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As You Like It

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Act III. Scene II.

Scene II.—The Forest of Arden.

Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.

Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night,
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I'll charac-
That every eye, which in this forest looks,
Shall see thy virtue witness'd everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando: carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life,
Master Touchstone?
Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself,
it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shep-
herd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is
solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that
it is private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect
it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in
respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As
it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour
well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes
much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy
in thee, shepherd?
Cor. No more but that 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 com-
plain of good breeding, or conies of a very dull
Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher.
Wast ever in court, shepherd?
Cor. No, truly.
Touch. Then thou art damned.
Cor. Nay, I hope.
Touch. Truly, thou art damned like an ill-
roasted egg, all on one side.
Cor. For not being at court? Your reason.
Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou
never sawest good manners; if thou never sawest
good manners, then thy manners must be wick-
ed; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation.
Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.
Cor. Not a whit. Touchstone: those that are
good manners at the court, are as ridiculous in
the country as the behaviour of the country is
most mockable at the court. You told me you
salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands:
that courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers
were shepherds.
Touch. Instance, briefly; come, instance.
Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes, and
their fells, you know, are greasy.
Touch. Why, do not your courtier's hands
sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as
wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow,
shallow. A better instance, I say; come.
Cor. Besides, our hands are hard.
Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner:
shallow again. A more sounder instance; come.
Cor. And they are often tarred over with the
surgery of our sheep; and would you have us
kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfumed
with civet.
Touch. Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat,
in respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed! Learn
of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser
birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat.
Mend the instance, shepherd.
Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll
Touch. Wilt thou rest damned? God help
thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee!
thou art raw.
Cor. 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, con-
tent with my harm; and the greatest of my pride
is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.
Touch. That is another simple sin in you, to
bring the ewes and the rams together, and to
offer to get your living by the copulation of
cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to be-
tray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-
pated, old, cuckoldy ram, out of all reasonable
match. If thou be'st not damned for this, the
devil himself will have no shepherds: I cannot
see else how thou shouldst 'scape.
Cor. Here comes young Master Ganymede,
my new mistress's brother.

Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper.
Ros. From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures fairest lin'd
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind.
Touch. I'll rime you so, eight years together,
dinners and suppers and sleeping hours ex-
cepted: it is the right butter-woman's rank to
Ros. Out, fool!
Touch. For a taste:—
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind.
So be sure will Rosalind.
Winter-garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find
Must find love's prick and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses: why do
you infect yourself with them?
Ros. Peace! you dull fool: I found them on
a tree.
Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Ros. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall
graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest
fruit i' the country; for you'll be rotten ere you
be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the
medlar. 129
Touch. You have said; but whether wisely or
no, let the forest judge.

Enter CELIA, reading a paper.
Ros. Peace!
Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.
Cel. Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Buns his erring pilgrimage,
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
Some, of violated vows
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend:
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence' end,
Will I Rosalinda write;
Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore Heaven Nature charg'd
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra's majesty,
Atalanta's better part,
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd,
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.
Ros. O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious
homily of love have you wearied your parishion-
ers withal, and never cried, 'Have patience, good
Cel. How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go
off a little: go with him, sirrah.
Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an ho-
nourable retreat; though not with bag and bag-
gage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
Cel. Didst thou hear these verses?
Ros. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too;
for some of them had in them more feet than
the verses would bear.
Cel. That's no matter: the feet might bear
the verses.
Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could
not bear themselves without the verse, and
therefore stood lamely in the verse. 181
Cel. But didst thou hear without wondering,
how thy name should be hanged and carved
upon these trees?
Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the
wonder before you came; for look here what I
found on a palm-tree: I was never so be-rimed
since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat,
which I can hardly remember.
Cel. Trow you who hath done this?
Ros. Is it a man?
Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about
his neck. Change you colour?
Ros. I prithee, who?
Cel. O Lord, Lord! 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 prithee now, with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is.
Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most won-
derful 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? One inch
of delay more is a South-sea of discovery; I
prithee, tell me who is it quickly, and speak
apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou
mightst pour this concealed man out of thy
mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd
bottle; either too much at once, or none at all.
I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that
I may drink thy tidings.
Cel. So you may put a man in your belly.
Ros. Is he of God's making? 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
Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up the
wrestler's heels and your heart both, in an instant.
Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak,
sad brow and true maid.
Cel. I' faith, coz, 'tis he.
Ros. Orlando?
Cel. Orlando.
Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with my
doublet and hose? What did he when thou
sawest him? What said he? How looked he?
Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did
he ask for me? Where remains he? How part-
ed he with thee, and when shalt thou see him
again? Answer me in one word.
Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth
first: 'tis 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 good
observance. I found him under a tree, like a
dropped acorn.
Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, when
it drops forth such fruit.
Cel. Give me audience, good madam.
Ros. Proceed.
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 prithee; it
curvets unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a
Ros. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
Cel. I would sing my song without a burthen:
thou bringest me out of tune.
Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when
I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
Cel. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not
Ros. 'Tis he: slink by, and note him.

Jaq. I thank you for your company; but,
good faith, I had as lief have 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 ill-favouredly.
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 christened.
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 goldsmiths' wives,
and conn'd them out of rings?
Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted
cloth, from whence you have studied your ques-
Jaq. You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas
made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down
with me? and we two will rail against our mis-
tress 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 worst fault you have is to be in
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 drowned in the brook: look but in,
and you shall see him.
Jaqo. There I shall see mine own figure.
Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a
Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you. Farewell,
good Signior Love.
Orl. I am glad of your departure. Adieu,
good Monsieur Melancholy. [Exit JAQUES.
Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,
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 trots withal,
who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still
Orl. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid
between the contract of her marriage and the
day it is solemnized; if the interim be but a
se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems
the length of seven year.
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;
the one lacking the burden of lean and waste-
ful learning, the other knowing no burden
of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles
Orl. Who doth he gallop withal?
Ros. With a thief to the gallows; for though
he go as 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 per-
ceive not 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
Orl. Are you native of this place?
Ros. As the cony, that you see dwell where
she is kindled.
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 God, I am not
a woman, to be touched with so many giddy
offences 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 prithee, 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
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, 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 bonnet
unhanded, 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 accoutre-
ments; 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 unfor-
tunate he.
Ros. But are you so much in love as your
rimes speak?
Orl. Neither rime 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 effemi-
nate, changeable, longing and liking; proud,
fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of
tears, full of smiles, for every passion something,
and for no passion truly anything, as boys and.
women are, for the most part, cattle of this
colour; would now like him, now loathe him;
then entertain him, then forswear him; now
weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my
suitor from his mad humour of love to a living
humour 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 snow it you;
and by the way you shall tell roe where in the
forest you live. Will you go?
Orl. With all my heart, good youth.
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come,
sister, will you go? [Exeunt.
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