Cel. O!... it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.

Ros. Nay, but who is it?

Cel. Is it possible?

Ros. Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful, wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!

Ros. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? . . . I pr'ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak apace: I would thou couldst stammer, that thou might'st pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle either too much at once, or not at all. I pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings. What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard?

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros. 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. Cel. It is young Orlando; that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an instant.

Ros. Nay, no mocking; speak sad brow, and true maid.

Cel. I' faith, coz, 't is he.

Ros. Orlando?

Cel. Orlando.

Ros. 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.

Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 't is 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.

Ros. 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?

Cel. 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 a good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn.

Ros. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit. Cel. There lay he, stretch'd along, like a wounded knight. Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground. Cel. Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee: He was furnish'd like a hunter.

Ros. O ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

Cel. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bringest me out of tune.

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.

Enter Orlando and Jacques.

Cel. You bring me out:

Soft! comes he not here?

Ros. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him. (Celia and Rosalind retire.

Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief been myself alone.

Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your society.

Jaq. God be wi' you; let 's meet as little as we can.

Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers.

Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.

Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them illfavoredly.

Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name?

Orl. Yes, just.

Jaq. I do not like her name.

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christen'd. Jaq. What stature is she of?

Orl. Just as high as my heart.

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmith's wives, and conn'd them out of rings? Will you sit down with me; and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery?

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world, but myself; against whom I know most faults.

Jaq. The most fault you have is to be in love.

Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary

of you.

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool, when I found you.

Orl. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him. Jaq. There shall I see mine own figure.

Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior Love. Orl. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. Cel. and Ros. come forward.

(Exit Jacques.

Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him.· Do you hear, forester?

Orl. Very well; what would you?

Ros. I pray you, what is 't o'clock?

Orl. You should ask me, what time o' day; there's no clock in the forest.

Ros. 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.

Orl. And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?

Ros. By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with divers persons: I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, . who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. . Orl. Who ambles Time withal?

...

Ros. 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: these Time ambles withal. Orl. Who doth he gallop withal?

Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for though he go so softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Orl. Who stays it still withal?

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive how Time moves.

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth?

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

Ros. 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 heaven, I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offenses as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Ros. There were none principal; they were all like one another, as half-pence are: every one fault seeming monstrous, till his fellow fault came to match it.

Orl. I pr'ythee, recount some of them.

Ros. 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.

Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked; I pray you, tell me your remedy. Ros. 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 a prisoner.

which you have not.

- which you have not; a Then your hose should

Orl. What were his marks? Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, beard neglected, be ungartered, your bonnet 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.

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?

Ros. 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, . would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drove my suitor from his mad humor of love, to a living humor of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic: and thus I cured 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.

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 woo me.

Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will; tell me where it is.

Ros. 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?

Orl. With all my heart, good youth.
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind.

"As You Like It," Act III

XLIII. FORMS OF POETRY - THE EPIC

A SEA STORY

Silence. A while ago

Shrieks went up piercingly;

But now is the ship gone down;

Good ship, well manned, was she.

(EXEUNT.)

William Shakespeare

There's a raft that's a chance of life for one,
This day upon the sea.

A chance for one of two;

Young, strong, are he and he,

Just in the manhood prime,

The comelier, verily,

For the wrestle with wind and weather and wave,

In the life upon the sea.

One of them has a wife

And little children three;
Two that can toddle and lisp,
And a suckling on the knee:
Naked they'll go, and hunger sore,
If he be lost at sea.

One has a dream of home,

A dream that well may be:

He never breathed it yet;

She never has known it, she.
But some one will be sick at heart
If he be lost at sea.

"Wife and kids at home!

199

There is in every one another instinct just as simple and elemental as the dramatic. We not only have the power to see things as another sees them, to identify ourselves with a distinct character, entirely different from our own, but we have also the power to see things from the point of view of a typical mah.

In lyric poetry we are dominated and swayed by feeling, and there is a fundamental tendency to obey the feeling and be carried away toward song. The situation is simple. The character is taken for granted as entirely similar to ourselves. Individual peculiarities and different motives are lost in the depth of feeling and passion. In dramatic art we become conscious of the difference of individuals. We distinguish points of view, different motives. Thus we are enabled to "other ourselves," and see ourselves as others see us, and to realize the wide difference between men. In addition to these two, however, in contemplating an event or situation or human experience in some definite situation we are at times naturally and instinctively led