotation is to be found. In parcels, as I did, would have gone near I have more cause to hate him than to love him; He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. 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. SCENE I-The Forest of Arden. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and Jaques. Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be acquainted with thee. ACT IV. better 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, 't is good to be sad and say nothing. Ros. Why then, 't is 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 politic; 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; which by often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. 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. Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 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! verse. Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind. Jaq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank [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 clapped him o' the shoulder, but I'll 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 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 leer2 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 thank my honesty rather than my wit.3 Orl. What, out of my suit? 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 coroners 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, 1 "in which my" is the reading of the 2d folio; adopted by Knight. 2 Feature. 3 think my honesty ranker than my wit: in f. e. ✩ chroniclers in f. e. Hanmer also suggested the change. now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on-dis- | me :- t is but one cast away, and so,-come, death !— position, and ask me what you will, I will grant it. Two o'clock is your hour? Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. [all. Ros. Yes, faith will I; Fridays, and Saturdays, and 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. 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.-What do you say, sister? 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 you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross 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 you3. Adieu! [Exit ORLANDO. Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your loveprate. We must have your doublet and hose 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 cannot 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 Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge 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 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; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep. Orl. But will my Rosalind do so? Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder. Make1 the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and 't will out at the key-hole; stop that, 't will fly with the smoke out at the chimney. Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,-"Wit, whither wilt ?" Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till 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 accusing,2 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 love, I cannot lack thee two hours. Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o'clock I will be with thee again. 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 come. Cel. And I'll sleep. [Exeunt. 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 gone1 forth--- Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth. Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways.-I knew what you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this: thought no less-that flattering tongue of yours won [Giving a letter.5 Ros. reads it. 1 Make fast. 2 occasion: in f. e. 3 Not in f. e. + is gone in f. e. 5 The rest of this stage direction not in f. e. 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: Phebe did write it. Ros. Why, 't is a boisterous and a cruel style, Than in their countenance.-Will you hear the letter? Ros. She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes. "Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd ?". Can a woman rail thus ? Sil. Call you this railing? Ros. "Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart ?" Did you ever hear such railing ?— "Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me."Meaning me, a beast.— "If the scorn of your bright eyne Or else by him my love deny, And then I'll study how to die." Sil. Call you this chiding? Cel. Alas, poor shepherd! 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 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 know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive-trees? Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom: The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream, Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 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? Ros. 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. A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. This seen, Orlando did approach the man, And found it was his brother, his elder brother. Cel. O! I have heard him speak of that same brother: And he did render him the most unnatural That liv'd 'mongst men. Oli. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural. Ros. But, to Orlando.-Did he leave him there, Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness? Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling By and by. |