ACT IV


SCENE I. The forest.

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES
JAQUES
I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
ROSALIND
They say you are a melancholy fellow.
JAQUES
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
ROSALIND
Those that are in extremity of either are abominable
fellows and betray themselves to every modern
censure worse than drunkards.
JAQUES
Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.
ROSALIND
Why then, 'tis good to be a post.
JAQUES
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's
contemplation of my travels, in which my often
rumination wraps me m a most humorous sadness.
ROSALIND
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.
JAQUES
Yes, I have gained my experience.
ROSALIND
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!
Enter ORLANDO
ORLANDO
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
JAQUES
Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.
Exit
ROSALIND
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.
ORLANDO
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
ROSALIND
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.
ORLANDO
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
ROSALIND
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I
had as lief be wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO
Of a snail?
ROSALIND
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.
ORLANDO
What's that?
ROSALIND
Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be
beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in
his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.
ORLANDO
Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND
And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA
It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a
Rosalind of a better leer than you.
ROSALIND
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?
ORLANDO
I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND
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.
ORLANDO
How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or
I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO
What, of my suit?
ROSALIND
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit.
Am not I your Rosalind?
ORLANDO
I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND
Well in her person I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO
Then in mine own person I die.
ROSALIND
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,
videlicit, 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.
ORLANDO
I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind,
for, I protest, her frown might kill me.
ROSALIND
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.
ORLANDO
Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO
And wilt thou have me?
ROSALIND
Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO
What sayest thou?
ROSALIND
Are you not good?
ORLANDO
I hope so.
ROSALIND
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?
ORLANDO
Pray thee, marry us.
CELIA
I cannot say the words.
ROSALIND
You must begin, 'Will you, Orlando--'
CELIA
Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
ORLANDO
I will.
ROSALIND
Ay, but when?
ORLANDO
Why now; as fast as she can marry us.
ROSALIND
Then you must say 'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.'
ORLANDO
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
ROSALIND
I might ask you for your commission; but I do take
thee, Orlando, for my husband: there's a girl goes
before the priest; and certainly a woman's thought
runs before her actions.
ORLANDO
So do all thoughts; they are winged.
ROSALIND
Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.
ORLANDO
For ever and a day.
ROSALIND
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.
ORLANDO
But will my Rosalind do so?
ROSALIND
By my life, she will do as I do.
ORLANDO
O, but she is wise.
ROSALIND
Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the
wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman's
wit and it will out at the casement; shut that and
'twill out at the key-hole; stop that, 'twill fly
with the smoke out at the chimney.
ORLANDO
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say
'Wit, whither wilt?'
ROSALIND
Nay, you might keep that cheque for it till you met
your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.
ORLANDO
And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
ROSALIND
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!
ORLANDO
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
ROSALIND
Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
ORLANDO
I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o'clock I will be with thee again.
ROSALIND
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?
ORLANDO
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
ROSALIND
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.
ORLANDO
With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so adieu.
ROSALIND
Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such
offenders, and let Time try: adieu.
Exit ORLANDO
CELIA
You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate:
we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your
head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
ROSALIND
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.
CELIA
Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour
affection in, it runs out.
ROSALIND
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 come.
CELIA
And I'll sleep.
Exeunt

SCENE II. The forest.


Enter JAQUES, Lords, and Foresters
JAQUES
Which is he that killed the deer?
A Lord
Sir, it was I.
JAQUES
Let's present him to the duke, like a Roman
conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer's
horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have
you no song, forester, for this purpose?
Forester
Yes, sir.
JAQUES
Sing it: 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
SONG.
Forester
What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.
Then sing him home;
The rest shall bear this burden
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;
It was a crest ere thou wast born:
Thy father's father wore it,
And thy father bore it:
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
Exeunt

SCENE III. The forest.


Enter ROSALIND and CELIA
ROSALIND
How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? and
here much Orlando!
CELIA
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
SILVIUS
My errand is to you, fair youth;
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:
I know not the contents; but, as I guess
By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor: pardon me:
I am but as a guiltless messenger.
ROSALIND
Patience herself would startle at this letter
And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:
She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,
Were man as rare as phoenix. 'Od's my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:
Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.
SILVIUS
No, I protest, I know not the contents:
Phebe did write it.
ROSALIND
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.
SILVIUS
Sure, it is hers.
ROSALIND
Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style.
A style for-challengers; why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brain
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention
Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?
SILVIUS
So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.
ROSALIND
She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.
Reads
Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?
Can a woman rail thus?
SILVIUS
Call you this railing?
ROSALIND
[Reads]
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
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect!
Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How then might your prayers move!
He that brings this love to thee
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me and all that I can make;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I'll study how to die.
SILVIUS
Call you this chiding?
CELIA
Alas, poor shepherd!
ROSALIND
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
OLIVER
Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees?
CELIA
West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom:
The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream
Left on your right hand brings you to the place.
But at this hour the house doth keep itself;
There's none within.
OLIVER
If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description;
Such garments and such years: 'The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister: the woman low
And browner than her brother.' Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
CELIA
It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.
OLIVER
Orlando doth commend him to you both,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
ROSALIND
I am: what must we understand by this?
OLIVER
Some of my shame; if you will know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkercher was stain'd.
CELIA
I pray you, tell it.
OLIVER
When last the young Orlando parted from you
He left a promise to return again
Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside,
And mark what object did present itself:
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 wreathed 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 catlike watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
The royal disposition of that beast
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.
CELIA
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;
And he did render him the most unnatural
That lived amongst men.
OLIVER
And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.
ROSALIND
But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?
OLIVER
Twice did he turn his back and purposed 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
From miserable slumber I awaked.
CELIA
Are you his brother?
ROSALIND
Wast you he rescued?
CELIA
Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
OLIVER
'Twas I; 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.
ROSALIND
But, for the bloody napkin?
OLIVER
By and by.
When from the first to last betwixt us two
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed,
As how I came into that desert place:--
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love;
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted
And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound;
And, after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin
Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
ROSALIND swoons
CELIA
Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!
OLIVER
Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
CELIA
There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede!
OLIVER
Look, he recovers.
ROSALIND
I would I were at home.
CELIA
We'll lead you thither.
I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
OLIVER
Be of good cheer, youth: you a man! you lack a man's heart.
ROSALIND
I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would
think this was well counterfeited! I pray you, tell
your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho!
OLIVER
This was not counterfeit: there is too great
testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.
ROSALIND
Counterfeit, I assure you.
OLIVER
Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.
ROSALIND
So I do: but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right.
CELIA
Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw
homewards. Good sir, go with us.
OLIVER
That will I, for I must bear answer back
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
ROSALIND
I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend
my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?
Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. The forest.


Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY
TOUCHSTONE
We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.
AUDREY
Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old
gentleman's saying.
TOUCHSTONE
A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile
Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the
forest lays claim to you.
AUDREY
Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no interest in me in
the world: here comes the man you mean.
TOUCHSTONE
It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: by my
troth, we that have good wits have much to answer
for; we shall be flouting; we cannot hold.
Enter WILLIAM
WILLIAM
Good even, Audrey.
AUDREY
God ye good even, William.
WILLIAM
And good even to you, sir.
TOUCHSTONE
Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy
head; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend?
WILLIAM
Five and twenty, sir.
TOUCHSTONE
A ripe age. Is thy name William?
WILLIAM
William, sir.
TOUCHSTONE
A fair name. Wast born i' the forest here?
WILLIAM
Ay, sir, I thank God.
TOUCHSTONE
'Thank God;' a good answer. Art rich?
WILLIAM
Faith, sir, so so.
TOUCHSTONE
'So so' is good, very good, very excellent good; and
yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise?
WILLIAM
Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
TOUCHSTONE
Why, thou sayest well. I do now remember a saying,
'The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man
knows himself to be a fool.' The heathen
philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape,
would open his lips when he put it into his mouth;
meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and
lips to open. You do love this maid?
WILLIAM
I do, sir.
TOUCHSTONE
Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
WILLIAM
No, sir.
TOUCHSTONE
Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it
is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out
of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty
the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse
is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he.
WILLIAM
Which he, sir?
TOUCHSTONE
He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you
clown, abandon,--which is in the vulgar leave,--the
society,--which in the boorish is company,--of this
female,--which in the common is woman; which
together is, abandon the society of this female, or,
clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better
understanding, diest; or, to wit I kill thee, make
thee away, translate thy life into death, thy
liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with
thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy
with thee in faction; I will o'errun thee with
policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways:
therefore tremble and depart.
AUDREY
Do, good William.
WILLIAM
God rest you merry, sir.
Exit
Enter CORIN
CORIN
Our master and mistress seeks you; come, away, away!
TOUCHSTONE
Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.
Exeunt

SCENE II. The forest.


Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER
ORLANDO
Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you
should like her? that but seeing you should love
her? and loving woo? and, wooing, she should
grant? and will you persever to enjoy her?
OLIVER
Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the
poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden
wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me,
I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me;
consent with both that we may enjoy each other: it
shall be to your good; for my father's house and all
the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's will I
estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.
ORLANDO
You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow:
thither will I invite the duke and all's contented
followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for look
you, here comes my Rosalind.
Enter ROSALIND
ROSALIND
God save you, brother.
OLIVER
And you, fair sister.
Exit
ROSALIND
O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee
wear thy heart in a scarf!
ORLANDO
It is my arm.
ROSALIND
I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws
of a lion.
ORLANDO
Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
ROSALIND
Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to
swoon when he showed me your handkerchief?
ORLANDO
Ay, and greater wonders than that.
ROSALIND
O, I know where you are: nay, 'tis true: there was
never any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams
and Caesar's thrasonical brag of 'I came, saw, and
overcame:' for your brother and my sister no sooner
met but they looked, no sooner looked but they
loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner
sighed but they asked one another the reason, no
sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy;
and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs
to marriage which they will climb incontinent, or
else be incontinent before marriage: they are in
the very wrath of love and they will together; clubs
cannot part them.
ORLANDO
They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the
duke to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a thing it
is to look into happiness through another man's
eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at
the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall
think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.
ROSALIND
Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?
ORLANDO
I can live no longer by thinking.
ROSALIND
I will weary you then no longer with idle talking.
Know of me then, for now I speak to some purpose,
that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit: I
speak not this that you should bear a good opinion
of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are;
neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in
some little measure draw a belief from you, to do
yourself good and not to grace me. Believe then, if
you please, that I can do strange things: I have,
since I was three year old, conversed with a
magician, most profound in his art and yet not
damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart
as your gesture cries it out, when your brother
marries Aliena, shall you marry her: I know into
what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is
not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient
to you, to set her before your eyes tomorrow human
as she is and without any danger.
ORLANDO
Speakest thou in sober meanings?
ROSALIND
By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I
say I am a magician. Therefore, put you in your
best array: bid your friends; for if you will be
married to-morrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.
Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE
Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
PHEBE
Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,
To show the letter that I writ to you.
ROSALIND
I care not if I have: it is my study
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you:
You are there followed by a faithful shepherd;
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
PHEBE
Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.
SILVIUS
It is to be all made of sighs and tears;
And so am I for Phebe.
PHEBE
And I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO
And I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND
And I for no woman.
SILVIUS
It is to be all made of faith and service;
And so am I for Phebe.
PHEBE
And I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO
And I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND
And I for no woman.
SILVIUS
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion and all made of wishes,
All adoration, duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance;
And so am I for Phebe.
PHEBE
And so am I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO
And so am I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND
And so am I for no woman.
PHEBE
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
SILVIUS
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
ORLANDO
If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
ROSALIND
Who do you speak to, 'Why blame you me to love you?'
ORLANDO
To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.
ROSALIND
Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling
of Irish wolves against the moon.
To SILVIUS
I will help you, if I can:
To PHEBE
I would love you, if I could. To-morrow meet me all together.
To PHEBE
I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow:
To ORLANDO
I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you
shall be married to-morrow:
To SILVIUS
I will content you, if what pleases you contents
you, and you shall be married to-morrow.
To ORLANDO
As you love Rosalind, meet:
To SILVIUS
as you love Phebe, meet: and as I love no woman,
I'll meet. So fare you well: I have left you commands.
SILVIUS
I'll not fail, if I live.
PHEBE
Nor I.
ORLANDO
Nor I.
Exeunt

SCENE III. The forest.


Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY
TOUCHSTONE
To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be married.
AUDREY
I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is
no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the
world. Here comes two of the banished duke's pages.
Enter two Pages
First Page
Well met, honest gentleman.
TOUCHSTONE
By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and a song.
Second Page
We are for you: sit i' the middle.
First Page
Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking or
spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only
prologues to a bad voice?
Second Page
I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two
gipsies on a horse.
SONG.
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino
These pretty country folks would lie,
In spring time, & c.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In spring time, & c.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crowned with the prime
In spring time, & c.
TOUCHSTONE
Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great
matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.
First Page
You are deceived, sir: we kept time, we lost not our time.
TOUCHSTONE
By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear
such a foolish song. God be wi' you; and God mend
your voices! Come, Audrey.
Exeunt

SCENE IV. The forest.


Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA
DUKE SENIOR
Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised?
ORLANDO
I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;
As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE
ROSALIND
Patience once more, whiles our compact is urged:
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
DUKE SENIOR
That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
ROSALIND
And you say, you will have her, when I bring her?
ORLANDO
That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
ROSALIND
You say, you'll marry me, if I be willing?
PHEBE
That will I, should I die the hour after.
ROSALIND
But if you do refuse to marry me,
You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?
PHEBE
So is the bargain.
ROSALIND
You say, that you'll have Phebe, if she will?
SILVIUS
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
ROSALIND
I have promised to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter:
Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me,
Or else refusing me, to wed this shepherd:
Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her.
If she refuse me: and from hence I go,
To make these doubts all even.
Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA
DUKE SENIOR
I do remember in this shepherd boy
Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.
ORLANDO
My lord, the first time that I ever saw him
Methought he was a brother to your daughter:
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY
JAQUES
There is, sure, another flood toward, and these
couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of
very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.
TOUCHSTONE
Salutation and greeting to you all!
JAQUES
Good my lord, bid him welcome: this is the
motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in
the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears.
TOUCHSTONE
If any man doubt that, let him put me to my
purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered
a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth
with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have
had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.
JAQUES
And how was that ta'en up?
TOUCHSTONE
Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.
JAQUES
How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow.
DUKE SENIOR
I like him very well.
TOUCHSTONE
God 'ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I
press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country
copulatives, to swear and to forswear: according as
marriage binds and blood breaks: a poor virgin,
sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor
humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else
will: rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a
poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.
DUKE SENIOR
By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
TOUCHSTONE
According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.
JAQUES
But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the
quarrel on the seventh cause?
TOUCHSTONE
Upon a lie seven times removed:--bear your body more
seeming, Audrey:--as thus, sir. I did dislike the
cut of a certain courtier's beard: he sent me word,
if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the
mind it was: this is called the Retort Courteous.
If I sent him word again 'it was not well cut,' he
would send me word, he cut it to please himself:
this is called the Quip Modest. If again 'it was
not well cut,' he disabled my judgment: this is
called the Reply Churlish. If again 'it was not
well cut,' he would answer, I spake not true: this
is called the Reproof Valiant. If again 'it was not
well cut,' he would say I lied: this is called the
Counter-cheque Quarrelsome: and so to the Lie
Circumstantial and the Lie Direct.
JAQUES
And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?
TOUCHSTONE
I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial,
nor he durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we
measured swords and parted.
JAQUES
Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?
TOUCHSTONE
O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have
books for good manners: I will name you the degrees.
The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the
Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the
fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the
Countercheque Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with
Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All
these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may
avoid that too, with an If. I knew when seven
justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the
parties were met themselves, one of them thought but
of an If, as, 'If you said so, then I said so;' and
they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the
only peacemaker; much virtue in If.
JAQUES
Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he's as good at any thing and yet a fool.
DUKE SENIOR
He uses his folly like a stalking-horse and under
the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
Enter HYMEN, ROSALIND, and CELIA
Still Music
HYMEN
Then is there mirth in heaven,
When earthly things made even
Atone together.
Good duke, receive thy daughter
Hymen from heaven brought her,
Yea, brought her hither,
That thou mightst join her hand with his
Whose heart within his bosom is.
ROSALIND
[To DUKE SENIOR] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
To ORLANDO
To you I give myself, for I am yours.
DUKE SENIOR
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
ORLANDO
If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
PHEBE
If sight and shape be true,
Why then, my love adieu!
ROSALIND
I'll have no father, if you be not he:
I'll have no husband, if you be not he:
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.
HYMEN
Peace, ho! I bar confusion:
'Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events:
Here's eight that must take hands
To join in Hymen's bands,
If truth holds true contents.
You and you no cross shall part:
You and you are heart in heart
You to his love must accord,
Or have a woman to your lord:
You and you are sure together,
As the winter to foul weather.
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning;
That reason wonder may diminish,
How thus we met, and these things finish.
SONG.
Wedding is great Juno's crown:
O blessed bond of board and bed!
'Tis Hymen peoples every town;
High wedlock then be honoured:
Honour, high honour and renown,
To Hymen, god of every town!
DUKE SENIOR
O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me!
Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree.
PHEBE
I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
Enter JAQUES DE BOYS
JAQUES DE BOYS
Let me have audience for a word or two:
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot,
In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here and put him to the sword:
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;
Where meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise and from the world,
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,
And all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exiled. This to be true,
I do engage my life.
DUKE SENIOR
Welcome, young man;
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding:
To one his lands withheld, and to the other
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot:
And after, every of this happy number
That have endured shrewd days and nights with us
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity
And fall into our rustic revelry.
Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall.
JAQUES
Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,
The duke hath put on a religious life
And thrown into neglect the pompous court?
JAQUES DE BOYS
He hath.
JAQUES
To him will I : out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learn'd.
To DUKE SENIOR
You to your former honour I bequeath;
Your patience and your virtue well deserves it:
To ORLANDO
You to a love that your true faith doth merit:
To OLIVER
You to your land and love and great allies:
To SILVIUS
You to a long and well-deserved bed:
To TOUCHSTONE
And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage
Is but for two months victuall'd. So, to your pleasures:
I am for other than for dancing measures.
DUKE SENIOR
Stay, Jaques, stay.
JAQUES
To see no pastime I what you would have
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave.
Exit
DUKE SENIOR
Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,
As we do trust they'll end, in true delights.
A dance


EPILOGUE
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 good play! I am not
furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not
become me: my way is to conjure you; and I'll begin
with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love
you bear to men, to like as much of this play as
please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love
you bear to women--as I perceive by your simpering,
none of you hates them--that between you and the
women the play may please. If I were a woman I
would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased
me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I
defied not: and, I am sure, as many as have good
beards or good faces or sweet breaths will, for my
kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.
Exeunt



End of the Play