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The duke is humorous: what he is indeed,
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
Orl. I thank you, sir; and pray you tell me this;
Which of the two was daughter of the duke,
That here was at the wrestling?

Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge by

manners :

But yet indeed the smaller is his daughter: 280
The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,
And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,
To keep his daughter company; whose loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
But I can tell you that of late this duke
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,
Grounded upon no other argument

But that the people praise her for her virtues,
And pity her for her good father's sake;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady 290
Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well:
Hereafter, in a better world than this,

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
Orl. I rest much bounden to you: fare you
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother.
But heavenly Rosalind!

SCENE III-A Room in the Palace.



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Duke F.


Thus do all traitors:

If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself:
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter;
there's enough.

Ros. So was I when your highness took his

So was I when your highness banish'd him. 60

Cel. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have Treason is not inherited, my lord;


Not a word?

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Ros. The duke my father loved his father dearly. Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly! By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

Ro. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake. Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do. Look, here comes the duke. Cel. With his eyes full of anger.

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor:
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
To think my poverty is treacherous.

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake;
Else had she with her father rang'd along.


Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay:
It was your pleasure and your own remorse.
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her: if she be a traitor,
Why so am I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her

Her very silence and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name; so
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more

When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.
Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F. You are a fool. You, niece, provide

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.


Excunt Duke FREDERICK and Lords. Cel. O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than

I am.

Ros. I have more cause.


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Prithee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke | That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Hath banish'd me, his daughter?

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Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us :
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.


Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
The like do you: so shall we pass along
And never stir assailants.

Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtal-axe upon my thigh,

A boar-spear in my hand; and,-in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,-
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside, 120
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.

Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
I would not change it.
Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison!
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.

First Lord.


Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans
That their discharge did stretch his leathern


Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a Cours'd one another down his innocent nos man?

In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,

Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, own page,

And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my


No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we essay'd to steal
The clownish fool out of your father's court? 130
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Cel. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together,
Devise the fittest time and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content
To liberty and not to banishment.


SCENE I.-The Forest of Arden.


Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other Lords, like Foresters.


Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.
But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?

First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping into the needless stream;
'Poor deer,' quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much': then, being there


Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
''Tis right,' quoth he; thus misery doth part
The flux of company': anon, a careless herd
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him
And never stays to greet him; 'Ay,' quoth

Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there!'
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals and to kill them up

Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in In their assign'd and native dwelling-place. exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
"This is no flattery: these are counsellors


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Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation?

Second Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

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SCENE II.-A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke FREDERICK, Lords, and Attendants.
Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw

It cannot be some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.

First Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed; and in the morning early
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
Second Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at

whom so oft

Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses that she secretly o'erheard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.


A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can.

I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred


The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take that; and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
All this I give you. Let me be your servant :
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man

Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch that gal- In all your business and necessities.

lant hither;

If he be absent, bring his brother to me;
I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly,
And let not search and inquisition quail.
To bring again these foolish runaways. Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Before OLIVER's House.
Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.
Orl. Who's there?





Orl. O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion,
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.

Adam. What! my young master? O my gentle But come thy ways, we 'll go along together, master!

O my sweet master! O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bonny priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?


No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.

0, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!


Orl. Why, what's the matter?
O unhappy youth!
Come not within these doors; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives.
Your brother-no, no brother; yet the son-
Yet not the son, I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father--
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him and his practices.
This is no place; this house is but a butchery:
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have
me go?

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.


Orl. What! wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.

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Adum. Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore,
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well and not my master's debtor.

SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden. Enter ROSALIND in boy's clothes, CELIA dressed like a shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE.

Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits. Touch. I care not for my spirits if my legs were not weary.

Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: therefore, courage, good Aliena!

Cel. I pray you, bear with me: I cannot go no further.


Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you, for I think you have no money in your purse.

Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool
I: when I was at home, I was in a better place:
but travellers must be content.

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you,


who comes here; a young man and an old in | And little recks to find the way to heaven solemu talk. By doing deeds of hospitality. Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now, By reason of his absence, there is nothing That you will feed on; but what is, come see, And in my voice most welcome shall you be. Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?


That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, That little cares for buying any thing.

Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Cel. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,


Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still. Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

Cor. I partly guess, for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil. No, Corin; being old, thou canst not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow:
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
As sure I think did never man love so,
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O thou didst then ne'er love so heartily.
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd:


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Ros. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine


Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, 'Wear these for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Ros. Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of. Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.


Ros. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.

Touch. And mine; but it grows something
stale with me.

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

Holla, you clown!
Ros. Peace, fool: he's not thy kinsman.
Who calls?

Touch. Your betters, sir.
Else are they very wretched.
Ros. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.
Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. 70
Ros. prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
And faints for succour.

Fair sir, I pity her,
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her;
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze :
My master is of churlish disposition,


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Jaq. More, more! I prithee, more.

Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.


Jaq. I thank it. More! I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More! I prithee, more.

Ami. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.

Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanza. Call you 'em stanzas ?

Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?

Ami. More at your request than to please myself.

Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.


Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,

Ami. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you.

Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble; come.



Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool; a miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I 'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I: No, sir,' quoth he,
made yesterday in despite of my invention.
Ami. And I'll sing it.
Jaq. Thus it goes:

'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.'
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock:
Thus may we see,' quoth he, how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative,
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
Duke S. What fool is this?

Seeking the food he cats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he sce

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.


If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Learing his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please,
Duzdame, ducdame, ducdame:
Here shall he see
Gross foo's as he,


An if he will come to me. Ami. What's that ducdame? Jaq. "Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

Ami. And I'll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared. Exeunt severally.

SCENE VI. Another Part of the Forest.


Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: O! I die for food. Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.

Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield any thing savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable, hold death awhile at the arm's end, I will here be with thee presently, and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou lookest cheerly, and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear thee to some shelter, and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam. Exeunt.

SCENE VII.-Another Part of the Forest.
A table set out. Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS,
Lords, and others.

Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast,
For I can no where find him like a man.
First Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go, seek him tell him I would speak with him.
First Lord. He saves my labour by his own

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Jaq. O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
With observation, the which he vents
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd


In mangled forms. O! that I were a fool.
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke S. Thou shalt have one.
Provided that you weed your better judgments
It is my only suit;
Of all opinion that grows rank in them
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must
And they that are most galled with my folly, 50

Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the weary very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?

they so?

The 'why' is plain as way to parish church:
He that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thon
would'st do.


Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding

sin :

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all the embossed sores and headed evils,
That thou with license of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.


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