{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/ayl.htm","path":"sks/ff/ayl.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/ayl.htm","text":"Actus primus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Orlando and Adam.\nOrlando. As I remember Adam, it was vpon this fashion\nbequeathed me by will, but poore a thousand\nCrownes, and as thou saist, charged my brother\non his blessing to breed mee well: and\nthere begins my sadnesse: My brother Iaques he keepes\nat schoole, and report speakes goldenly of his profit:\nfor my part, he keepes me rustically at home, or (to speak\nmore properly) staies me heere at home vnkept: for call\nyou that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs\nnot from the stalling of an Oxe? his horses are bred\nbetter, for besides that they are faire with their feeding,\nthey are taught their mannage, and to that end Riders\ndeerely hir'd: but I (his brother) gaine nothing vnder\nhim but growth, for the which his Animals on his\ndunghils are as much bound to him as I: besides this nothing\nthat he so plentifully giues me, the something that\nnature gaue mee, his countenance seemes to take from\nme: hee lets mee feede with his Hindes, barres mee the\nplace of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my\ngentility with my education. This is it Adam that\ngrieues me, and the spirit of my Father, which I thinke\nis within mee, begins to mutinie against this seruitude.\nI will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise\nremedy how to auoid it.\nEnter Oliuer.\nAdam. Yonder comes my Master, your brother\nOrlan. Goe a-part Adam, and thou shalt heare how\nhe will shake me vp\nOli. Now Sir, what make you heere?\nOrl. Nothing: I am not taught to make any thing\nOli. What mar you then sir?\nOrl. Marry sir, I am helping you to mar that which\nGod made, a poore vnworthy brother of yours with\nidlenesse\nOliuer. Marry sir be better employed, and be naught\na while\nOrlan. Shall I keepe your hogs, and eat huskes with\nthem? what prodigall portion haue I spent, that I should\ncome to such penury?\nOli. Know you where you are sir?\nOrl. O sir, very well: heere in your Orchard\nOli. Know you before whom sir?\nOrl. I, better then him I am before knowes mee: I\nknow you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle condition\nof bloud you should so know me: the courtesie of\nnations allowes you my better, in that you are the first\nborne, but the same tradition takes not away my bloud,\nwere there twenty brothers betwixt vs: I haue as much\nof my father in mee, as you, albeit I confesse your comming\nbefore me is neerer to his reuerence\nOli. What Boy\nOrl. Come, come elder brother, you are too yong in this\nOli. Wilt thou lay hands on me villaine?\nOrl. I am no villaine: I am the yongest sonne of Sir\nRowland de Boys, he was my father, and he is thrice a villaine\nthat saies such a father begot villaines: wert thou\nnot my brother, I would not take this hand from thy\nthroat, till this other had puld out thy tongue for saying\nso, thou hast raild on thy selfe\nAdam. Sweet Masters bee patient, for your Fathers\nremembrance, be at accord\nOli. Let me goe I say\nOrl. I will not till I please: you shall heare mee: my\nfather charg'd you in his will to giue me good education:\nyou haue train'd me like a pezant, obscuring and\nhiding from me all gentleman-like qualities: the spirit\nof my father growes strong in mee, and I will no longer\nendure it: therefore allow me such exercises as may become\na gentleman, or giue mee the poore allottery my\nfather left me by testament, with that I will goe buy my\nfortunes\nOli. And what wilt thou do? beg when that is spent?\nWell sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with\nyou: you shall haue some part of your will, I pray you\nleaue me\nOrl. I will no further offend you, then becomes mee\nfor my good\nOli. Get you with him, you olde dogge\nAdam. Is old dogge my reward: most true, I haue\nlost my teeth in your seruice: God be with my olde master,\nhe would not haue spoke such a word.\nEx. Orl. Ad.\nOli. Is it euen so, begin you to grow vpon me? I will\nphysicke your ranckenesse, and yet giue no thousand\ncrownes neyther: holla Dennis.\nEnter Dennis.\nDen. Calls your worship?\nOli. Was not Charles the Dukes Wrastler heere to\nspeake with me?\nDen. So please you, he is heere at the doore, and importunes\naccesse to you\nOli. Call him in: 'twill be a good way: and to morrow\nthe wrastling is.\nEnter Charles.\nCha. Good morrow to your worship\nOli. Good Mounsier Charles: what's the new newes\nat the new Court?\nCharles. There's no newes at the Court Sir, but the\nolde newes: that is, the old Duke is banished by his yonger\nbrother the new Duke, and three or foure louing\nLords haue put themselues into voluntary exile with\nhim, whose lands and reuenues enrich the new Duke,\ntherefore he giues them good leaue to wander\nOli. Can you tell if Rosalind the Dukes daughter bee\nbanished with her Father?\nCha. O no; for the Dukes daughter her Cosen so\nloues her, being euer from their Cradles bred together,\nthat hee would haue followed her exile, or haue died to\nstay behind her; she is at the Court, and no lesse beloued\nof her Vncle, then his owne daughter, and neuer two Ladies\nloued as they doe\nOli. Where will the old Duke liue?\nCha. They say hee is already in the Forrest of Arden,\nand a many merry men with him; and there they liue\nlike the old Robin Hood of England: they say many yong\nGentlemen flocke to him euery day, and fleet the time\ncarelesly as they did in the golden world\nOli. What, you wrastle to morrow before the new\nDuke\nCha. Marry doe I sir: and I came to acquaint you\nwith a matter: I am giuen sir secretly to vnderstand, that\nyour yonger brother Orlando hath a disposition to come\nin disguis'd against mee to try a fall: to morrow sir I\nwrastle for my credit, and hee that escapes me without\nsome broken limbe, shall acquit him well: your brother\nis but young and tender, and for your loue I would bee\nloth to foyle him, as I must for my owne honour if hee\ncome in: therefore out of my loue to you, I came hither\nto acquaint you withall, that either you might stay him\nfrom his intendment, or brooke such disgrace well as he\nshall runne into, in that it is a thing of his owne search,\nand altogether against my will\nOli. Charles , I thanke thee for thy loue to me, which\nthou shalt finde I will most kindly requite: I had my\nselfe notice of my Brothers purpose heerein, and haue by\nvnder-hand meanes laboured to disswade him from it;\nbut he is resolute. Ile tell thee Charles, it is the stubbornest\nyong fellow of France, full of ambition, an enuious\nemulator of euery mans good parts, a secret & villanous\ncontriuer against mee his naturall brother: therefore vse\nthy discretion, I had as liefe thou didst breake his necke\nas his finger. And thou wert best looke to't; for if thou\ndost him any slight disgrace, or if hee doe not mightilie\ngrace himselfe on thee, hee will practise against thee by\npoyson, entrap thee by some treacherous deuise, and neuer\nleaue thee till he hath tane thy life by some indirect\nmeanes or other: for I assure thee, (and almost with\nteares I speake it) there is not one so young, and so villanous\nthis day liuing. I speake but brotherly of him,\nbut should I anathomize him to thee, as hee is, I must\nblush, and weepe, and thou must looke pale and\nwonder\nCha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you: if hee\ncome to morrow, Ile giue him his payment: if euer hee\ngoe alone againe, Ile neuer wrastle for prize more: and\nso God keepe your worship.\nEnter.\nFarewell good Charles. Now will I stirre this Gamester:\nI hope I shall see an end of him; for my soule (yet\nI know not why) hates nothing more then he: yet hee's\ngentle, neuer school'd, and yet learned, full of noble\ndeuise, of all sorts enchantingly beloued, and indeed\nso much in the heart of the world, and especially of my\nowne people, who best know him, that I am altogether\nmisprised: but it shall not be so long, this wrastler shall\ncleare all: nothing remaines, but that I kindle the boy\nthither, which now Ile goe about.\nEnter.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Rosalind, and Cellia.\nCel. I pray thee Rosalind, sweet my Coz, be merry\nRos. Deere Cellia; I show more mirth then I am mistresse\nof, and would you yet were merrier: vnlesse you\ncould teach me to forget a banished father, you must not\nlearne mee how to remember any extraordinary pleasure\nCel. Heerein I see thou lou'st mee not with the full\nwaight that I loue thee; if my Vncle thy banished father\nhad banished thy Vncle the Duke my Father, so thou\nhadst beene still with mee, I could haue taught my loue\nto take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the truth\nof thy loue to me were so righteously temper'd, as mine\nis to thee\nRos. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate,\nto reioyce in yours\nCel. You know my Father hath no childe, but I, nor\nnone is like to haue; and truely when he dies, thou shalt\nbe his heire; for what hee hath taken away from thy father\nperforce, I will render thee againe in affection: by\nmine honor I will, and when I breake that oath, let mee\nturne monster: therefore my sweet Rose, my deare Rose,\nbe merry\nRos. From henceforth I will Coz, and deuise sports:\nlet me see, what thinke you of falling in Loue?\nCel. Marry I prethee doe, to make sport withall: but\nloue no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neyther,\nthen with safety of a pure blush, thou maist in honor\ncome off againe\nRos. What shall be our sport then?\nCel. Let vs sit and mocke the good houswife Fortune\nfrom her wheele, that her gifts may henceforth bee\nbestowed equally\nRos. I would wee could doe so: for her benefits are\nmightily misplaced, and the bountifull blinde woman\ndoth most mistake in her gifts to women\nCel. 'Tis true, for those that she makes faire, she scarce\nmakes honest, & those that she makes honest, she makes\nvery illfauouredly\nRos. Nay now thou goest from Fortunes office to Natures:\nFortune reignes in gifts of the world, not in the\nlineaments of Nature.\nEnter Clowne.\nCel. No; when Nature hath made a faire creature,\nmay she not by Fortune fall into the fire? though nature\nhath giuen vs wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune\nsent in this foole to cut off the argument?\nRos. Indeed there is fortune too hard for nature, when\nfortune makes natures naturall, the cutter off of natures\nwitte\nCel. Peraduenture this is not Fortunes work neither,\nbut Natures, who perceiueth our naturall wits too dull\nto reason of such goddesses, hath sent this Naturall for\nour whetstone: for alwaies the dulnesse of the foole, is\nthe whetstone of the wits. How now Witte, whether\nwander you?\nClow. Mistresse, you must come away to your father\nCel. Were you made the messenger?\nClo. No by mine honor, but I was bid to come for you\nRos. Where learned you that oath foole?\nClo. Of a certaine Knight, that swore by his Honour\nthey were good Pan-cakes, and swore by his Honor the\nMustard was naught: Now Ile stand to it, the Pancakes\nwere naught, and the Mustard was good, and yet was\nnot the Knight forsworne\nCel. How proue you that in the great heape of your\nknowledge?\nRos. I marry, now vnmuzzle your wisedome\nClo. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chinnes,\nand sweare by your beards that I am a knaue\nCel. By our beards (if we had them) thou art\nClo. By my knauerie (if I had it) then I were: but if\nyou sweare by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no\nmore was this knight swearing by his Honor, for he neuer\nhad anie; or if he had, he had sworne it away, before\neuer he saw those Pancakes, or that Mustard\nCel. Prethee, who is't that thou means't?\nClo. One that old Fredericke your Father loues\nRos. My Fathers loue is enough to honor him enough;\nspeake no more of him, you'l be whipt for taxation one\nof these daies\nClo. The more pittie that fooles may not speak wisely,\nwhat Wisemen do foolishly\nCel. By my troth thou saiest true: For, since the little\nwit that fooles haue was silenced, the little foolerie that\nwise men haue makes a great shew; Heere comes Monsieur\nthe Beu.\nEnter le Beau.\nRos. With his mouth full of newes\nCel. Which he will put on vs, as Pigeons feed their\nyoung\nRos. Then shal we be newes-cram'd\nCel. All the better: we shalbe the more Marketable.\nBoon-iour Monsieur le Beu, what's the newes?\nLe Beu. Faire Princesse,\nyou haue lost much good sport\nCel. Sport: of what colour?\nLe Beu. What colour Madame? How shall I aunswer\nyou?\nRos. As wit and fortune will\nClo. Or as the destinies decrees\nCel. Well said, that was laid on with a trowell\nClo. Nay, if I keepe not my ranke\nRos. Thou loosest thy old smell\nLe Beu. You amaze me Ladies: I would haue told\nyou of good wrastling, which you haue lost the sight of\nRos. Yet tell vs the manner of the Wrastling\nLe Beu. I wil tell you the beginning: and if it please\nyour Ladiships, you may see the end, for the best is yet\nto doe, and heere where you are, they are comming to\nperforme it\nCel. Well, the beginning that is dead and buried\nLe Beu. There comes an old man, and his three sons\nCel. I could match this beginning with an old tale\nLe Beu. Three proper yong men, of excellent growth\nand presence\nRos. With bils on their neckes: Be it knowne vnto\nall men by these presents\nLe Beu. The eldest of the three, wrastled with Charles\nthe Dukes Wrastler, which Charles in a moment threw\nhim, and broke three of his ribbes, that there is little\nhope of life in him: So he seru'd the second, and so the\nthird: yonder they lie, the poore old man their Father,\nmaking such pittiful dole ouer them, that all the beholders\ntake his part with weeping\nRos. Alas\nClo. But what is the sport Monsieur, that the Ladies\nhaue lost?\nLe Beu. Why this that I speake of\nClo. Thus men may grow wiser euery day. It is the\nfirst time that euer I heard breaking of ribbes was sport\nfor Ladies\nCel. Or I, I promise thee\nRos. But is there any else longs to see this broken\nMusicke in his sides? Is there yet another doates vpon\nrib-breaking? Shall we see this wrastling Cosin?\nLe Beu. You must if you stay heere, for heere is the\nplace appointed for the wrastling, and they are ready to\nperforme it\nCel. Yonder sure they are comming. Let vs now stay\nand see it.\nFlourish. Enter Duke, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and Attendants.\nDuke. Come on, since the youth will not be intreated\nHis owne perill on his forwardnesse\nRos. Is yonder the man?\nLe Beu. Euen he, Madam\nCel. Alas, he is too yong: yet he looks successefully\nDu. How now daughter, and Cousin:\nAre you crept hither to see the wrastling?\nRos. I my Liege, so please you giue vs leaue\nDu. You wil take little delight in it, I can tell you\nthere is such oddes in the man: In pitie of the challengers\nyouth, I would faine disswade him, but he will not\nbee entreated. Speake to him Ladies, see if you can\nmooue him\nCel. Call him hether good Monsieuer Le Beu\nDuke. Do so: Ile not be by\nLe Beu. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princesse cals\nfor you\nOrl. I attend them with all respect and dutie\nRos. Young man, haue you challeng'd Charles the\nWrastler?\nOrl. No faire Princesse: he is the generall challenger,\nI come but in as others do, to try with him the strength\nof my youth\nCel. Yong Gentleman, your spirits are too bold for\nyour yeares: you haue seene cruell proofe of this mans\nstrength, if you saw your selfe with your eies, or knew\nyour selfe with your iudgment, the feare of your aduenture\nwould counsel you to a more equall enterprise. We\npray you for your owne sake to embrace your own safetie,\nand giue ouer this attempt\nRos. Do yong Sir, your reputation shall not therefore\nbe misprised: we wil make it our suite to the Duke, that\nthe wrastling might not go forward\nOrl. I beseech you, punish mee not with your harde\nthoughts, wherein I confesse me much guiltie to denie\nso faire and excellent Ladies anie thing. But let your\nfaire eies, and gentle wishes go with mee to my triall;\nwherein if I bee foil'd, there is but one sham'd that was\nneuer gracious: if kil'd, but one dead that is willing to\nbe so: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I haue none to\nlament me: the world no iniurie, for in it I haue nothing:\nonely in the world I fil vp a place, which may bee better\nsupplied, when I haue made it emptie\nRos. The little strength that I haue, I would it were\nwith you\nCel. And mine to eeke out hers\nRos. Fare you well: praie heauen I be deceiu'd in you\nCel. Your hearts desires be with you\nChar. Come, where is this yong gallant, that is so\ndesirous to lie with his mother earth?\nOrl. Readie Sir, but his will hath in it a more modest\nworking\nDuk. You shall trie but one fall\nCha. No, I warrant your Grace you shall not entreat\nhim to a second, that haue so mightilie perswaded him\nfrom a first\nOrl. You meane to mocke me after: you should not\nhaue mockt me before: but come your waies\nRos. Now Hercules, be thy speede yong man\nCel. I would I were inuisible, to catch the strong fellow\nby the legge.\nWrastle.\nRos. Oh excellent yong man\nCel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eie, I can tell who\nshould downe.\nShout.\nDuk. No more, no more\nOrl. Yes I beseech your Grace, I am not yet well\nbreath'd\nDuk. How do'st thou Charles?\nLe Beu. He cannot speake my Lord\nDuk. Beare him awaie:\nWhat is thy name yong man?\nOrl. Orlando my Liege, the yongest sonne of Sir Roland\nde Boys\nDuk. I would thou hadst beene son to some man else,\nThe world esteem'd thy father honourable,\nBut I did finde him still mine enemie:\nThou should'st haue better pleas'd me with this deede,\nHadst thou descended from another house:\nBut fare thee well, thou art a gallant youth,\nI would thou had'st told me of another Father.\nExit Duke.\nCel. Were I my Father (Coze) would I do this?\nOrl. I am more proud to be Sir Rolands sonne,\nHis yongest sonne, and would not change that calling\nTo be adopted heire to Fredricke\nRos. My Father lou'd Sir Roland as his soule,\nAnd all the world was of my Fathers minde,\nHad I before knowne this yong man his sonne,\nI should haue giuen him teares vnto entreaties,\nEre he should thus haue ventur'd\nCel. Gentle Cosen,\nLet vs goe thanke him, and encourage him:\nMy Fathers rough and enuious disposition\nSticks me at heart: Sir, you haue well deseru'd,\nIf you doe keepe your promises in loue;\nBut iustly as you haue exceeded all promise,\nYour Mistris shall be happie\nRos. Gentleman,\nWeare this for me: one out of suites with fortune\nThat could giue more, but that her hand lacks meanes.\nShall we goe Coze?\nCel. I: fare you well faire Gentleman\nOrl. Can I not say, I thanke you? My better parts\nAre all throwne downe, and that which here stands vp\nIs but a quintine, a meere liuelesse blocke\nRos. He cals vs back: my pride fell with my fortunes,\nIle aske him what he would: Did you call Sir?\nSir, you haue wrastled well, and ouerthrowne\nMore then your enemies\nCel. Will you goe Coze?\nRos. Haue with you: fare you well.\nEnter.\nOrl. What passion hangs these waights vpo[n] my toong?\nI cannot speake to her, yet she vrg'd conference.\nEnter Le Beu.\nO poore Orlando! thou art ouerthrowne\nOr Charles, or something weaker masters thee\nLe Beu. Good Sir, I do in friendship counsaile you\nTo leaue this place; Albeit you haue deseru'd\nHigh commendation, true applause, and loue;\nYet such is now the Dukes condition,\nThat he misconsters all that you haue done:\nThe Duke is humorous, what he is indeede\nMore suites you to conceiue, then I to speake of\nOrl. I thanke you Sir; and pray you tell me this,\nWhich of the two was daughter of the Duke,\nThat here was at the Wrastling?\nLe Beu. Neither his daughter, if we iudge by manners,\nBut yet indeede the taller is his daughter,\nThe other is daughter to the banish'd Duke,\nAnd here detain'd by her vsurping Vncle\nTo keepe his daughter companie, whose loues\nAre deerer then the naturall bond of Sisters:\nBut I can tell you, that of late this Duke\nHath tane displeasure 'gainst his gentle Neece,\nGrounded vpon no other argument,\nBut that the people praise her for her vertues,\nAnd pittie her, for her good Fathers sake;\nAnd on my life his malice 'gainst the Lady\nWill sodainly breake forth: Sir, fare you well,\nHereafter in a better world then this,\nI shall desire more loue and knowledge of you\nOrl. I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.\nThus must I from the smoake into the smother,\nFrom tyrant Duke, vnto a tyrant Brother.\nBut heauenly Rosaline.\nExit\nScena Tertius.\nEnter Celia and Rosaline.\nCel. Why Cosen, why Rosaline: Cupid haue mercie,\nNot a word?\nRos. Not one to throw at a dog\nCel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away\nvpon curs, throw some of them at me; come lame mee\nwith reasons\nRos. Then there were two Cosens laid vp, when the\none should be lam'd with reasons, and the other mad\nwithout any\nCel. But is all this for your Father?\nRos. No, some of it is for my childes Father: Oh\nhow full of briers is this working day world\nCel. They are but burs, Cosen, throwne vpon thee\nin holiday foolerie, if we walke not in the trodden paths\nour very petty-coates will catch them\nRos. I could shake them off my coate, these burs are\nin my heart\nCel. Hem them away\nRos. I would try if I could cry hem, and haue him\nCel. Come, come, wrastle with thy affections\nRos. O they take the part of a better wrastler then\nmy selfe\nCel. O, a good wish vpon you: you will trie in time\nin dispight of a fall: but turning these iests out of seruice,\nlet vs talke in good earnest: Is it possible on such a sodaine,\nyou should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir\nRoulands yongest sonne?\nRos. The Duke my Father lou'd his Father deerelie\nCel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should loue his\nSonne deerelie? By this kinde of chase, I should hate\nhim, for my father hated his father deerely; yet I hate\nnot Orlando\nRos. No faith, hate him not for my sake\nCel. Why should I not? doth he not deserue well?\nEnter Duke with Lords.\nRos. Let me loue him for that, and do you loue him\nBecause I doe. Looke, here comes the Duke\nCel. With his eies full of anger\nDuk. Mistris, dispatch you with your safest haste,\nAnd get you from our Court\nRos. Me Vncle\nDuk. You Cosen,\nWithin these ten daies if that thou beest found\nSo neere our publike Court as twentie miles,\nThou diest for it\nRos. I doe beseech your Grace\nLet me the knowledge of my fault beare with me:\nIf with my selfe I hold intelligence,\nOr haue acquaintance with mine owne desires,\nIf that I doe not dreame, or be not franticke,\n(As I doe trust I am not) then deere Vncle,\nNeuer so much as in a thought vnborne,\nDid I offend your highnesse\nDuk. Thus doe all Traitors,\nIf their purgation did consist in words,\nThey are as innocent as grace it selfe;\nLet is suffice thee that I trust thee not\nRos. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a Traitor;\nTell me whereon the likelihoods depends?\nDuk. Thou art thy Fathers daughter, there's enough\nRos. So was I when your highnes took his Dukdome,\nSo was I when your highnesse banisht him;\nTreason is not inherited my Lord,\nOr if we did deriue it from our friends,\nWhat's that to me, my Father was no Traitor,\nThen good my Leige, mistake me not so much,\nTo thinke my pouertie is treacherous\nCel. Deere Soueraigne heare me speake\nDuk. I Celia, we staid her for your sake,\nElse had she with her Father rang'd along\nCel. I did not then intreat to haue her stay,\nIt was your pleasure, and your owne remorse,\nI was too yong that time to value her,\nBut now I know her: if she be a Traitor,\nWhy so am I: we still haue slept together,\nRose at an instant, learn'd, plaid, eate together,\nAnd wheresoere we went, like Iunos Swans,\nStill we went coupled and inseperable\nDuk. She is too subtile for thee, and her smoothnes;\nHer verie silence, and her patience,\nSpeake to the people, and they pittie her:\nThou art a foole, she robs thee of thy name,\nAnd thou wilt show more bright, & seem more vertuous\nWhen she is gone: then open not thy lips\nFirme, and irreuocable is my doombe,\nWhich I haue past vpon her, she is banish'd\nCel. Pronounce that sentence then on me my Leige,\nI cannot liue out of her companie\nDuk. You are a foole: you Neice prouide your selfe,\nIf you out-stay the time, vpon mine honor,\nAnd in the greatnesse of my word you die.\nExit Duke, &c.\nCel. O my poore Rosaline, whether wilt thou goe?\nWilt thou change Fathers? I will giue thee mine:\nI charge thee be not thou more grieu'd then I am\nRos. I haue more cause\nCel. Thou hast not Cosen,\nPrethee be cheerefull; know'st thou not the Duke\nHath banish'd me his daughter?\nRos. That he hath not\nCel. No, hath not? Rosaline lacks then the loue\nWhich teacheth thee that thou and I am one,\nShall we be sundred? shall we part sweete girle?\nNo, let my Father seeke another heire:\nTherefore deuise with me how we may flie\nWhether to goe, and what to beare with vs,\nAnd doe not seeke to take your change vpon you,\nTo beare your griefes your selfe, and leaue me out:\nFor by this heauen, now at our sorrowes pale;\nSay what thou canst, Ile goe along with thee\nRos. Why, whether shall we goe?\nCel. To seeke my Vncle in the Forrest of Arden\nRos. Alas, what danger will it be to vs,\n(Maides as we are) to trauell forth so farre?\nBeautie prouoketh theeues sooner then gold\nCel. Ile put my selfe in poore and meane attire,\nAnd with a kinde of vmber smirch my face,\nThe like doe you, so shall we passe along,\nAnd neuer stir assailants\nRos. Were it not better,\nBecause that I am more then common tall,\nThat I did suite me all points like a man,\nA gallant curtelax vpon my thigh,\nA bore-speare in my hand, and in my heart\nLye there what hidden womans feare there will,\nWeele haue a swashing and a marshall outside,\nAs manie other mannish cowards haue,\nThat doe outface it with their semblances\nCel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man?\nRos. Ile haue no worse a name then Ioues owne Page,\nAnd therefore looke you call me Ganimed.\nBut what will you be call'd?\nCel. Something that hath a reference to my state:\nNo longer Celia, but Aliena\nRos. But Cosen, what if we assaid to steale\nThe clownish Foole out of your Fathers Court:\nWould he not be a comfort to our trauaile?\nCel. Heele goe along ore the wide world with me,\nLeaue me alone to woe him; Let's away\nAnd get our Iewels and our wealth together,\nDeuise the fittest time, and safest way\nTo hide vs from pursuite that will be made\nAfter my flight: now goe in we content\nTo libertie, and not to banishment.\nExeunt.\nActus Secundus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Duke Senior: Amyens, and two or three Lords like\nForresters.\nDuk.Sen. Now my Coe-mates, and brothers in exile:\nHath not old custome made this life more sweete\nThen that of painted pompe? Are not these woods\nMore free from perill then the enuious Court?\nHeere feele we not the penaltie of Adam,\nThe seasons difference, as the Icie phange\nAnd churlish chiding of the winters winde,\nWhich when it bites and blowes vpon my body\nEuen till I shrinke with cold, I smile, and say\nThis is no flattery: these are counsellors\nThat feelingly perswade me what I am:\nSweet are the vses of aduersitie\nWhich like the toad, ougly and venemous,\nWeares yet a precious Iewell in his head:\nAnd this our life exempt from publike haunt,\nFindes tongues in trees, bookes in the running brookes,\nSermons in stones, and good in euery thing\nAmien. I would not change it, happy is your Grace\nThat can translate the stubbornnesse of fortune\nInto so quiet and so sweet a stile\nDu.Sen. Come, shall we goe and kill vs venison?\nAnd yet it irkes me the poore dapled fooles\nBeing natiue Burgers of this desert City,\nShould in their owne confines with forked heads\nHaue their round hanches goard\n1.Lord. Indeed my Lord\nThe melancholy Iaques grieues at that,\nAnd in that kinde sweares you doe more vsurpe\nThen doth your brother that hath banish'd you:\nTo day my Lord of Amiens, and my selfe,\nDid steale behinde him as he lay along\nVnder an oake, whose anticke roote peepes out\nVpon the brooke that brawles along this wood,\nTo the which place a poore sequestred Stag\nThat from the Hunters aime had tane a hurt,\nDid come to languish; and indeed my Lord\nThe wretched annimall heau'd forth such groanes\nThat their discharge did stretch his leatherne coat\nAlmost to bursting, and the big round teares\nCours'd one another downe his innocent nose\nIn pitteous chase: and thus the hairie foole,\nMuch marked of the melancholie Iaques,\nStood on th' extremest verge of the swift brooke,\nAugmenting it with teares\nDu.Sen. But what said Iaques?\nDid he not moralize this spectacle?\n1.Lord. O yes, into a thousand similies.\nFirst, for his weeping into the needlesse streame;\nPoore Deere quoth he, thou mak'st a testament\nAs worldlings doe, giuing thy sum of more\nTo that which had too much: then being there alone,\nLeft and abandoned of his veluet friend;\n'Tis right quoth he, thus miserie doth part\nThe Fluxe of companie: anon a carelesse Heard\nFull of the pasture, iumps along by him\nAnd neuer staies to greet him: I quoth Iaques,\nSweepe on you fat and greazie Citizens,\n'Tis iust the fashion; wherefore doe you looke\nVpon that poore and broken bankrupt there?\nThus most inuectiuely he pierceth through\nThe body of Countrie, Citie, Court,\nYea, and of this our life, swearing that we\nAre meere vsurpers, tyrants, and whats worse\nTo fright the Annimals, and to kill them vp\nIn their assign'd and natiue dwelling place\nD.Sen. And did you leaue him in this contemplation?\n2.Lord. We did my Lord, weeping and commenting\nVpon the sobbing Deere\nDu.Sen. Show me the place,\nI loue to cope him in these sullen fits,\nFor then he's full of matter\n1.Lor. Ile bring you to him strait.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Duke, with Lords.\nDuk. Can it be possible that no man saw them?\nIt cannot be, some villaines of my Court\nAre of consent and sufferance in this\n1.Lo. I cannot heare of any that did see her,\nThe Ladies her attendants of her chamber\nSaw her a bed, and in the morning early,\nThey found the bed vntreasur'd of their Mistris\n2.Lor. My Lord, the roynish Clown, at whom so oft,\nYour Grace was wont to laugh is also missing,\nHisperia the Princesse Gentlewoman\nConfesses that she secretly ore-heard\nYour daughter and her Cosen much commend\nThe parts and graces of the Wrastler\nThat did but lately foile the synowie Charles,\nAnd she beleeues where euer they are gone\nThat youth is surely in their companie\nDuk. Send to his brother, fetch that gallant hither,\nIf he be absent, bring his Brother to me,\nIle make him finde him: do this sodainly;\nAnd let not search and inquisition quaile,\nTo bring againe these foolish runawaies.\nExeunt.\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Orlando and Adam.\nOrl. Who's there?\nAd. What my yong Master, oh my gentle master,\nOh my sweet master, O you memorie\nOf old Sir Rowland; why, what make you here?\nWhy are you vertuous? Why do people loue you?\nAnd wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?\nWhy would you be so fond to ouercome\nThe bonnie priser of the humorous Duke?\nYour praise is come too swiftly home before you.\nKnow you not Master, to seeme kinde of men,\nTheir graces serue them but as enemies,\nNo more doe yours: your vertues gentle Master\nAre sanctified and holy traitors to you:\nOh what a world is this, when what is comely\nEnuenoms him that beares it?\nWhy, what's the matter?\nAd. O vnhappie youth,\nCome not within these doores: within this roofe\nThe enemie of all your graces liues\nYour brother, no, no brother, yet the sonne\n(Yet not the son, I will not call him son)\nOf him I was about to call his Father,\nHath heard your praises, and this night he meanes,\nTo burne the lodging where you vse to lye,\nAnd you within it: if he faile of that\nHe will haue other meanes to cut you off;\nI ouerheard him: and his practises:\nThis is no place, this house is but a butcherie;\nAbhorre it, feare it, doe not enter it\nAd. Why whether Adam would'st thou haue me go?\nAd. No matter whether, so you come not here\nOrl. What, would'st thou haue me go & beg my food,\nOr with a base and boistrous Sword enforce\nA theeuish liuing on the common rode?\nThis I must do, or know not what to do:\nYet this I will not do, do how I can,\nI rather will subiect me to the malice\nOf a diuerted blood, and bloudie brother\nAd. But do not so: I haue fiue hundred Crownes,\nThe thriftie hire I saued vnder your Father,\nWhich I did store to be my foster Nurse,\nWhen seruice should in my old limbs lie lame,\nAnd vnregarded age in corners throwne,\nTake that, and he that doth the Rauens feede,\nYea prouidently caters for the Sparrow,\nBe comfort to my age: here is the gold,\nAll this I giue you, let me be your seruant,\nThough I looke old, yet I am strong and lustie;\nFor in my youth I neuer did apply\nHot, and rebellious liquors in my bloud,\nNor did not with vnbashfull forehead woe,\nThe meanes of weaknesse and debilitie,\nTherefore my age is as a lustie winter,\nFrostie, but kindely; let me goe with you,\nIle doe the seruice of a yonger man\nIn all your businesse and necessities\nOrl. Oh good old man, how well in thee appeares\nThe constant seruice of the antique world,\nWhen seruice sweate for dutie, not for meede:\nThou art not for the fashion of these times,\nWhere none will sweate, but for promotion,\nAnd hauing that do choake their seruice vp,\nEuen with the hauing, it is not so with thee:\nBut poore old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,\nThat cannot so much as a blossome yeelde,\nIn lieu of all thy paines and husbandrie,\nBut come thy waies, weele goe along together,\nAnd ere we haue thy youthfull wages spent,\nWeele light vpon some setled low content\nAd. Master goe on, and I will follow thee\nTo the last gaspe with truth and loyaltie,\nFrom seauentie yeeres, till now almost fourescore\nHere liued I, but now liue here no more\nAt seauenteene yeeres, many their fortunes seeke\nBut at fourescore, it is too late a weeke,\nYet fortune cannot recompence me better\nThen to die well, and not my Masters debter.\nExeunt.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Rosaline for Ganimed, Celia for Aliena, and Clowne, alias\nTouchstone.\nRos. O Iupiter, how merry are my spirits?\nClo. I care not for my spirits, if my legges were not\nwearie\nRos. I could finde in my heart to disgrace my mans\napparell, and to cry like a woman: but I must comfort\nthe weaker vessell, as doublet and hose ought to show it\nselfe coragious to petty-coate; therefore courage, good\nAliena\nCel. I pray you beare with me, I cannot goe no further\nClo. For my part, I had rather beare with you, then\nbeare you: yet I should beare no crosse if I did beare\nyou, for I thinke you haue no money in your purse\nRos. Well, this is the Forrest of Arden\nClo. I, now am I in Arden, the more foole I, when I\nwas at home I was in a better place, but Trauellers must\nbe content.\nEnter Corin and Siluius.\nRos. I, be so good Touchstone: Look you, who comes\nhere, a yong man and an old in solemne talke\nCor. That is the way to make her scorne you still\nSil. Oh Corin, that thou knew'st how I do loue her\nCor. I partly guesse: for I haue lou'd ere now\nSil. No Corin, being old, thou canst not guesse,\nThough in thy youth thou wast as true a louer\nAs euer sigh'd vpon a midnight pillow:\nBut if thy loue were euer like to mine,\nAs sure I thinke did neuer man loue so:\nHow many actions most ridiculous,\nHast thou beene drawne to by thy fantasie?\nCor. Into a thousand that I haue forgotten\nSil. Oh thou didst then neuer loue so hartily,\nIf thou remembrest not the slightest folly,\nThat euer loue did make thee run into,\nThou hast not lou'd.\nOr if thou hast not sat as I doe now,\nWearing thy hearer in thy Mistris praise,\nThou hast not lou'd.\nOr if thou hast not broke from companie,\nAbruptly as my passion now makes me,\nThou hast not lou'd.\nO Phebe, Phebe, Phebe.\nEnter.\nRos. Alas poore Shepheard searching of they would,\nI haue by hard aduenture found mine owne\nClo. And I mine: I remember when I was in loue, I\nbroke my sword vpon a stone, and bid him take that for\ncomming a night to Iane Smile, and I remember the kissing\nof her batler, and the Cowes dugs that her prettie\nchopt hands had milk'd; and I remember the wooing\nof a peascod instead of her, from whom I tooke two\ncods, and giuing her them againe, said with weeping\nteares, weare these for my sake: wee that are true Louers,\nrunne into strange capers; but as all is mortall in\nnature, so is all nature in loue, mortall in folly\nRos. Thou speak'st wiser then thou art ware of\nClo. Nay, I shall nere be ware of mine owne wit, till\nI breake my shins against it\nRos. Ioue, Ioue, this Shepherds passion,\nIs much vpon my fashion\nClo. And mine, but it growes something stale with\nmee\nCel. I pray you, one of you question yon'd man,\nIf he for gold will giue vs any foode,\nI faint almost to death\nClo. Holla; you Clowne\nRos. Peace foole, he's not thy kinsman\nCor. Who cals?\nClo. Your betters Sir\nCor. Else are they very wretched\nRos. Peace I say; good euen to your friend\nCor. And to you gentle Sir, and to you all\nRos. I prethee Shepheard, if that loue or gold\nCan in this desert place buy entertainment,\nBring vs where we may rest our selues, and feed:\nHere's a yong maid with trauaile much oppressed,\nAnd faints for succour\nCor. Faire Sir, I pittie her,\nAnd wish for her sake more then for mine owne,\nMy fortunes were more able to releeue her:\nBut I am shepheard to another man,\nAnd do not sheere the Fleeces that I graze:\nMy master is of churlish disposition,\nAnd little wreakes to finde the way to heauen\nBy doing deeds of hospitalitie.\nBesides his Coate, his Flockes, and bounds of feede\nAre now on sale, and at our sheep-coat now\nBy reason of his absence there is nothing\nThat you will feed on: but what is, come see,\nAnd in my voice most welcome shall you be\nRos. What is he that shall buy his flocke and pasture?\nCor. That yong Swaine that you saw heere but erewhile,\nThat little cares for buying any thing\nRos. I pray thee, if it stand with honestie,\nBuy thou the Cottage, pasture, and the flocke,\nAnd thou shalt haue to pay for it of vs\nCel. And we will mend thy wages:\nI like this place, and willingly could\nWaste my time in it\nCor. Assuredly the thing is to be sold:\nGo with me, if you like vpon report,\nThe soile, the profit, and this kinde of life,\nI will your very faithfull Feeder be,\nAnd buy it with your Gold right sodainly.\nExeunt.\nScena Quinta.\nEnter, Amyens, Iaques, & others.\nSong.\nVnder the greene wood tree,\nwho loues to lye with mee,\nAnd turne his merrie Note,\nvnto the sweet Birds throte:\nCome hither, come hither, come hither:\nHeere shall he see no enemie,\nBut Winter and rough Weather\nIaq. More, more, I pre'thee more\nAmy. It will make you melancholly Monsieur Iaques\nIaq. I thanke it: More, I prethee more,\nI can sucke melancholly out of a song,\nAs a Weazel suckes egges: More, I pre'thee more\nAmy. My voice is ragged, I know I cannot please\nyou\nIaq. I do not desire you to please me,\nI do desire you to sing:\nCome, more, another stanzo: Cal you 'em stanzo's?\nAmy. What you wil Monsieur Iaques\nIaq. Nay, I care not for their names, they owe mee\nnothing. Wil you sing?\nAmy. More at your request, then to please my selfe\nIaq. Well then, if euer I thanke any man, Ile thanke\nyou: but that they cal complement is like th' encounter\nof two dog-Apes. And when a man thankes me hartily,\nme thinkes I haue giuen him a penie, and he renders me\nthe beggerly thankes. Come sing; and you that wil not\nhold your tongues\nAmy. Wel, Ile end the song. Sirs, couer the while,\nthe Duke wil drinke vnder this tree; he hath bin all this\nday to looke you\nIaq. And I haue bin all this day to auoid him:\nHe is too disputeable for my companie:\nI thinke of as many matters as he, but I giue\nHeauen thankes, and make no boast of them.\nCome, warble, come.\nSong. Altogether heere.\nWho doth ambition shunne,\nand loues to liue i'th Sunne:\nSeeking the food he eates,\nand pleas'd with what he gets:\nCome hither, come hither, come hither,\nHeere shall he see. &c\nIaq. Ile giue you a verse to this note,\nThat I made yesterday in despight of my Inuention\nAmy. And Ile sing it\nAmy. Thus it goes.\nIf it do come to passe, that any man turne Asse:\nLeauing his wealth and ease,\nA stubborne will to please,\nDucdame, ducdame, ducdame:\nHeere shall he see, grosse fooles as he,\nAnd if he will come to me\nAmy. What's that Ducdame?\nIaq. 'Tis a Greeke inuocation, to call fools into a circle.\nIle go sleepe if I can: if I cannot, Ile raile against all\nthe first borne of Egypt\nAmy. And Ile go seeke the Duke,\nHis banket is prepar'd.\nExeunt.\nScena Sexta.\nEnter Orlando, & Adam\nAdam. Deere Master, I can go no further:\nO I die for food. Heere lie I downe,\nAnd measure out my graue. Farwel kinde master\nOrl. Why how now Adam? No greater heart in thee:\nLiue a little, comfort a little, cheere thy selfe a little.\nIf this vncouth Forrest yeeld any thing sauage,\nI wil either be food for it, or bring it for foode to thee:\nThy conceite is neerer death, then thy powers.\nFor my sake be comfortable, hold death a while\nAt the armes end: I wil heere be with thee presently,\nAnd if I bring thee not something to eate,\nI wil giue thee leaue to die: but if thou diest\nBefore I come, thou art a mocker of my labor.\nWel said, thou look'st cheerely,\nAnd Ile be with thee quickly: yet thou liest\nIn the bleake aire. Come, I wil beare thee\nTo some shelter, and thou shalt not die\nFor lacke of a dinner,\nIf there liue any thing in this Desert.\nCheerely good Adam.\nExeunt.\nScena Septima.\nEnter Duke Sen. & Lord, like Out-lawes.\nDu.Sen. I thinke he be transform'd into a beast,\nFor I can no where finde him, like a man\n1.Lord. My Lord, he is but euen now gone hence,\nHeere was he merry, hearing of a Song\nDu.Sen. If he compact of iarres, grow Musicall,\nWe shall haue shortly discord in the Spheares:\nGo seeke him, tell him I would speake with him.\nEnter Iaques.\n1.Lord. He saues my labor by his owne approach\nDu.Sen. Why how now Monsieur, what a life is this\nThat your poore friends must woe your companie,\nWhat, you looke merrily\nIaq. A Foole, a foole: I met a foole i'th Forrest,\nA motley Foole (a miserable world:)\nAs I do liue by foode, I met a foole,\nWho laid him downe, and bask'd him in the Sun,\nAnd rail'd on Lady Fortune in good termes,\nIn good set termes, and yet a motley foole.\nGood morrow foole (quoth I:) no Sir, quoth he,\nCall me not foole, till heauen hath sent me fortune,\nAnd then he drew a diall from his poake,\nAnd looking on it, with lacke-lustre eye,\nSayes, very wisely, it is ten a clocke:\nThus we may see (quoth he) how the world wagges:\n'Tis but an houre agoe, since it was nine,\nAnd after one houre more, 'twill be eleuen,\nAnd so from houre to houre, we ripe, and ripe,\nAnd then from houre to houre, we rot, and rot,\nAnd thereby hangs a tale. When I did heare\nThe motley Foole, thus morall on the time,\nMy Lungs began to crow like Chanticleere,\nThat Fooles should be so deepe contemplatiue:\nAnd I did laugh, sans intermission\nAn houre by his diall. Oh noble foole,\nA worthy foole: Motley's the onely weare\nDu.Sen. What foole is this?\nIaq. O worthie Foole: One that hath bin a Courtier\nAnd sayes, if Ladies be but yong, and faire,\nThey haue the gift to know it: and in his braine,\nWhich is as drie as the remainder bisket\nAfter a voyage: He hath strange places cram'd\nWith obseruation, the which he vents\nIn mangled formes. O that I were a foole,\nI am ambitious for a motley coat\nDu.Sen. Thou shalt haue one\nIaq. It is my onely suite,\nProuided that you weed your better iudgements\nOf all opinion that growes ranke in them,\nThat I am wise. I must haue liberty\nWithall, as large a Charter as the winde,\nTo blow on whom I please, for so fooles haue:\nAnd they that are most gauled with my folly,\nThey most must laugh: And why sir must they so?\nThe why is plaine, as way to Parish Church:\nHee, that a Foole doth very wisely hit,\nDoth very foolishly, although he smart\nSeeme senselesse of the bob. If not,\nThe Wise-mans folly is anathomiz'd\nEuen by the squandring glances of the foole.\nInuest me in my motley: Giue me leaue\nTo speake my minde, and I will through and through\nCleanse the foule bodie of th' infected world,\nIf they will patiently receiue my medicine\nDu.Sen. Fie on thee. I can tell what thou wouldst do\nIaq. What, for a Counter, would I do, but good?\nDu.Sen. Most mischeeuous foule sin, in chiding sin:\nFor thou thy selfe hast bene a Libertine,\nAs sensuall as the brutish sting it selfe,\nAnd all th' imbossed sores, and headed euils,\nThat thou with license of free foot hast caught,\nWould'st thou disgorge into the generall world\nIaq. Why who cries out on pride,\nThat can therein taxe any priuate party:\nDoth it not flow as hugely as the Sea,\nTill that the wearie verie meanes do ebbe.\nWhat woman in the Citie do I name,\nWhen that I say the City woman beares\nThe cost of Princes on vnworthy shoulders?\nWho can come in, and say that I meane her,\nWhen such a one as shee, such is her neighbor?\nOr what is he of basest function,\nThat sayes his brauerie is not on my cost,\nThinking that I meane him, but therein suites\nHis folly to the mettle of my speech,\nThere then, how then, what then, let me see wherein\nMy tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,\nThen he hath wrong'd himselfe: if he be free,\nWhy then my taxing like a wild-goose flies\nVnclaim'd of any man. But who come here?\nEnter Orlando.\nOrl. Forbeare, and eate no more\nIaq. Why I haue eate none yet\nOrl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be seru'd\nIaq. Of what kinde should this Cocke come of?\nDu.Sen. Art thou thus bolden'd man by thy distres?\nOr else a rude despiser of good manners,\nThat in ciuility thou seem'st so emptie?\nOrl. You touch'd my veine at first, the thorny point\nOf bare distresse, hath tane from me the shew\nOf smooth ciuility: yet am I in-land bred,\nAnd know some nourture: But forbeare, I say,\nHe dies that touches any of this fruite,\nTill I, and my affaires are answered\nIaq. And you will not be answer'd with reason,\nI must dye\nDu.Sen. What would you haue?\nYour gentlenesse shall force, more then your force\nMoue vs to gentlenesse\nOrl. I almost die for food, and let me haue it\nDu.Sen. Sit downe and feed, & welcom to our table\nOrl. Speake you so gently? Pardon me I pray you,\nI thought that all things had bin sauage heere,\nAnd therefore put I on the countenance\nOf sterne command'ment. But what ere you are\nThat in this desert inaccessible,\nVnder the shade of melancholly boughes,\nLoose, and neglect the creeping houres of time:\nIf euer you haue look'd on better dayes:\nIf euer beene where bels haue knoll'd to Church:\nIf euer sate at any good mans feast:\nIf euer from your eye-lids wip'd a teare,\nAnd know what 'tis to pittie, and be pittied:\nLet gentlenesse my strong enforcement be,\nIn the which hope, I blush, and hide my Sword\nDu.Sen. True is it, that we haue seene better dayes,\nAnd haue with holy bell bin knowld to Church,\nAnd sat at good mens feasts, and wip'd our eies\nOf drops, that sacred pity hath engendred:\nAnd therefore sit you downe in gentlenesse,\nAnd take vpon command, what helpe we haue\nThat to your wanting may be ministred\nOrl. Then but forbeare your food a little while:\nWhiles (like a Doe) I go to finde my Fawne,\nAnd giue it food. There is an old poore man,\nWho after me, hath many a weary steppe\nLimpt in pure loue: till he be first suffic'd,\nOpprest with two weake euils, age, and hunger,\nI will not touch a bit\nDuke Sen. Go finde him out,\nAnd we will nothing waste till you returne\nOrl. I thanke ye, and be blest for your good comfort\nDu.Sen. Thou seest, we are not all alone vnhappie:\nThis wide and vniuersall Theater\nPresents more wofull Pageants then the Sceane\nWherein we play in\nIa. All the world's a stage,\nAnd all the men and women, meerely Players;\nThey haue their Exits and their Entrances,\nAnd one man in his time playes many parts,\nHis Acts being seuen ages. At first the Infant,\nMewling, and puking in the Nurses armes:\nThen, the whining Schoole-boy with his Satchell\nAnd shining morning face, creeping like snaile\nVnwillingly to schoole. And then the Louer,\nSighing like Furnace, with a wofull ballad\nMade to his Mistresse eye-brow. Then, a Soldier,\nFull of strange oaths, and bearded like the Pard,\nIelous in honor, sodaine, and quicke in quarrell,\nSeeking the bubble Reputation\nEuen in the Canons mouth: And then, the Iustice\nIn faire round belly, with good Capon lin'd,\nWith eyes seuere, and beard of formall cut,\nFull of wise sawes, and moderne instances,\nAnd so he playes his part. The sixt age shifts\nInto the leane and slipper'd Pantaloone,\nWith spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,\nHis youthfull hose well sau'd, a world too wide,\nFor his shrunke shanke, and his bigge manly voice,\nTurning againe toward childish trebble pipes,\nAnd whistles in his sound. Last Scene of all,\nThat ends this strange euentfull historie,\nIs second childishnesse, and meere obliuion,\nSans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans euery thing.\nEnter Orlando with Adam.\nDu.Sen. Welcome: set downe your venerable burthen,\nand let him feede\nOrl. I thanke you most for him\nAd. So had you neede,\nI scarce can speake to thanke you for my selfe\nDu.Sen. Welcome, fall too: I wil not trouble you,\nAs yet to question you about your fortunes:\nGiue vs some Musicke, and good Cozen, sing.\nSong.\nBlow, blow, thou winter winde,\nThou art not so vnkinde, as mans ingratitude\nThy tooth is not so keene, because thou art not seene,\nalthough thy breath be rude.\nHeigh ho, sing heigh ho, vnto the greene holly,\nMost frendship, is fayning; most Louing, meere folly:\nThe heigh ho, the holly,\nThis Life is most iolly.\nFreize, freize, thou bitter skie that dost not bight so nigh\nas benefitts forgot:\nThough thou the waters warpe, thy sting is not so sharpe,\nas freind remembred not.\nHeigh ho, sing, &c\nDuke Sen. If that you were the good Sir Rowlands son,\nAs you haue whisper'd faithfully you were,\nAnd as mine eye doth his effigies witnesse,\nMost truly limn'd, and liuing in your face,\nBe truly welcome hither: I am the Duke\nThat lou'd your Father, the residue of your fortune,\nGo to my Caue, and tell mee. Good old man,\nThou art right welcome, as thy masters is:\nSupport him by the arme: giue me your hand,\nAnd let me all your fortunes vnderstand.\nExeunt.\nActus Tertius. Scena Prima.\nEnter Duke, Lords, & Oliuer.\nDu. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:\nBut were I not the better part made mercie,\nI should not seeke an absent argument\nOf my reuenge, thou present: but looke to it,\nFinde out thy brother wheresoere he is,\nSeeke him with Candle: bring him dead, or liuing\nWithin this tweluemonth, or turne thou no more\nTo seeke a liuing in our Territorie.\nThy Lands and all things that thou dost call thine,\nWorth seizure, do we seize into our hands,\nTill thou canst quit thee by thy brothers mouth,\nOf what we thinke against thee\nOl. Oh that your Highnesse knew my heart in this:\nI neuer lou'd my brother in my life\nDuke. More villaine thou. Well push him out of dores\nAnd let my officers of such a nature\nMake an extent vpon his house and Lands:\nDo this expediently, and turne him going.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Orlando.\nOrl. Hang there my verse, in witnesse of my loue,\nAnd thou thrice crowned Queene of night suruey\nWith thy chaste eye, from thy pale spheare aboue\nThy Huntresse name, that my full life doth sway.\nO Rosalind, these Trees shall be my Bookes,\nAnd in their barkes my thoughts Ile charracter,\nThat euerie eye, which in this Forrest lookes,\nShall see thy vertue witnest euery where.\nRun, run Orlando, carue on euery Tree,\nThe faire, the chaste, and vnexpressiue shee.\nExit\nEnter Corin & Clowne.\nCo. And how like you this shepherds life Mr Touchstone?\nClow. Truely Shepheard, in respect of it selfe, it is a\ngood life; but in respect that it is a shepheards life, it is\nnaught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it verie well:\nbut in respect that it is priuate, it is a very vild life. Now\nin respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth mee well: but in\nrespect it is not in the Court, it is tedious. As it is a spare\nlife (looke you) it fits my humor well: but as there is no\nmore plentie in it, it goes much against my stomacke.\nHas't any Philosophie in thee shepheard?\nCor. No more, but that I know the more one sickens,\nthe worse at ease he is: and that hee that wants money,\nmeanes, and content, is without three good frends. That\nthe propertie of raine is to wet, and fire to burne: That\ngood pasture makes fat sheepe: and that a great cause of\nthe night, is lacke of the Sunne: That hee that hath learned\nno wit by Nature, nor Art, may complaine of good\nbreeding, or comes of a very dull kindred\nClo. Such a one is a naturall Philosopher:\nWas't euer in Court, Shepheard?\nCor. No truly\nClo. Then thou art damn'd\nCor. Nay, I hope\nClo. Truly thou art damn'd, like an ill roasted Egge,\nall on one side\nCor. For not being at Court? your reason\nClo. Why, if thou neuer was't at Court, thou neuer\nsaw'st good manners: if thou neuer saw'st good maners,\nthen thy manners must be wicked, and wickednes is sin,\nand sinne is damnation: Thou art in a parlous state shepheard\nCor. Not a whit Touchstone, those that are good maners\nat the Court, are as ridiculous in the Countrey, as\nthe behauiour of the Countrie is most mockeable at the\nCourt. You told me, you salute not at the Court, but\nyou kisse your hands; that courtesie would be vncleanlie\nif Courtiers were shepheards\nClo. Instance, briefly: come, instance\nCor. Why we are still handling our Ewes, and their\nFels you know are greasie\nClo. Why do not your Courtiers hands sweate? and\nis not the grease of a Mutton, as wholesome as the sweat\nof a man? Shallow, shallow: A better instance I say:\nCome\nCor. Besides, our hands are hard\nClo. Your lips wil feele them the sooner. Shallow agen:\na more sounder instance, come\nCor. And they are often tarr'd ouer, with the surgery\nof our sheepe: and would you haue vs kisse Tarre? The\nCourtiers hands are perfum'd with Ciuet\nClo. Most shallow man: Thou wormes meate in respect\nof a good peece of flesh indeed: learne of the wise\nand perpend: Ciuet is of a baser birth then Tarre, the\nverie vncleanly fluxe of a Cat. Mend the instance Shepheard\nCor. You haue too Courtly a wit, for me, Ile rest\nClo. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God helpe thee shallow\nman: God make incision in thee, thou art raw\nCor. Sir, I am a true Labourer, I earne that I eate: get\nthat I weare; owe no man hate, enuie no mans happinesse:\nglad of other mens good content with my harme:\nand the greatest of my pride, is to see my Ewes graze, &\nmy Lambes sucke\nClo. That is another simple sinne in you, to bring the\nEwes and the Rammes together, and to offer to get your\nliuing, by the copulation of Cattle, to be bawd to a Belweather,\nand to betray a shee-Lambe of a tweluemonth\nto a crooked-pated olde Cuckoldly Ramme, out of all\nreasonable match. If thou bee'st not damn'd for this, the\ndiuell himselfe will haue no shepherds, I cannot see else\nhow thou shouldst scape\nCor. Heere comes yong Mr Ganimed, my new Mistrisses\nBrother.\nEnter Rosalind\nRos. From the east to westerne Inde,\nno iewel is like Rosalinde,\nHir worth being mounted on the winde,\nthrough all the world beares Rosalinde.\nAll the pictures fairest Linde,\nare but blacke to Rosalinde:\nLet no face bee kept in mind,\nbut the faire of Rosalinde\nClo. Ile rime you so, eight yeares together; dinners,\nand suppers, and sleeping hours excepted: it is the right\nButter-womens ranke to Market\nRos. Out Foole\nClo. For a taste.\nIf a Hart doe lacke a Hinde,\nLet him seeke out Rosalinde:\nIf the Cat will after kinde,\nso be sure will Rosalinde:\nWintred garments must be linde,\nso must slender Rosalinde:\nThey that reap must sheafe and binde,\nthen to cart with Rosalinde.\nSweetest nut, hath sowrest rinde,\nsuch a nut is Rosalinde.\nHe that sweetest rose will finde,\nmust finde Loues pricke, & Rosalinde.\nThis is the verie false gallop of Verses, why doe you infect\nyour selfe with them?\nRos. Peace you dull foole, I found them on a tree\nClo. Truely the tree yeelds bad fruite\nRos. Ile graffe it with you, and then I shall graffe it\nwith a Medler: then it will be the earliest fruit i'th country:\nfor you'l be rotten ere you bee halfe ripe, and that's\nthe right vertue of the Medler\nClo. You haue said: but whether wisely or no, let the\nForrest iudge.\nEnter Celia with a writing.\nRos. Peace, here comes my sister reading, stand aside\nCel. Why should this Desert bee,\nfor it is vnpeopled? Noe:\nTonges Ile hang on euerie tree,\nthat shall ciuill sayings shoe.\nSome, how briefe the Life of man\nruns his erring pilgrimage,\nThat the stretching of a span,\nbuckles in his summe of age.\nSome of violated vowes,\ntwixt the soules of friend, and friend:\nBut vpon the fairest bowes,\nor at euerie sentence end;\nWill I Rosalinda write,\nteaching all that reade, to know\nThe quintessence of euerie sprite,\nheauen would in little show.\nTherefore heauen Nature charg'd,\nthat one bodie should be fill'd\nWith all Graces wide enlarg'd,\nnature presently distill'd\nHelens cheeke, but not his heart,\nCleopatra's Maiestie:\nAttalanta's better part,\nsad Lucrecia's Modestie.\nThus Rosalinde of manie parts,\nby Heauenly Synode was deuis'd,\nOf manie faces, eyes, and hearts,\nto haue the touches deerest pris'd.\nHeauen would that shee these gifts should haue,\nand I to liue and die her slaue\nRos. O most gentle Iupiter, what tedious homilie of\nLoue haue you wearied your parishioners withall, and\nneuer cri'de, haue patience good people\nCel. How now backe friends: Shepheard, go off a little:\ngo with him sirrah\nClo. Come Shepheard, let vs make an honorable retreit,\nthough not with bagge and baggage, yet with\nscrip and scrippage.\nEnter.\nCel. Didst thou heare these verses?\nRos. O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some\nof them had in them more feete then the Verses would\nbeare\nCel. That's no matter: the feet might beare y verses\nRos. I, but the feet were lame, and could not beare\nthemselues without the verse, and therefore stood lamely\nin the verse\nCel. But didst thou heare without wondering, how\nthy name should be hang'd and carued vpon these trees?\nRos. I was seuen of the nine daies out of the wonder,\nbefore you came: for looke heere what I found on a\nPalme tree; I was neuer so berim'd since Pythagoras time\nthat I was an Irish Rat, which I can hardly remember\nCel. Tro you, who hath done this?\nRos. Is it a man?\nCel. And a chaine that you once wore about his neck:\nchange you colour?\nRos. I pre'thee who?\nCel. O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to\nmeete; but Mountaines may bee remoou'd with Earthquakes,\nand so encounter\nRos. Nay, but who is it?\nCel. Is it possible?\nRos. Nay, I pre'thee now, with most petitionary vehemence,\ntell me who it is\nCel. O wonderfull, wonderfull, and most wonderfull\nwonderfull, and yet againe wonderful, and after that out\nof all hooping\nRos. Good my complection, dost thou think though\nI am caparison'd like a man, I haue a doublet and hose in\nmy disposition? One inch of delay more, is a South-sea\nof discouerie. I pre'thee tell me, who is it quickely, and\nspeake apace: I would thou couldst stammer, that thou\nmight'st powre this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as\nWine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle: either too\nmuch at once, or none at all. I pre'thee take the Corke\nout of thy mouth, that I may drinke thy tydings\nCel. So you may put a man in your belly\nRos. Is he of Gods making? What manner of man?\nIs his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a beard?\nCel. Nay, he hath but a little beard\nRos. Why God will send more, if the man will bee\nthankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou\ndelay me not the knowledge of his chin\nCel. It is yong Orlando, that tript vp the Wrastlers\nheeles, and your heart, both in an instant\nRos. Nay, but the diuell take mocking: speake sadde\nbrow, and true maid\nCel. I'faith (Coz) tis he\nRos. Orlando?\nCel. Orlando\nRos. Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet &\nhose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What sayde\nhe? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes hee\nheere? Did he aske for me? Where remaines he? How\nparted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him againe?\nAnswer me in one word\nCel. You must borrow me Gargantuas mouth first:\n'tis a Word too great for any mouth of this Ages size, to\nsay I and no, to these particulars, is more then to answer\nin a Catechisme\nRos. But doth he know that I am in this Forrest, and\nin mans apparrell? Looks he as freshly, as he did the day\nhe Wrastled?\nCel. It is as easie to count Atomies as to resolue the\npropositions of a Louer: but take a taste of my finding\nhim, and rellish it with good obseruance. I found him\nvnder a tree like a drop'd Acorne\nRos. It may wel be cal'd Ioues tree, when it droppes\nforth fruite\nCel. Giue me audience, good Madam\nRos. Proceed\nCel. There lay hee stretch'd along like a Wounded\nknight\nRos. Though it be pittie to see such a sight, it well\nbecomes the ground\nCel. Cry holla, to the tongue, I prethee: it curuettes\nvnseasonably. He was furnish'd like a Hunter\nRos. O ominous, he comes to kill my Hart\nCel. I would sing my song without a burthen, thou\nbring'st me out of tune\nRos. Do you not know I am a woman, when I thinke,\nI must speake: sweet, say on.\nEnter Orlando & Iaques.\nCel. You bring me out. Soft, comes he not heere?\nRos. 'Tis he, slinke by, and note him\nIaq. I thanke you for your company, but good faith\nI had as liefe haue beene my selfe alone\nOrl. And so had I: but yet for fashion sake\nI thanke you too, for your societie\nIaq. God buy you, let's meet as little as we can\nOrl. I do desire we may be better strangers\nIaq. I pray you marre no more trees with Writing\nLoue-songs in their barkes\nOrl. I pray you marre no moe of my verses with reading\nthem ill-fauouredly\nIaq. Rosalinde is your loues name?\nOrl. Yes, Iust\nIaq. I do not like her name\nOrl. There was no thought of pleasing you when she\nwas christen'd\nIaq. What stature is she of?\nOrl. Iust as high as my heart\nIaq. You are ful of prety answers: haue you not bin acquainted\nwith goldsmiths wiues, & cond the[m] out of rings\nOrl. Not so: but I answer you right painted cloath,\nfrom whence you haue studied your questions\nIaq. You haue a nimble wit; I thinke 'twas made of\nAttalanta's heeles. Will you sitte downe with me, and\nwee two, will raile against our Mistris the world, and all\nour miserie\nOrl. I wil chide no breather in the world but my selfe\nagainst whom I know most faults\nIaq. The worst fault you haue, is to be in loue\nOrl. 'Tis a fault I will not change, for your best vertue:\nI am wearie of you\nIaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a Foole, when I\nfound you\nOrl. He is drown'd in the brooke, looke but in, and\nyou shall see him\nIaq. There I shal see mine owne figure\nOrl. Which I take to be either a foole, or a Cipher\nIaq. Ile tarrie no longer with you, farewell good signior\nLoue\nOrl. I am glad of your departure: Adieu good Monsieur\nMelancholly\nRos. I wil speake to him like a sawcie Lacky, and vnder\nthat habit play the knaue with him, do you hear Forrester\nOrl. Verie wel, what would you?\nRos. I pray you, what i'st a clocke?\nOrl. You should aske me what time o' day: there's no\nclocke in the Forrest\nRos. Then there is no true Louer in the Forrest, else\nsighing euerie minute, and groaning euerie houre wold\ndetect the lazie foot of time, as wel as a clocke\nOrl. And why not the swift foote of time? Had not\nthat bin as proper?\nRos. By no meanes sir; Time trauels in diuers paces,\nwith diuers persons: Ile tel you who Time ambles withall,\nwho Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal,\nand who he stands stil withall\nOrl. I prethee, who doth he trot withal?\nRos. Marry he trots hard with a yong maid, between\nthe contract of her marriage, and the day it is solemnizd:\nif the interim be but a sennight, Times pace is so hard,\nthat it seemes the length of seuen yeare\nOrl. Who ambles Time withal?\nRos. With a Priest that lacks Latine, and a rich man\nthat hath not the Gowt: for the one sleepes easily because\nhe cannot study, and the other liues merrily, because\nhe feeles no paine: the one lacking the burthen of\nleane and wasteful Learning; the other knowing no burthen\nof heauie tedious penurie. These Time ambles\nwithal\nOrl. Who doth he gallop withal?\nRos. With a theefe to the gallowes: for though hee\ngo as softly as foot can fall, he thinkes himselfe too soon\nthere\nOrl. Who staies it stil withal?\nRos. With Lawiers in the vacation: for they sleepe\nbetweene Terme and Terme, and then they perceiue not\nhow time moues\nOrl. Where dwel you prettie youth?\nRos. With this Shepheardesse my sister: heere in the\nskirts of the Forrest, like fringe vpon a petticoat\nOrl. Are you natiue of this place?\nRos. As the Conie that you see dwell where shee is\nkindled\nOrl. Your accent is something finer, then you could\npurchase in so remoued a dwelling\nRos. I haue bin told so of many: but indeed, an olde\nreligious Vnckle of mine taught me to speake, who was\nin his youth an inland man, one that knew Courtship too\nwell: for there he fel in loue. I haue heard him read many\nLectors against it, and I thanke God, I am not a Woman\nto be touch'd with so many giddie offences as hee\nhath generally tax'd their whole sex withal\nOrl. Can you remember any of the principall euils,\nthat he laid to the charge of women?\nRos. There were none principal, they were all like\none another, as halfepence are, euerie one fault seeming\nmonstrous, til his fellow-fault came to match it\nOrl. I prethee recount some of them\nRos. No: I wil not cast away my physick, but on those\nthat are sicke. There is a man haunts the Forrest, that abuses\nour yong plants with caruing Rosalinde on their\nbarkes; hangs Oades vpon Hauthornes, and Elegies on\nbrambles; all (forsooth) defying the name of Rosalinde.\nIf I could meet that Fancie-monger, I would giue him\nsome good counsel, for he seemes to haue the Quotidian\nof Loue vpon him\nOrl. I am he that is so Loue-shak'd, I pray you tel\nme your remedie\nRos. There is none of my Vnckles markes vpon you:\nhe taught me how to know a man in loue: in which cage\nof rushes, I am sure you art not prisoner\nOrl. What were his markes?\nRos. A leane cheeke, which you haue not: a blew eie\nand sunken, which you haue not: an vnquestionable spirit,\nwhich you haue not: a beard neglected, which you\nhaue not: (but I pardon you for that, for simply your hauing\nin beard, is a yonger brothers reuennew) then your\nhose should be vngarter'd, your bonnet vnbanded, your\nsleeue vnbutton'd, your shoo vnti'de, and euerie thing\nabout you, demonstrating a carelesse desolation: but you\nare no such man; you are rather point deuice in your\naccoustrements,\nas louing your selfe, then seeming the Louer\nof any other\nOrl. Faire youth, I would I could make thee beleeue I Loue\nRos. Me beleeue it? You may assoone make her that\nyou Loue beleeue it, which I warrant she is apter to do,\nthen to confesse she do's: that is one of the points, in the\nwhich women stil giue the lie to their consciences. But\nin good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the\nTrees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?\nOrl. I sweare to thee youth, by the white hand of\nRosalind, I am that he, that vnfortunate he\nRos. But are you so much in loue, as your rimes speak?\nOrl. Neither rime nor reason can expresse how much\nRos. Loue is meerely a madnesse, and I tel you, deserues\nas wel a darke house, and a whip, as madmen do:\nand the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured, is\nthat the Lunacie is so ordinarie, that the whippers are in\nloue too: yet I professe curing it by counsel\nOrl. Did you euer cure any so?\nRos. Yes one, and in this manner. Hee was to imagine\nme his Loue, his Mistris: and I set him euerie day\nto woe me. At which time would I, being but a moonish\nyouth, greeue, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and\nliking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, ful\nof teares, full of smiles; for euerie passion something, and\nfor no passion truly any thing, as boyes and women are\nfor the most part, cattle of this colour: would now like\nhim, now loath him: then entertaine him, then forswear\nhim: now weepe for him, then spit at him; that I draue\nmy Sutor from his mad humor of loue, to a liuing humor\nof madnes, w was to forsweare the ful stream of y world,\nand to liue in a nooke meerly Monastick: and thus I cur'd\nhim, and this way wil I take vpon mee to wash your Liuer\nas cleane as a sound sheepes heart, that there shal not\nbe one spot of Loue in't\nOrl. I would not be cured, youth\nRos. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind,\nand come euerie day to my Coat, and woe me\nOrlan. Now by the faith of my loue, I will; Tel me\nwhere it is\nRos. Go with me to it, and Ile shew it you: and by\nthe way, you shal tell me, where in the Forrest you liue:\nWil you go?\nOrl. With all my heart, good youth\nRos. Nay, you must call mee Rosalind: Come sister,\nwill you go?\nExeunt.\nScoena Tertia.\nEnter Clowne, Audrey, & Iaques.\nClo. Come apace good Audrey, I wil fetch vp your\nGoates, Audrey: and how Audrey am I the man yet?\nDoth my simple feature content you?\nAud. Your features, Lord warrant vs: what features?\nClo. I am heere with thee, and thy Goats, as the most\ncapricious Poet honest Ouid was among the Gothes\nIaq. O knowledge ill inhabited, worse then Ioue in\na thatch'd house\nClo. When a mans verses cannot be vnderstood, nor\na mans good wit seconded with the forward childe, vnderstanding:\nit strikes a man more dead then a great reckoning\nin a little roome: truly, I would the Gods hadde\nmade thee poeticall\nAud. I do not know what Poetical is: is it honest in\ndeed and word: is it a true thing?\nClo. No trulie: for the truest poetrie is the most faining,\nand Louers are giuen to Poetrie: and what they\nsweare in Poetrie, may be said as Louers, they do feigne\nAud. Do you wish then that the Gods had made me\nPoeticall?\nClow. I do truly: for thou swear'st to me thou art honest:\nNow if thou wert a Poet, I might haue some hope\nthou didst feigne\nAud. Would you not haue me honest?\nClo. No truly, vnlesse thou wert hard fauour'd: for\nhonestie coupled to beautie, is to haue Honie a sawce to\nSugar\nIaq. A materiall foole\nAud. Well, I am not faire, and therefore I pray the\nGods make me honest\nClo. Truly, and to cast away honestie vppon a foule\nslut, were to put good meate into an vncleane dish\nAud. I am not a slut, though I thanke the Goddes I\nam foule\nClo. Well, praised be the Gods, for thy foulnesse; sluttishnesse\nmay come heereafter. But be it, as it may bee,\nI wil marrie thee: and to that end, I haue bin with Sir\nOliuer Mar-text, the Vicar of the next village, who hath\npromis'd to meete me in this place of the Forrest, and to\ncouple vs\nIaq. I would faine see this meeting\nAud. Wel, the Gods giue vs ioy\nClo. Amen. A man may if he were of a fearful heart,\nstagger in this attempt: for heere wee haue no Temple\nbut the wood, no assembly but horne-beasts. But what\nthough? Courage. As hornes are odious, they are necessarie.\nIt is said, many a man knowes no end of his goods;\nright: Many a man has good Hornes, and knows no end\nof them. Well, that is the dowrie of his wife, 'tis none\nof his owne getting; hornes, euen so poore men alone:\nNo, no, the noblest Deere hath them as huge as the Rascall:\nIs the single man therefore blessed? No, as a wall'd\nTowne is more worthier then a village, so is the forehead\nof a married man, more honourable then the bare\nbrow of a Batcheller: and by how much defence is better\nthen no skill, by so much is a horne more precious\nthen to want.\nEnter Sir Oliuer Mar-text.\nHeere comes Sir Oliuer: Sir Oliuer Mar-text you are\nwel met. Will you dispatch vs heere vnder this tree, or\nshal we go with you to your Chappell?\nOl. Is there none heere to giue the woman?\nClo. I wil not take her on guift of any man\nOl. Truly she must be giuen, or the marriage is not\nlawfull\nIaq. Proceed, proceede: Ile giue her\nClo. Good euen good Mr what ye cal't: how do you\nSir, you are verie well met: goddild you for your last\ncompanie, I am verie glad to see you, euen a toy in hand\nheere Sir: Nay, pray be couer'd\nIaq. Wil you be married, Motley?\nClo. As the Oxe hath his bow sir, the horse his curb,\nand the Falcon her bels, so man hath his desires, and as\nPigeons bill, so wedlocke would be nibling\nIaq. And wil you (being a man of your breeding) be\nmarried vnder a bush like a begger? Get you to church,\nand haue a good Priest that can tel you what marriage is,\nthis fellow wil but ioyne you together, as they ioyne\nWainscot, then one of you wil proue a shrunke pannell,\nand like greene timber, warpe, warpe\nClo. I am not in the minde, but I were better to bee\nmarried of him then of another, for he is not like to marrie\nme wel: and not being wel married, it wil be a good\nexcuse for me heereafter, to leaue my wife\nIaq. Goe thou with mee,\nAnd let me counsel thee\nOl. Come sweete Audrey,\nWe must be married, or we must liue in baudrey:\nFarewel good Mr Oliuer: Not O sweet Oliuer, O braue\nOliuer leaue me not behind thee: But winde away, bee\ngone I say, I wil not to wedding with thee\nOl. 'Tis no matter; Ne're a fantastical knaue of them\nall shal flout me out of my calling.\nExeunt.\nScoena Quarta.\nEnter Rosalind & Celia.\nRos. Neuer talke to me, I wil weepe\nCel. Do I prethee, but yet haue the grace to consider,\nthat teares do not become a man\nRos. But haue I not cause to weepe?\nCel. As good cause as one would desire,\nTherefore weepe\nRos. His very haire\nIs of the dissembling colour\nCel. Something browner then Iudasses:\nMarrie his kisses are Iudasses owne children\nRos. I'faith his haire is of a good colour\nCel. An excellent colour:\nYour Chessenut was euer the onely colour:\nRos. And his kissing is as ful of sanctitie,\nAs the touch of holy bread\nCel. Hee hath bought a paire of cast lips of Diana: a\nNun of winters sisterhood kisses not more religiouslie,\nthe very yce of chastity is in them\nRosa. But why did hee sweare hee would come this\nmorning, and comes not?\nCel. Nay certainly there is no truth in him\nRos. Doe you thinke so?\nCel. Yes, I thinke he is not a picke purse, nor a horse-stealer,\nbut for his verity in loue, I doe thinke him as\nconcaue as a couered goblet, or a Worme-eaten nut\nRos. Not true in loue?\nCel. Yes, when he is in, but I thinke he is not in\nRos. You haue heard him sweare downright he was\nCel. Was, is not is: besides, the oath of Louer is no\nstronger then the word of a Tapster, they are both the\nconfirmer of false reckonings, he attends here in the forrest\non the Duke your father\nRos. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question\nwith him: he askt me of what parentage I was; I\ntold him of as good as he, so he laugh'd and let mee goe.\nBut what talke wee of Fathers, when there is such a man\nas Orlando?\nCel. O that's a braue man, hee writes braue verses,\nspeakes braue words, sweares braue oathes, and breakes\nthem brauely, quite trauers athwart the heart of his louer,\nas a puisny Tilter, y spurs his horse but on one side,\nbreakes his staffe like a noble goose; but all's braue that\nyouth mounts, and folly guides: who comes heere?\nEnter Corin.\nCorin. Mistresse and Master, you haue oft enquired\nAfter the Shepheard that complain'd of loue,\nWho you saw sitting by me on the Turph,\nPraising the proud disdainfull Shepherdesse\nThat was his Mistresse\nCel. Well: and what of him?\nCor. If you will see a pageant truely plaid\nBetweene the pale complexion of true Loue,\nAnd the red glowe of scorne and prowd disdaine,\nGoe hence a little, and I shall conduct you\nIf you will marke it\nRos. O come, let vs remoue,\nThe sight of Louers feedeth those in loue:\nBring vs to this sight, and you shall say\nIle proue a busie actor in their play.\nExeunt.\nScena Quinta.\nEnter Siluius and Phebe.\nSil. Sweet Phebe doe not scorne me, do not Phebe\nSay that you loue me not, but say not so\nIn bitternesse; the common executioner\nWhose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes hard\nFalls not the axe vpon the humbled neck,\nBut first begs pardon: will you sterner be\nThen he that dies and liues by bloody drops?\nEnter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.\nPhe. I would not be thy executioner,\nI flye thee, for I would not iniure thee:\nThou tellst me there is murder in mine eye,\n'Tis pretty sure, and very probable,\nThat eyes that are the frailst, and softest things,\nWho shut their coward gates on atomyes,\nShould be called tyrants, butchers, murtherers.\nNow I doe frowne on thee with all my heart,\nAnd if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:\nNow counterfeit to swound, why now fall downe,\nOr if thou canst not, oh for shame, for shame,\nLye not, to say mine eyes are murtherers:\nNow shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee,\nScratch thee but with a pin, and there remaines\nSome scarre of it: Leane vpon a rush\nThe Cicatrice and capable impressure\nThy palme some moment keepes: but now mine eyes\nWhich I haue darted at thee, hurt thee not,\nNor I am sure there is no force in eyes\nThat can doe hurt\nSil. O deere Phebe,\nIf euer (as that euer may be neere)\nYou meet in some fresh cheeke the power of fancie,\nThen shall you know the wounds inuisible\nThat Loues keene arrows make\nPhe. But till that time\nCome not thou neere me: and when that time comes,\nAfflict me with thy mockes, pitty me not,\nAs till that time I shall not pitty thee\nRos. And why I pray you? who might be your mother\nThat you insult, exult, and all at once\nOuer the wretched? what though you haue no beauty\nAs by my faith, I see no more in you\nThen without Candle may goe darke to bed:\nMust you be therefore prowd and pittilesse?\nWhy what meanes this? why do you looke on me?\nI see no more in you then in the ordinary\nOf Natures sale-worke? 'ods my little life,\nI thinke she meanes to tangle my eies too:\nNo faith proud Mistresse, hope not after it,\n'Tis not your inkie browes, your blacke silke haire,\nYour bugle eye-balls, nor your cheeke of creame\nThat can entame my spirits to your worship:\nYou foolish Shepheard, wherefore do you follow her\nLike foggy South, puffing with winde and raine,\nYou are a thousand times a properer man\nThen she a woman. 'Tis such fooles as you\nThat makes the world full of ill-fauourd children:\n'Tis not her glasse, but you that flatters her,\nAnd out of you she sees her selfe more proper\nThen any of her lineaments can show her:\nBut Mistris, know your selfe, downe on your knees\nAnd thanke heauen, fasting, for a good mans loue;\nFor I must tell you friendly in your eare,\nSell when you can, you are not for all markets:\nCry the man mercy, loue him, take his offer,\nFoule is most foule, being foule to be a scoffer.\nSo take her to thee Shepheard, fareyouwell\nPhe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a yere together,\nI had rather here you chide, then this man wooe\nRos. Hees falne in loue with your foulnesse, & shee'll\nFall in loue with my anger. If it be so, as fast\nAs she answeres thee with frowning lookes, ile sauce\nHer with bitter words: why looke you so vpon me?\nPhe. For no ill will I beare you\nRos. I pray you do not fall in loue with mee,\nFor I am falser then vowes made in wine:\nBesides, I like you not: if you will know my house,\n'Tis at the tufft of Oliues, here hard by:\nWill you goe Sister? Shepheard ply her hard:\nCome Sister: Shepheardesse, looke on him better\nAnd be not proud, though all the world could see,\nNone could be so abus'd in sight as hee.\nCome, to our flocke,\nEnter.\nPhe. Dead Shepheard, now I find thy saw of might,\nWho euer lov'd, that lou'd not at first sight?\nSil. Sweet Phebe\nPhe. Hah: what saist thou Siluius?\nSil. Sweet Phebe pitty me\nPhe. Why I am sorry for thee gentle Siluius\nSil. Where euer sorrow is, reliefe would be:\nIf you doe sorrow at my griefe in loue,\nBy giuing loue your sorrow, and my griefe\nWere both extermin'd\nPhe. Thou hast my loue, is not that neighbourly?\nSil. I would haue you\nPhe. Why that were couetousnesse:\nSiluius; the time was, that I hated thee;\nAnd yet it is not, that I beare thee loue,\nBut since that thou canst talke of loue so well,\nThy company, which erst was irkesome to me\nI will endure; and Ile employ thee too:\nBut doe not looke for further recompence\nThen thine owne gladnesse, that thou art employd\nSil. So holy, and so perfect is my loue,\nAnd I in such a pouerty of grace,\nThat I shall thinke it a most plenteous crop\nTo gleane the broken eares after the man\nThat the maine haruest reapes: loose now and then\nA scattred smile, and that Ile liue vpon\nPhe. Knowst thou the youth that spoke to mee yerewhile?\nSil. Not very well, but I haue met him oft,\nAnd he hath bought the Cottage and the bounds\nThat the old Carlot once was Master of\nPhe. Thinke not I loue him, though I ask for him,\n'Tis but a peeuish boy, yet he talkes well,\nBut what care I for words? yet words do well\nWhen he that speakes them pleases those that heare:\nIt is a pretty youth, not very prettie,\nBut sure hee's proud, and yet his pride becomes him;\nHee'll make a proper man: the best thing in him\nIs his complexion: and faster then his tongue\nDid make offence, his eye did heale it vp:\nHe is not very tall, yet for his yeeres hee's tall:\nHis leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well:\nThere was a pretty rednesse in his lip,\nA little riper, and more lustie red\nThen that mixt in his cheeke: 'twas iust the difference\nBetwixt the constant red, and mingled Damaske.\nThere be some women Siluius, had they markt him\nIn parcells as I did, would haue gone neere\nTo fall in loue with him: but for my part\nI loue him not, nor hate him not: and yet\nHaue more cause to hate him then to loue him,\nFor what had he to doe to chide at me?\nHe said mine eyes were black, and my haire blacke,\nAnd now I am remembred, scorn'd at me:\nI maruell why I answer'd not againe,\nBut that's all one: omittance is no quittance:\nIle write to him a very tanting Letter,\nAnd thou shalt beare it, wilt thou Siluius?\nSil. Phebe, with all my heart\nPhe. Ile write it strait:\nThe matter's in my head, and in my heart,\nI will be bitter with him, and passing short;\nGoe with me Siluius.\nExeunt.\nActus Quartus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Rosalind, and Celia, and Iaques.\nIaq. I prethee, pretty youth, let me better acquainted\nwith thee\nRos They say you are a melancholly fellow\nIaq. I am so: I doe loue it better then laughing\nRos. Those that are in extremity of either, are abhominable\nfellowes, and betray themselues to euery moderne\ncensure, worse then drunkards\nIaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing\nRos. Why then 'tis good to be a poste\nIaq. I haue neither the Schollers melancholy, which\nis emulation: nor the Musitians, which is fantasticall;\nnor the Courtiers, which is proud: nor the Souldiers,\nwhich is ambitious: nor the Lawiers, which is politick:\nnor the Ladies, which is nice: nor the Louers, which\nis all these: but it is a melancholy of mine owne, compounded\nof many simples, extracted from many obiects,\nand indeed the sundrie contemplation of my trauells, in\nwhich by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous\nsadnesse\nRos. A Traueller: by my faith you haue great reason\nto be sad: I feare you haue sold your owne Lands,\nto see other mens; then to haue seene much, and to haue\nnothing, is to haue rich eyes and poore hands\nIaq. Yes, I haue gain'd my experience.\nEnter Orlando.\nRos. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather\nhaue a foole to make me merrie, then experience to\nmake me sad, and to trauaile for it too\nOrl. Good day, and happinesse, deere Rosalind\nIaq. Nay then God buy you, and you talke in blanke\nverse\nRos. Farewell Mounsieur Trauellor: looke you\nlispe, and weare strange suites; disable all the benefits\nof your owne Countrie: be out of loue with your\nnatiuitie, and almost chide God for making you that\ncountenance you are; or I will scarce thinke you haue\nswam in a Gundello. Why how now Orlando, where\nhaue you bin all this while? you a louer? and you\nserue me such another tricke, neuer come in my sight\nmore\nOrl. My faire Rosalind, I come within an houre of my\npromise\nRos. Breake an houres promise in loue? hee that\nwill diuide a minute into a thousand parts, and breake\nbut a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs\nof loue, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapt\nhim oth' shoulder, but Ile warrant him heart hole\nOrl. Pardon me deere Rosalind\nRos. Nay, and you be so tardie, come no more in my\nsight, I had as liefe be woo'd of a Snaile\nOrl. Of a Snaile?\nRos. I, of a Snaile: for though he comes slowly, hee\ncarries his house on his head; a better ioyncture I thinke\nthen you make a woman: besides, he brings his destinie\nwith him\nOrl. What's that?\nRos. Why hornes: w such as you are faine to be beholding\nto your wiues for: but he comes armed in his\nfortune, and preuents the slander of his wife\nOrl. Vertue is no horne-maker: and my Rosalind is\nvertuous\nRos. And I am your Rosalind\nCel. It pleases him to call you so: but he hath a Rosalind\nof a better leere then you\nRos. Come, wooe me, wooe mee: for now I am in a\nholy-day humor, and like enough to consent: What\nwould you say to me now, and I were your verie, verie\nRosalind?\nOrl. I would kisse before I spoke\nRos. Nay, you were better speake first, and when you\nwere grauel'd, for lacke of matter, you might take occasion\nto kisse: verie good Orators when they are out,\nthey will spit, and for louers, lacking (God warne vs)\nmatter, the cleanliest shift is to kisse\nOrl. How if the kisse be denide?\nRos. Then she puts you to entreatie, and there begins\nnew matter\nOrl. Who could be out, being before his beloued\nMistris?\nRos. Marrie that should you if I were your Mistris,\nor I should thinke my honestie ranker then my wit\nOrl. What, of my suite?\nRos. Not out of your apparrell, and yet out of your\nsuite:\nAm not I your Rosalind?\nOrl. I take some ioy to say you are, because I would\nbe talking of her\nRos. Well, in her person, I say I will not haue you\nOrl. Then in mine owne person, I die\nRos. No faith, die by Attorney: the poore world is\nalmost six thousand yeeres old, and in all this time there\nwas not anie man died in his owne person (videlicet) in\na loue cause: Troilous had his braines dash'd out with a\nGrecian club, yet he did what hee could to die before,\nand he is one of the patternes of loue. Leander, he would\nhaue liu'd manie a faire yeere though Hero had turn'd\nNun; if it had not bin for a hot Midsomer-night, for\n(good youth) he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont,\nand being taken with the crampe, was droun'd,\nand the foolish Chronoclers of that age, found it was\nHero of Cestos. But these are all lies, men haue died\nfrom time to time, and wormes haue eaten them, but not\nfor loue\nOrl. I would not haue my right Rosalind of this mind,\nfor I protest her frowne might kill me\nRos. By this hand, it will not kill a flie: but come,\nnow I will be your Rosalind in a more comming-on disposition:\nand aske me what you will, I will grant it\nOrl. Then loue me Rosalind\nRos. Yes faith will I, fridaies and saterdaies, and all\nOrl. And wilt thou haue me?\nRos. I, and twentie such\nOrl. What saiest thou?\nRos. Are you not good?\nOrl. I hope so\nRosalind. Why then, can one desire too much of a\ngood thing: Come sister, you shall be the Priest, and\nmarrie vs: giue me your hand Orlando: What doe you\nsay sister?\nOrl. Pray thee marrie vs\nCel. I cannot say the words\nRos. You must begin, will you Orlando\nCel. Goe too: wil you Orlando, haue to wife this Rosalind?\nOrl. I will\nRos. I, but when?\nOrl. Why now, as fast as she can marrie vs\nRos. Then you must say, I take thee Rosalind for\nwife\nOrl. I take thee Rosalind for wife\nRos. I might aske you for your Commission,\nBut I doe take thee Orlando for my husband: there's a\ngirle goes before the Priest, and certainely a Womans\nthought runs before her actions\nOrl. So do all thoughts, they are wing'd\nRos. Now tell me how long you would haue her, after\nyou haue possest her?\nOrl. For euer, and a day\nRos. Say a day, without the euer: no, no Orlando, men\nare Aprill when they woe, December when they wed:\nMaides are May when they are maides, but the sky changes\nwhen they are wiues: I will bee more iealous of\nthee, then a Barbary cocke-pidgeon ouer his hen, more\nclamorous then a Parrat against raine, more new-fangled\nthen an ape, more giddy in my desires, then a monkey:\nI will weepe for nothing, like Diana in the Fountaine,\n& I wil do that when you are dispos'd to be merry:\nI will laugh like a Hyen, and that when thou art inclin'd\nto sleepe\nOrl. But will my Rosalind doe so?\nRos. By my life, she will doe as I doe\nOrl. O but she is wise\nRos. Or else shee could not haue the wit to doe this:\nthe wiser, the waywarder: make the doores vpon a womans\nwit, and it will out at the casement: shut that, and\n'twill out at the key-hole: stop that, 'twill flie with the\nsmoake out at the chimney\nOrl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might\nsay, wit whether wil't?\nRos. Nay, you might keepe that checke for it, till you\nmet your wiues wit going to your neighbours bed\nOrl. And what wit could wit haue, to excuse that?\nRosa. Marry to say, she came to seeke you there: you\nshall neuer take her without her answer, vnlesse you take\nher without her tongue: o that woman that cannot\nmake her fault her husbands occasion, let her neuer nurse\nher childe her selfe, for she will breed it like a foole\nOrl. For these two houres Rosalinde, I wil leaue thee\nRos. Alas, deere loue, I cannot lacke thee two houres\nOrl. I must attend the Duke at dinner, by two a clock\nI will be with thee againe\nRos. I, goe your waies, goe your waies: I knew what\nyou would proue, my friends told mee as much, and I\nthought no lesse: that flattering tongue of yours wonne\nme: 'tis but one cast away, and so come death: two o'\nclocke is your howre\nOrl. I, sweet Rosalind\nRos. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God\nmend mee, and by all pretty oathes that are not dangerous,\nif you breake one iot of your promise, or come one\nminute behinde your houre, I will thinke you the most\npatheticall breake-promise, and the most hollow louer,\nand the most vnworthy of her you call Rosalinde, that\nmay bee chosen out of the grosse band of the vnfaithfull:\ntherefore beware my censure, and keep your promise\nOrl. With no lesse religion, then if thou wert indeed\nmy Rosalind: so adieu\nRos. Well, Time is the olde Iustice that examines all\nsuch offenders, and let time try: adieu.\nEnter.\nCel. You haue simply misus'd our sexe in your loue-prate:\nwe must haue your doublet and hose pluckt ouer\nyour head, and shew the world what the bird hath done\nto her owne neast\nRos. O coz, coz, coz: my pretty little coz, that thou\ndidst know how many fathome deepe I am in loue: but\nit cannot bee sounded: my affection hath an vnknowne\nbottome, like the Bay of Portugall\nCel. Or rather bottomlesse, that as fast as you poure\naffection in, it runs out\nRos. No, that same wicked Bastard of Venus, that was\nbegot of thought, conceiu'd of spleene, and borne of\nmadnesse, that blinde rascally boy, that abuses euery\nones eyes, because his owne are out, let him bee iudge,\nhow deepe I am in loue: ile tell thee Aliena, I cannot be\nout of the sight of Orlando: Ile goe finde a shadow, and\nsigh till he come\nCel. And Ile sleepe.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Iaques and Lords, Forresters.\nIaq. Which is he that killed the Deare?\nLord. Sir, it was I\nIaq. Let's present him to the Duke like a Romane\nConquerour, and it would doe well to set the Deares\nhorns vpon his head, for a branch of victory; haue you\nno song Forrester for this purpose?\nLord. Yes Sir\nIaq. Sing it: 'tis no matter how it bee in tune, so it\nmake noyse enough.\nMusicke, Song.\nWhat shall he haue that kild the Deare?\nHis Leather skin, and hornes to weare:\nThen sing him home, the rest shall beare this burthen;\nTake thou no scorne to weare the horne,\nIt was a crest ere thou wast borne,\nThy fathers father wore it,\nAnd thy father bore it,\nThe horne, the horne, the lusty horne,\nIs not a thing to laugh to scorne.\nExeunt.\nScoena Tertia.\nEnter Rosalind and Celia.\nRos. How say you now, is it not past two a clock?\nAnd heere much Orlando\nCel. I warrant you, with pure loue, & troubled brain,\nEnter Siluius.\nHe hath t'ane his bow and arrowes, and is gone forth\nTo sleepe: looke who comes heere\nSil. My errand is to you, faire youth,\nMy gentle Phebe, did bid me giue you this:\nI know not the contents, but as I guesse\nBy the sterne brow, and waspish action\nWhich she did vse, as she was writing of it,\nIt beares an angry tenure; pardon me,\nI am but as a guiltlesse messenger\nRos. Patience her selfe would startle at this letter,\nAnd play the swaggerer, beare this, beare all:\nShee saies I am not faire, that I lacke manners,\nShe calls me proud, and that she could not loue me\nWere man as rare as Phenix: 'od's my will,\nHer loue is not the Hare that I doe hunt,\nWhy writes she so to me? well Shepheard, well,\nThis is a Letter of your owne deuice\nSil. No, I protest, I know not the contents,\nPhebe did write it\nRos. Come, come, you are a foole,\nAnd turn'd into the extremity of loue.\nI saw her hand, she has a leatherne hand,\nA freestone coloured hand: I verily did thinke\nThat her old gloues were on, but twas her hands:\nShe has a huswiues hand, but that's no matter:\nI say she neuer did inuent this letter,\nThis is a mans inuention, and his hand\nSil. Sure it is hers\nRos. Why, tis a boysterous and a cruell stile,\nA stile for challengers: why, she defies me,\nLike Turke to Christian: womens gentle braine\nCould not drop forth such giant rude inuention,\nSuch Ethiop words, blacker in their effect\nThen in their countenance: will you heare the letter?\nSil. So please you, for I neuer heard it yet:\nYet heard too much of Phebes crueltie\nRos. She Phebes me: marke how the tyrant writes.\nRead.\nArt thou god, to Shepherd turn'd?\nThat a maidens heart hath burn'd.\nCan a woman raile thus?\nSil. Call you this railing?\nRos.\nRead.\nWhy, thy godhead laid a part,\nWar'st thou with a womans heart?\nDid you euer heare such railing?\nWhiles the eye of man did wooe me,\nThat could do no vengeance to me.\nMeaning me a beast.\nIf the scorne of your bright eine\nHaue power to raise such loue in mine,\nAlacke, in me, what strange effect\nWould they worke in milde aspect?\nWhiles you chid me, I did loue,\nHow then might your praiers moue?\nHe that brings this loue to thee,\nLittle knowes this Loue in me:\nAnd by him seale vp thy minde,\nWhether that thy youth and kinde\nWill the faithfull offer take\nOf me, and all that I can make,\nOr else by him my loue denie,\nAnd then Ile studie how to die\nSil. Call you this chiding?\nCel. Alas poore Shepheard\nRos. Doe you pitty him? No, he deserues no pitty:\nwilt thou loue such a woman? what to make thee an instrument,\nand play false straines vpon thee? not to be endur'd.\nWell, goe your way to her; (for I see Loue hath\nmade thee a tame snake) and say this to her; That if she\nloue me, I charge her to loue thee: if she will not, I will\nneuer haue her, vnlesse thou intreat for her: if you bee a\ntrue louer hence, and not a word; for here comes more\ncompany.\nExit. Sil.\nEnter Oliuer.\nOliu. Good morrow, faire ones: pray you, (if you | know)\nWhere in the Purlews of this Forrest, stands\nA sheep-coat, fenc'd about with Oliue-trees\nCel. West of this place, down in the neighbor bottom\nThe ranke of Oziers, by the murmuring streame\nLeft on your right hand, brings you to the place:\nBut at this howre, the house doth keepe it selfe,\nThere's none within\nOli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,\nThen should I know you by description,\nSuch garments, and such yeeres: the boy is faire,\nOf femall fauour, and bestowes himselfe\nLike a ripe sister: the woman low\nAnd browner then her brother: are not you\nThe owner of the house I did enquire for?\nCel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are\nOli. Orlando doth commend him to you both,\nAnd to that youth hee calls his Rosalind,\nHe sends this bloudy napkin; are you he?\nRos. I am: what must we vnderstand by this?\nOli. Some of my shame, if you will know of me\nWhat man I am, and how, and why, and where\nThis handkercher was stain'd\nCel. I pray you tell it\nOli. When last the yong Orlando parted from you,\nHe left a promise to returne againe\nWithin an houre, and pacing through the Forrest,\nChewing the food of sweet and bitter fancie,\nLoe what befell: he threw his eye aside,\nAnd marke what obiect did present it selfe\nVnder an old Oake, whose bows were moss'd with age\nAnd high top, bald with drie antiquitie:\nA wretched ragged man, ore-growne with haire\nLay sleeping on his back; about his necke\nA greene and guilded snake had wreath'd it selfe,\nWho with her head, nimble in threats approach'd\nThe opening of his mouth: but sodainly\nSeeing Orlando, it vnlink'd it selfe,\nAnd with indented glides, did slip away\nInto a bush, vnder which bushes shade\nA Lyonnesse, with vdders all drawne drie,\nLay cowching head on ground, with catlike watch\nWhen that the sleeping man should stirre; for 'tis\nThe royall disposition of that beast\nTo prey on nothing, that doth seeme as dead:\nThis seene, Orlando did approach the man,\nAnd found it was his brother, his elder brother\nCel. O I haue heard him speake of that same brother,\nAnd he did render him the most vnnaturall\nThat liu'd amongst men\nOli. And well he might so doe,\nFor well I know he was vnnaturall\nRos. But to Orlando: did he leaue him there\nFood to the suck'd and hungry Lyonnesse?\nOli. Twice did he turne his backe, and purpos'd so:\nBut kindnesse, nobler euer then reuenge,\nAnd Nature stronger then his iust occasion,\nMade him giue battell to the Lyonnesse:\nWho quickly fell before him, in which hurtling\nFrom miserable slumber I awaked\nCel. Are you his brother?\nRos. Was't you he rescu'd?\nCel. Was't you that did so oft contriue to kill him?\nOli. 'Twas I: but 'tis not I: I doe not shame\nTo tell you what I was, since my conuersion\nSo sweetly tastes, being the thing I am\nRos. But for the bloody napkin?\nOli. By and by:\nWhen from the first to last betwixt vs two,\nTeares our recountments had most kindely bath'd,\nAs how I came into that Desert place.\nIn briefe, he led me to the gentle Duke,\nWho gaue me fresh aray, and entertainment,\nCommitting me vnto my brothers loue,\nWho led me instantly vnto his Caue,\nThere stript himselfe, and heere vpon his arme\nThe Lyonnesse had torne some flesh away,\nWhich all this while had bled; and now he fainted,\nAnd cride in fainting vpon Rosalinde.\nBriefe, I recouer'd him, bound vp his wound,\nAnd after some small space, being strong at heart,\nHe sent me hither, stranger as I am\nTo tell this story, that you might excuse\nHis broken promise, and to giue this napkin\nDied in this bloud, vnto the Shepheard youth,\nThat he in sport doth call his Rosalind\nCel. Why how now Ganimed, sweet Ganimed\nOli. Many will swoon when they do look on bloud\nCel. There is more in it; Cosen Ganimed\nOli. Looke, he recouers\nRos. I would I were at home\nCel. Wee'll lead you thither:\nI pray you will you take him by the arme\nOli. Be of good cheere youth: you a man?\nYou lacke a mans heart\nRos. I doe so, I confesse it:\nAh, sirra, a body would thinke this was well counterfeited,\nI pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited:\nheigh-ho\nOli. This was not counterfeit, there is too great testimony\nin your complexion, that it was a passion of earnest\nRos. Counterfeit, I assure you\nOli. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to\nbe a man\nRos. So I doe: but yfaith, I should haue beene a woman\nby right\nCel. Come, you looke paler and paler: pray you draw\nhomewards: good sir, goe with vs\nOli. That will I: for I must beare answere backe\nHow you excuse my brother, Rosalind\nRos. I shall deuise something: but I pray you commend\nmy counterfeiting to him: will you goe?\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Clowne and Awdrie.\nClow. We shall finde a time Awdrie, patience gentle\nAwdrie\nAwd. Faith the Priest was good enough, for all the\nolde gentlemans saying\nClow. A most wicked Sir Oliuer, Awdrie, a most vile\nMar-text. But Awdrie, there is a youth heere in the\nForrest layes claime to you\nAwd. I, I know who 'tis: he hath no interest in mee\nin the world: here comes the man you meane.\nEnter William.\nClo. It is meat and drinke to me to see a Clowne, by\nmy troth, we that haue good wits, haue much to answer\nfor: we shall be flouting: we cannot hold\nWill. Good eu'n Audrey\nAud. God ye good eu'n William\nWill. And good eu'n to you Sir\nClo. Good eu'n gentle friend. Couer thy head, couer\nthy head: Nay prethee bee couer'd. How olde are you\nFriend?\nWill. Fiue and twentie Sir\nClo. A ripe age: Is thy name William?\nWill. William, sir\nClo. A faire name. Was't borne i'th Forrest heere?\nWill. I sir, I thanke God\nClo. Thanke God: A good answer:\nArt rich?\nWill. 'Faith sir, so, so\nCle. So, so, is good, very good, very excellent good:\nand yet it is not, it is but so, so:\nArt thou wise?\nWill. I sir, I haue a prettie wit\nClo. Why, thou saist well. I do now remember a saying:\nThe Foole doth thinke he is wise, but the wiseman\nknowes himselfe to be a Foole. The Heathen Philosopher,\nwhen he had a desire to eate a Grape, would open\nhis lips when he put it into his mouth, meaning thereby,\nthat Grapes were made to eate, and lippes to open.\nYou do loue this maid?\nWill. I do sir\nClo. Giue me your hand: Art thou Learned?\nWill. No sir\nClo. Then learne this of me, To haue, is to haue. For\nit is a figure in Rhetoricke, that drink being powr'd out\nof a cup into a glasse, by filling the one, doth empty the\nother. For all your Writers do consent, that ipse is hee:\nnow you are not ipse, for I am he\nWill. Which he sir?\nClo. He sir, that must marrie this woman: Therefore\nyou Clowne, abandon: which is in the vulgar, leaue the\nsocietie: which in the boorish, is companie, of this female:\nwhich in the common, is woman: which together,\nis, abandon the society of this Female, or Clowne\nthou perishest: or to thy better vnderstanding, dyest; or\n(to wit) I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into\ndeath, thy libertie into bondage: I will deale in poyson\nwith thee, or in bastinado, or in steele: I will bandy\nwith thee in faction, I will ore-run thee with policie: I\nwill kill thee a hundred and fifty wayes, therefore tremble\nand depart\nAud. Do good William\nWill. God rest you merry sir.\nExit\nEnter Corin.\nCor. Our Master and Mistresse seekes you: come away,\naway\nClo. Trip Audry, trip Audry, I attend,\nI attend.\nExeunt.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Orlando & Oliuer.\nOrl. Is't possible, that on so little acquaintance you\nshould like her? that, but seeing, you should loue her?\nAnd louing woo? and wooing, she should graunt? And\nwill you perseuer to enioy her?\nOl. Neither call the giddinesse of it in question; the\npouertie of her, the small acquaintance, my sodaine woing,\nnor sodaine consenting: but say with mee, I loue\nAliena: say with her, that she loues mee; consent with\nboth, that we may enioy each other: it shall be to your\ngood: for my fathers house, and all the reuennew, that\nwas old Sir Rowlands will I estate vpon you, and heere\nliue and die a Shepherd.\nEnter Rosalind.\nOrl. You haue my consent.\nLet your Wedding be to morrow: thither will I\nInuite the Duke, and all's contented followers:\nGo you, and prepare Aliena; for looke you,\nHeere comes my Rosalinde\nRos. God saue you brother\nOl. And you faire sister\nRos. Oh my deere Orlando, how it greeues me to see\nthee weare thy heart in a scarfe\nOrl. It is my arme\nRos. I thought thy heart had beene wounded with\nthe clawes of a Lion\nOrl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a Lady\nRos. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeyted\nto sound, when he shew'd me your handkercher?\nOrl. I, and greater wonders then that\nRos. O, I know where you are: nay, tis true: there\nwas neuer any thing so sodaine, but the sight of two\nRammes, and Cesars Thrasonicall bragge of I came, saw,\nand ouercome. For your brother, and my sister, no sooner\nmet, but they look'd: no sooner look'd, but they\nlou'd; no sooner lou'd, but they sigh'd: no sooner sigh'd\nbut they ask'd one another the reason: no sooner knew\nthe reason, but they sought the remedie: and in these\ndegrees, haue they made a paire of staires to marriage,\nwhich they will climbe incontinent, or else bee incontinent\nbefore marriage; they are in the verie wrath of\nloue, and they will together. Clubbes cannot part\nthem\nOrl. They shall be married to morrow: and I will\nbid the Duke to the Nuptiall. But O, how bitter a thing\nit is, to looke into happines through another mans eies:\nby so much the more shall I to morrow be at the height\nof heart heauinesse, by how much I shal thinke my brother\nhappie, in hauing what he wishes for\nRos. Why then to morrow, I cannot serue your turne\nfor Rosalind?\nOrl. I can liue no longer by thinking\nRos. I will wearie you then no longer with idle talking.\nKnow of me then (for now I speake to some purpose)\nthat I know you are a Gentleman of good conceit:\nI speake not this, that you should beare a good opinion\nof my knowledge: insomuch (I say) I know you are: neither\ndo I labor for a greater esteeme then may in some\nlittle measure draw a beleefe from you, to do your selfe\ngood, and not to grace me. Beleeue then, if you please,\nthat I can do strange things: I haue since I was three\nyeare old conuerst with a Magitian, most profound in\nhis Art, and yet not damnable. If you do loue Rosalinde\nso neere the hart, as your gesture cries it out: when your\nbrother marries Aliena, shall you marrie her. I know into\nwhat straights of Fortune she is driuen, and it is not\nimpossible to me, if it appeare not inconuenient to you,\nto set her before your eyes to morrow, humane as she is,\nand without any danger\nOrl. Speak'st thou in sober meanings?\nRos. By my life I do, which I tender deerly, though\nI say I am a Magitian: Therefore put you in your best aray,\nbid your friends: for if you will be married to morrow,\nyou shall: and to Rosalind if you will.\nEnter Siluius & Phebe.\nLooke, here comes a Louer of mine, and a louer of hers\nPhe. Youth, you haue done me much vngentlenesse,\nTo shew the letter that I writ to you\nRos. I care not if I haue: it is my studie\nTo seeme despightfull and vngentle to you:\nyou are there followed by a faithful shepheard,\nLooke vpon him, loue him: he worships you\nPhe. Good shepheard, tell this youth what 'tis to loue\nSil. It is to be all made of sighes and teares,\nAnd so am I for Phebe\nPhe. And I for Ganimed\nOrl. And I for Rosalind\nRos. And I for no woman\nSil. It is to be all made of faith and seruice,\nAnd so am I for Phebe\nPhe. And I for Ganimed\nOrl. And I for Rosalind\nRos. And I for no woman\nSil. It is to be all made of fantasie,\nAll made of passion, and all made of wishes,\nAll adoration, dutie, and obseruance,\nAll humblenesse, all patience, and impatience,\nAll puritie, all triall, all obseruance:\nAnd so am I for Phebe\nPhe. And so am I for Ganimed\nOrl. And so am I for Rosalind\nRos. And so am I for no woman\nPhe. If this be so, why blame you me to loue you?\nSil. If this be so, why blame you me to loue you?\nOrl. If this be so, why blame you me to loue you?\nRos. Why do you speake too, Why blame you mee\nto loue you\nOrl. To her, that is not heere, nor doth not heare\nRos. Pray you no more of this, 'tis like the howling\nof Irish Wolues against the Moone: I will helpe you\nif I can: I would loue you if I could: To morrow meet\nme altogether: I wil marrie you, if euer I marrie Woman,\nand Ile be married to morrow: I will satisfie you,\nif euer I satisfi'd man, and you shall bee married to morrow.\nI wil content you, if what pleases you contents\nyou, and you shal be married to morrow: As you loue\nRosalind meet, as you loue Phebe meet, and as I loue no\nwoman, Ile meet: so fare you wel: I haue left you commands\nSil. Ile not faile, if I liue\nPhe. Nor I\nOrl. Nor I.\nExeunt.\nScoena Tertia.\nEnter Clowne and Audrey.\nClo. To morrow is the ioyfull day Audrey, to morow\nwill we be married\nAud. I do desire it with all my heart: and I hope it is\nno dishonest desire, to desire to be a woman of y world?\nHeere come two of the banish'd Dukes Pages.\nEnter two Pages.\n1.Pa. Wel met honest Gentleman\nClo. By my troth well met: come, sit, sit, and a song\n2.Pa. We are for you, sit i'th middle\n1.Pa. Shal we clap into't roundly, without hauking,\nor spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the onely\nprologues to a bad voice\n2.Pa. I faith, y'faith, and both in a tune like two\ngipsies on a horse.\nSong.\nIt was a Louer, and his lasse,\nWith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,\nThat o're the greene corne feild did passe,\nIn the spring time, the onely pretty rang time.\nWhen Birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.\nSweet Louers loue the spring,\nAnd therefore take the present time.\nWith a hey, & a ho, and a hey nonino,\nFor loue is crowned with the prime.\nIn spring time, &c.\nBetweene the acres of the Rie,\nWith a hey, and a ho, & a hey nonino:\nThese prettie Country folks would lie.\nIn spring time, &c.\nThis Carroll they began that houre,\nWith a hey and a ho, & a hey nonino:\nHow that a life was but a Flower,\nIn spring time, &c\nClo. Truly yong Gentlemen, though there was no\ngreat matter in the dittie, yet y note was very vntunable\n1.Pa. you are deceiu'd Sir, we kept time, we lost not\nour time\nClo. By my troth yes: I count it but time lost to heare\nsuch a foolish song. God buy you, and God mend your\nvoices. Come Audrie.\nExeunt.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Duke Senior, Amyens, Iaques, Orlando, Oliuer, Celia.\nDu.Sen. Dost thou beleeue Orlando, that the boy\nCan do all this that he hath promised?\nOrl. I sometimes do beleeue, and somtimes do not,\nAs those that feare they hope, and know they feare.\nEnter Rosalinde, Siluius, & Phebe.\nRos. Patience once more, whiles our co[m]pact is vrg'd:\nYou say, if I bring in your Rosalinde,\nYou wil bestow her on Orlando heere?\nDu.Se. That would I, had I kingdoms to giue with hir\nRos. And you say you wil haue her, when I bring hir?\nOrl. That would I, were I of all kingdomes King\nRos. You say, you'l marrie me, if I be willing\nPhe. That will I, should I die the houre after\nRos. But if you do refuse to marrie me,\nYou'l giue your selfe to this most faithfull Shepheard\nPhe. So is the bargaine\nRos. You say that you'l haue Phebe if she will\nSil. Though to haue her and death, were both one\nthing\nRos. I haue promis'd to make all this matter euen:\nKeepe you your word, O Duke, to giue your daughter,\nYou yours Orlando, to receiue his daughter:\nKeepe you your word Phebe, that you'l marrie me,\nOr else refusing me to wed this shepheard:\nKeepe your word Siluius, that you'l marrie her\nIf she refuse me, and from hence I go\nTo make these doubts all euen.\nExit Ros. and Celia.\nDu.Sen. I do remember in this shepheard boy,\nSome liuely touches of my daughters fauour\nOrl. My Lord, the first time that I euer saw him,\nMe thought he was a brother to your daughter:\nBut my good Lord, this Boy is Forrest borne,\nAnd hath bin tutor'd in the rudiments\nOf many desperate studies, by his vnckle,\nWhom he reports to be a great Magitian.\nEnter Clowne and Audrey.\nObscured in the circle of this Forrest\nIaq. There is sure another flood toward, and these\ncouples are comming to the Arke. Here comes a payre\nof verie strange beasts, which in all tongues, are call'd\nFooles\nClo. Salutation and greeting to you all\nIaq. Good my Lord, bid him welcome: This is the\nMotley-minded Gentleman, that I haue so often met in\nthe Forrest: he hath bin a Courtier he sweares\nClo. If any man doubt that, let him put mee to my\npurgation, I haue trod a measure, I haue flattred a Lady,\nI haue bin politicke with my friend, smooth with mine\nenemie, I haue vndone three Tailors, I haue had foure\nquarrels, and like to haue fought one\nIaq. And how was that tane vp?\nClo. 'Faith we met, and found the quarrel was vpon\nthe seuenth cause\nIaq. How seuenth cause? Good my Lord, like this\nfellow\nDu.Se. I like him very well\nClo. God'ild you sir, I desire you of the like: I presse\nin heere sir, amongst the rest of the Country copulatiues\nto sweare, and to forsweare, according as mariage binds\nand blood breakes: a poore virgin sir, an il-fauor'd thing\nsir, but mine owne, a poore humour of mine sir, to take\nthat that no man else will: rich honestie dwels like a miser\nsir, in a poore house, as your Pearle in your foule oyster\nDu.Se. By my faith, he is very swift, and sententious\nClo. According to the fooles bolt sir, and such dulcet\ndiseases\nIaq. But for the seuenth cause. How did you finde\nthe quarrell on the seuenth cause?\nClo. Vpon a lye, seuen times remoued: (beare your\nbodie more seeming Audry) as thus sir: I did dislike the\ncut of a certaine Courtiers beard: he sent me word, if I\nsaid his beard was not cut well, hee was in the minde it\nwas: this is call'd the retort courteous. If I sent him\nword againe, it was not well cut, he wold send me word\nhe cut it to please himselfe: this is call'd the quip modest.\nIf againe, it was not well cut, he disabled my iudgment:\nthis is called, the reply churlish. If againe it was not well\ncut, he would answer I spake not true: this is call'd the\nreproofe valiant. If againe, it was not well cut, he wold\nsay, I lie: this is call'd the counter-checke quarrelsome:\nand so to lye circumstantiall, and the lye direct\nIaq. And how oft did you say his beard was not well\ncut?\nClo. I durst go no further then the lye circumstantial:\nnor he durst not giue me the lye direct: and so wee measur'd\nswords, and parted\nIaq. Can you nominate in order now, the degrees of\nthe lye\nClo. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the booke: as you\nhaue bookes for good manners: I will name you the degrees.\nThe first, the Retort courteous: the second, the\nQuip-modest: the third, the reply Churlish: the fourth,\nthe Reproofe valiant: the fift, the Counterchecke quarrelsome:\nthe sixt, the Lye with circumstance: the seauenth,\nthe Lye direct: all these you may auoyd, but the\nLye direct: and you may auoide that too, with an If. I\nknew when seuen Iustices could not take vp a Quarrell,\nbut when the parties were met themselues, one of them\nthought but of an If; as if you saide so, then I saide so:\nand they shooke hands, and swore brothers. Your If, is\nthe onely peace-maker: much vertue in if\nIaq. Is not this a rare fellow my Lord? He's as good\nat any thing, and yet a foole\nDu.Se. He vses his folly like a stalking-horse, and vnder\nthe presentation of that he shoots his wit.\nEnter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia.\nStill Musicke.\nHymen. Then is there mirth in heauen,\nWhen earthly things made eauen\nattone together.\nGood Duke receiue thy daughter,\nHymen from Heauen brought her,\nYea brought her hether.\nThat thou mightst ioyne his hand with his,\nWhose heart within his bosome is\nRos. To you I giue my selfe, for I am yours.\nTo you I giue my selfe, for I am yours\nDu.Se. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter\nOrl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind\nPhe. If sight & shape be true, why then my loue adieu\nRos. Ile haue no Father, if you be not he:\nIle haue no Husband, if you be not he:\nNor ne're wed woman, if you be not shee\nHy. Peace hoa: I barre confusion,\n'Tis I must make conclusion\nOf these most strange euents:\nHere's eight that must take hands,\nTo ioyne in Hymens bands,\nIf truth holds true contents.\nYou and you, no crosse shall part;\nYou and you, are hart in hart:\nYou, to his loue must accord,\nOr haue a Woman to your Lord.\nYou and you, are sure together,\nAs the Winter to fowle Weather:\nWhiles a Wedlocke Hymne we sing,\nFeede your selues with questioning:\nThat reason, wonder may diminish\nHow thus we met, and these things finish.\nSong.\nWedding is great Iunos crowne,\nO blessed bond of boord and bed:\n'Tis Hymen peoples euerie towne,\nHigh wedlock then be honored:\nHonor, high honor and renowne\nTo Hymen, God of euerie Towne\nDu.Se. O my deere Neece, welcome thou art to me,\nEuen daughter welcome, in no lesse degree\nPhe. I wil not eate my word, now thou art mine,\nThy faith, my fancie to thee doth combine.\nEnter Second Brother.\n2.Bro. Let me haue audience for a word or two:\nI am the second sonne of old Sir Rowland,\nThat bring these tidings to this faire assembly.\nDuke Frederick hearing how that euerie day\nMen of great worth resorted to this forrest,\nAddrest a mightie power, which were on foote\nIn his owne conduct, purposely to take\nHis brother heere, and put him to the sword:\nAnd to the skirts of this wilde Wood he came;\nWhere, meeting with an old Religious man,\nAfter some question with him, was conuerted\nBoth from his enterprize, and from the world:\nHis crowne bequeathing to his banish'd Brother,\nAnd all their Lands restor'd to him againe\nThat were with him exil'd. This to be true,\nI do engage my life\nDu.Se. Welcome yong man:\nThou offer'st fairely to thy brothers wedding:\nTo one his lands with-held, and to the other\nA land it selfe at large, a potent Dukedome.\nFirst, in this Forrest, let vs do those ends\nThat heere were well begun, and wel begot:\nAnd after, euery of this happie number\nThat haue endur'd shrew'd daies, and nights with vs,\nShal share the good of our returned fortune,\nAccording to the measure of their states.\nMeane time, forget this new-falne dignitie,\nAnd fall into our Rusticke Reuelrie:\nPlay Musicke, and you Brides and Bride-groomes all,\nWith measure heap'd in ioy, to'th Measures fall\nIaq. Sir, by your patience: if I heard you rightly,\nThe Duke hath put on a Religious life,\nAnd throwne into neglect the pompous Court\n2.Bro. He hath\nIaq. To him will I: out of these conuertites,\nThere is much matter to be heard, and learn'd:\nyou to your former Honor, I bequeath\nyour patience, and your vertue, well deserues it.\nyou to a loue, that your true faith doth merit:\nyou to your land, and loue, and great allies:\nyou to a long, and well-deserued bed:\nAnd you to wrangling, for thy louing voyage\nIs but for two moneths victuall'd: So to your pleasures,\nI am for other, then for dancing meazures\nDu.Se. Stay, Iaques, stay\nIaq. To see no pastime, I: what you would haue,\nIle stay to know, at your abandon'd caue.\nEnter.\nDu.Se. Proceed, proceed: wee'l begin these rights,\nAs we do trust, they'l end in true delights.\nExit\nRos. It is not the fashion to see the Ladie the Epilogue:\nbut it is no more vnhandsome, then to see the\nLord the Prologue. If it be true, that good wine needs\nno bush, 'tis true, that a good play needes no Epilogue.\nYet to good wine they do vse good bushes: and good\nplayes proue the better by the helpe of good Epilogues:\nWhat a case am I in then, that am neither a good Epilogue,\nnor cannot insinuate with you in the behalfe of a\ngood play? I am not furnish'd like a Begger, therefore\nto begge will not become mee. My way is to coniure\nyou, and Ile begin with the Women. I charge you (O\nwomen) for the loue you beare to men, to like as much\nof this Play, as please you: And I charge you (O men)\nfor the loue you beare to women (as I perceiue by your\nsimpring, none of you hates them) that betweene you,\nand the women, the play may please. If I were a Woman,\nI would kisse as many of you as had beards that\npleas'd me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths that\nI defi'de not: And I am sure, as many as haue good\nbeards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will for my kind\noffer, when I make curt'sie, bid me farewell.\nEnter.\nFINIS. As you Like it.","title":"As you Like it","type":"page"}