A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws

Act III, Scene 1

The palace

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS

• Frederick. Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be.
  But were I not the better part made mercy,
  I should not seek an absent argument 1105
  Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:
  Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is;
  Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living
  Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
  To seek a living in our territory. 1110
  Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine
  Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,
  Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth
  Of what we think against thee.

• Oliver. O that your Highness knew my heart in this! 1115
  I never lov’d my brother in my life.

• Frederick. More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;
  And let my officers of such a nature
  Make an extent upon his house and lands.
  Do this expediently, and turn him going. Exeunt 1120

Act III, Scene 2

The forest

Enter ORLANDO, with a paper

• Orlando. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;
  And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey
  With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
  Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway. 1125
  O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
  And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,
  That every eye which in this forest looks
  Shall see thy virtue witness’d every where.
  Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree, 1130
  The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit

Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

• Corin. And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?

• Touchstone. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good
  life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is nought. 1135
  In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in
  respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in
  respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect
  it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life,
  look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty 1140
  in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in
  thee, shepherd?

• Corin. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at
  ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is
  without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, 1145
  and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a
  great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath
  learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding,
  or comes of a very dull kindred.

• Touchstone. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in 1150
  court, shepherd?

• Corin. No, truly.

• Touchstone. Then thou art damn’d.

• Corin. Nay, I hope.

• Touchstone. Truly, thou art damn’d, like an ill-roasted egg, all on 1155
  one side.

• Corin. For not being at court? Your reason.

• Touchstone. Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw’st good
  manners; if thou never saw’st good manners, then thy manners must
  be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art 1160
  in a parlous state, shepherd.

• Corin. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the
  court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the
  country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not
  at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be 1165
  uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.

• Touchstone. Instance, briefly; come, instance.

• Corin. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you
  know, are greasy.

• Touchstone. Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? And is not the 1170
  grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow,
  shallow. A better instance, I say; come.

• Corin. Besides, our hands are hard.

• Touchstone. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A
  more sounder instance; come. 1175

• Corin. And they are often tarr’d over with the surgery of our
  sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are
  perfum’d with civet.

• Touchstone. Most shallow man! thou worm’s meat in respect of a good
  piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is 1180
  of a baser birth than tar- the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend
  the instance, shepherd.

• Corin. You have too courtly a wit for me; I’ll rest.

• Touchstone. Wilt thou rest damn’d? God help thee, shallow man! God
  make incision in thee! thou art raw. 1185

• Corin. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I
  wear; owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness; glad of other
  men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is
  to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

• Touchstone. That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewes 1190
  and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the
  copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray
  a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,
  out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn’d for this,
  the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how 1195
  thou shouldst scape.

• Corin. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.

Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper

• Rosalind. ‘From the east to western Inde,
  No jewel is like Rosalinde. 1200
  Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
  Through all the world bears Rosalinde.
  All the pictures fairest lin’d
  Are but black to Rosalinde.
  Let no face be kept in mind 1205
  But the fair of Rosalinde.’

• Touchstone. I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and
  suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right
  butter-women’s rank to market.

• Rosalind. Out, fool! 1210

• Touchstone. For a taste:
  If a hart do lack a hind,
  Let him seek out Rosalinde.
  If the cat will after kind,
  So be sure will Rosalinde. 1215
  Winter garments must be lin’d,
  So must slender Rosalinde.
  They that reap must sheaf and bind,
  Then to cart with Rosalinde.
  Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, 1220
  Such a nut is Rosalinde.
  He that sweetest rose will find
  Must find love’s prick and Rosalinde.
  This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect
  yourself with them? 1225

• Rosalind. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.

• Touchstone. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

• Rosalind. I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a
  medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country; for
  you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right 1230
  virtue of the medlar.

• Touchstone. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest
  judge.
  Enter CELIA, with a writing

• Rosalind. Peace! 1235
  Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.

• Celia. ‘Why should this a desert be?
  For it is unpeopled? No;
  Tongues I’ll hang on every tree
  That shall civil sayings show. 1240
  Some, how brief the life of man
  Runs his erring pilgrimage,
  That the streching of a span
  Buckles in his sum of age;
  Some, of violated vows 1245
  ‘Twixt the souls of friend and friend;
  But upon the fairest boughs,
  Or at every sentence end,
  Will I Rosalinda write,
  Teaching all that read to know 1250
  The quintessence of every sprite
  Heaven would in little show.
  Therefore heaven Nature charg’d
  That one body should be fill’d
  With all graces wide-enlarg’d. 1255
  Nature presently distill’d
  Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,
  Cleopatra’s majesty,
  Atalanta’s better part,
  Sad Lucretia’s modesty. 1260
  Thus Rosalinde of many parts
  By heavenly synod was devis’d,
  Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
  To have the touches dearest priz’d.
  Heaven would that she these gifts should have, 1265
  And I to live and die her slave.’

• Rosalind. O most gentle Jupiter! What tedious homily of love have
  you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried ‘Have
  patience, good people.’

• Celia. How now! Back, friends; shepherd, go off a little; go with 1270
  him, sirrah.

• Touchstone. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;
  though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

• Celia. Didst thou hear these verses? 1275

• Rosalind. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them
  had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

• Celia. That’s no matter; the feet might bear the verses.

• Rosalind. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves
  without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse. 1280

• Celia. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be
  hang’d and carved upon these trees?

• Rosalind. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you
  came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so
  berhym’d since Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I 1285
  can hardly remember.

• Celia. Trow you who hath done this?

• Rosalind. Is it a man?

• Celia. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
  Change you colour? 1290

• Rosalind. I prithee, who?

• Celia. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but
  mountains may be remov’d with earthquakes, and so encounter.

• Rosalind. Nay, but who is it?

• Celia. Is it possible? 1295

• Rosalind. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell
  me who it is.

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

• Rosalind. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am 1300
  caparison’d like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my
  disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery.
  I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would
  thou could’st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal’d man
  out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth’d bottle- 1305
  either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork
  out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

• Celia. So you may put a man in your belly.

• Rosalind. Is he of God’s making? What manner of man?
  Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard? 1310

• Celia. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

• Rosalind. Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful. Let
  me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the
  knowledge of his chin.

• Celia. It is young Orlando, that tripp’d up the wrestler’s heels 1315
  and your heart both in an instant.

• Rosalind. Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true
  maid.

• Celia. I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.

• Rosalind. Orlando? 1320

• Celia. Orlando.

• Rosalind. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?
  What did he when thou saw’st him? What said he? How look’d he?
  Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where
  remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him 1325
  again? Answer me in one word.

• Celia. You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first; ’tis a word too
  great for any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these
  particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

• Rosalind. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man’s 1330
  apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

• Celia. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the
  propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and
  relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a
  dropp’d acorn. 1335

• Rosalind. It may well be call’d Jove’s tree, when it drops forth
  such fruit.

• Celia. Give me audience, good madam.

• Rosalind. Proceed.

• Celia. There lay he, stretch’d along like a wounded knight. 1340

• Rosalind. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes
  the ground.

• Celia. Cry ‘Holla’ to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets
  unseasonably. He was furnish’d like a hunter.

• Rosalind. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart. 1345

• Celia. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring’st me out
  of tune.

• Rosalind. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.
  Sweet, say on.

• Celia. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here? 1350

Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES

• Rosalind. ‘Tis he; slink by, and note him.

• Jaques (lord). I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as
  lief have been myself alone.

• Orlando. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too 1355
  for your society.

• Jaques (lord). God buy you; let’s meet as little as we can.

• Orlando. I do desire we may be better strangers.

• Jaques (lord). I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in
  their barks. 1360

• Orlando. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them
  ill-favouredly.

• Jaques (lord). Rosalind is your love’s name?

• Orlando. Yes, just.

• Jaques (lord). I do not like her name. 1365

• Orlando. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was
  christen’d.

• Jaques (lord). What stature is she of?

• Orlando. Just as high as my heart.

• Jaques (lord). You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been 1370
  acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and conn’d them out of rings?

• Orlando. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence
  you have studied your questions.

• Jaques (lord). You have a nimble wit; I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s
  heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against 1375
  our mistress the world, and all our misery.

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

• Jaques (lord). The worst fault you have is to be in love.

• Orlando. ‘Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am 1380
  weary of you.

• Jaques (lord). By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.

• Orlando. He is drown’d in the brook; look but in, and you shall see
  him.

• Jaques (lord). There I shall see mine own figure. 1385

• Orlando. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

• Jaques (lord). I’ll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior Love.

• Orlando. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur
  Melancholy.

Exit JAQUES

• Rosalind. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,
  and under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear,
  forester?

• Orlando. Very well; what would you?

• Rosalind. I pray you, what is’t o’clock? 1395

• Orlando. You should ask me what time o’ day; there’s no clock in
  the forest.

• Rosalind. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing
  every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot
  of Time as well as a clock. 1400

• Orlando. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as
  proper?

• Rosalind. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with
  divers persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time
  trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still 1405
  withal.

• Orlando. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

• Rosalind. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the
  contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz’d; if the
  interim be but a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems 1410
  the length of seven year.

• Orlando. Who ambles Time withal?

• Rosalind. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath
  not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study,
  and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one 1415
  lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other
  knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles
  withal.

• Orlando. Who doth he gallop withal?

• Rosalind. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly 1420
  as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

• Orlando. Who stays it still withal?

• Rosalind. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term
  and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.

• Orlando. Where dwell you, pretty youth? 1425

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

• Orlando. Are you native of this place?

• Rosalind. As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.

• Orlando. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in 1430
  so removed a dwelling.

• Rosalind. I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious
  uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland
  man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love.
  I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I 1435
  am not a woman, to be touch’d with so many giddy offences as he
  hath generally tax’d their whole sex withal.

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

• Rosalind. There were none principal; they were all like one another 1440
  as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his
  fellow-fault came to match it.

• Orlando. I prithee recount some of them.

• Rosalind. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are
  sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young 1445
  plants with carving ‘Rosalind’ on their barks; hangs odes upon
  hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the
  name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give
  him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love
  upon him. 1450

• Orlando. I am he that is so love-shak’d; I pray you tell me your
  remedy.

• Rosalind. There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you; he taught me
  how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you
  are not prisoner. 1455

• Orlando. What were his marks?

• Rosalind. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken,
  which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not;
  a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that,
  for simply your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. 1460
  Then your hose should be ungarter’d, your bonnet unbanded, your
  sleeve unbutton’d, your shoe untied, and every thing about you
  demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you
  are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself
  than seeming the lover of any other. 1465

• Orlando. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

• Rosalind. Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love
  believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess
  she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give
  the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that 1470
  hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?

• Orlando. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I
  am that he, that unfortunate he.

• Rosalind. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

• Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. 1475

• Rosalind. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as
  well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why
  they are not so punish’d and cured is that the lunacy is so
  ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing
  it by counsel. 1480

• Orlando. Did you ever cure any so?

• Rosalind. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his
  love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me; at which
  time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate,
  changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, 1485
  shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every
  passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and
  women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like
  him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now
  weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his 1490
  mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to
  forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook
  merely monastic. And thus I cur’d him; and this way will I take
  upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart,
  that there shall not be one spot of love in ‘t. 1495

• Orlando. I would not be cured, youth.

• Rosalind. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and
  come every day to my cote and woo me.

• Orlando. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.

• Rosalind. Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and, by the way, 1500
  you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

• Orlando. With all my heart, good youth.

• Rosalind. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you
  go? Exeunt

Act III, Scene 3

The forest

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind

• Touchstone. Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats,
  Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature
  content you?

• Audrey. Your features! Lord warrant us! What features?

• Touchstone. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most 1510
  capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

• Jaques (lord). [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a
  thatch’d house!

• Touchstone. When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s
  good wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it 1515
  strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room.
  Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.

• Audrey. I do not know what ‘poetical’ is. Is it honest in deed and
  word? Is it a true thing?

• Touchstone. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, 1520
  and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry may
  be said as lovers they do feign.

• Audrey. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?

• Touchstone. I do, truly, for thou swear’st to me thou art honest;
  now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst 1525
  feign.

• Audrey. Would you not have me honest?

• Touchstone. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour’d; for honesty
  coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

• Jaques (lord). [Aside] A material fool! 1530

• Audrey. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me
  honest.

• Touchstone. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were
  to put good meat into an unclean dish.

• Audrey. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul. 1535

• Touchstone. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness;
  sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will
  marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext,
  the vicar of the next village, who hath promis’d to meet me in
  this place of the forest, and to couple us. 1540

• Jaques (lord). [Aside] I would fain see this meeting.

• Audrey. Well, the gods give us joy!

• Touchstone. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger
  in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no
  assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are 1545
  odious, they are necessary. It is said: ‘Many a man knows no end
  of his goods.’ Right! Many a man has good horns and knows no end
  of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; ’tis none of his
  own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest
  deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore 1550
  blessed? No; as a wall’d town is more worthier than a village, so
  is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare
  brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no
  skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes
  Sir Oliver. 1555
  [Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT]
  Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here
  under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

• Sir Oliver Martext. Is there none here to give the woman?

• Touchstone. I will not take her on gift of any man. 1560

• Sir Oliver Martext. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

• Jaques (lord). [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I’ll give her.

• Touchstone. Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t; how do you, sir?
  You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I am
  very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be 1565
  cover’d.

• Jaques (lord). Will you be married, motley?

• Touchstone. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and
  the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons
  bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. 1570

• Jaques (lord). And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married
  under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church and have a good
  priest that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will but
  join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will
  prove a shrunk panel, and like green timber warp, warp. 1575

• Touchstone. [Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to be
  married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me
  well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me
  hereafter to leave my wife.

• Jaques (lord). Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. 1580

• Touchstone. Come, sweet Audrey;
  We must be married or we must live in bawdry.
  Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not-
  O sweet Oliver,
  O brave Oliver, 1585
  Leave me not behind thee.
  But-
  Wind away,
  Begone, I say,
  I will not to wedding with thee. 1590
  Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY

• Sir Oliver Martext. ‘Tis no matter; ne’er a fantastical knave of them all
  shall flout me out of my calling. Exit

Act III, Scene 4

The forest

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

• Rosalind. Never talk to me; I will weep. 1595

• Celia. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears
  do not become a man.

• Rosalind. But have I not cause to weep?

• Celia. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

• Rosalind. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. 1600

• Celia. Something browner than Judas’s.
  Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.

• Rosalind. I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.

• Celia. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.

• Rosalind. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of 1605
  holy bread.

• Celia. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of
  winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of
  chastity is in them.

• Rosalind. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and 1610
  comes not?

• Celia. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

• Rosalind. Do you think so?

• Celia. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but
  for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as covered 1615
  goblet or a worm-eaten nut.

• Rosalind. Not true in love?

• Celia. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.

• Rosalind. You have heard him swear downright he was.

• Celia. ‘Was’ is not ‘is’; besides, the oath of a lover is no 1620
  stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer
  of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke,
  your father.

• Rosalind. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him.
  He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as 1625
  he; so he laugh’d and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when
  there is such a man as Orlando?

• Celia. O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave
  words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite
  traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that 1630
  spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble
  goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who
  comes here?

Enter CORIN

• Corin. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired 1635
  After the shepherd that complain’d of love,
  Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
  Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
  That was his mistress.

• Celia. Well, and what of him? 1640

• Corin. If you will see a pageant truly play’d
  Between the pale complexion of true love
  And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
  Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
  If you will mark it. 1645

• Rosalind. O, come, let us remove!
  The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
  Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
  I’ll prove a busy actor in their play. Exeunt

Act III, Scene 5

Another part of the forest

Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE

• Silvius. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe.
  Say that you love me not; but say not so
  In bitterness. The common executioner,
  Whose heart th’ accustom’d sight of death makes hard,
  Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck 1655
  But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
  Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance

• Phebe. I would not be thy executioner;
  I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 1660
  Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye.
  ‘Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
  That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
  Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
  Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers! 1665
  Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;
  And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
  Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;
  Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
  Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. 1670
  Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
  Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
  Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,
  The cicatrice and capable impressure
  Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, 1675
  Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
  Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes
  That can do hurt.

• Silvius. O dear Phebe,
  If ever- as that ever may be near- 1680
  You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
  Then shall you know the wounds invisible
  That love’s keen arrows make.

• Phebe. But till that time
  Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, 1685
  Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
  As till that time I shall not pity thee.

• Rosalind. [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your
  mother,
  That you insult, exult, and all at once, 1690
  Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty-
  As, by my faith, I see no more in you
  Than without candle may go dark to bed-
  Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
  Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? 1695
  I see no more in you than in the ordinary
  Of nature’s sale-work. ‘Od’s my little life,
  I think she means to tangle my eyes too!
  No faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
  ‘Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, 1700
  Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
  That can entame my spirits to your worship.
  You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
  Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
  You are a thousand times a properer man 1705
  Than she a woman. ‘Tis such fools as you
  That makes the world full of ill-favour’d children.
  ‘Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
  And out of you she sees herself more proper
  Than any of her lineaments can show her. 1710
  But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees,
  And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love;
  For I must tell you friendly in your ear:
  Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
  Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; 1715
  Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
  So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

• Phebe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
  I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

• Rosalind. He’s fall’n in love with your foulness, and she’ll fall 1720
  in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee
  with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look
  you so upon me?

• Phebe. For no ill will I bear you.

• Rosalind. I pray you do not fall in love with me, 1725
  For I am falser than vows made in wine;
  Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
  ‘Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.
  Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.
  Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, 1730
  And be not proud; though all the world could see,
  None could be so abus’d in sight as he.
  Come, to our flock. Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN

• Phebe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
  ‘Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?’ 1735

• Silvius. Sweet Phebe.

• Phebe. Ha! what say’st thou, Silvius?

• Silvius. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

• Phebe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

• Silvius. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. 1740
  If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
  By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
  Were both extermin’d.

• Phebe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?

• Silvius. I would have you. 1745

• Phebe. Why, that were covetousness.
  Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;
  And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
  But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
  Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 1750
  I will endure; and I’ll employ thee too.
  But do not look for further recompense
  Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.

• Silvius. So holy and so perfect is my love,
  And I in such a poverty of grace, 1755
  That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
  To glean the broken ears after the man
  That the main harvest reaps; loose now and then
  A scatt’red smile, and that I’ll live upon.

• Phebe. Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? 1760

• Silvius. Not very well; but I have met him oft;
  And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
  That the old carlot once was master of.

• Phebe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
  ‘Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well. 1765
  But what care I for words? Yet words do well
  When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
  It is a pretty youth- not very pretty;
  But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him.
  He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him 1770
  Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
  Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
  He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall;
  His leg is but so-so; and yet ’tis well.
  There was a pretty redness in his lip, 1775
  A little riper and more lusty red
  Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference
  Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
  There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him
  In parcels as I did, would have gone near 1780
  To fall in love with him; but, for my part,
  I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
  I have more cause to hate him than to love him;
  For what had he to do to chide at me?
  He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black, 1785
  And, now I am rememb’red, scorn’d at me.
  I marvel why I answer’d not again;
  But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance.
  I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,
  And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius? 1790

• Silvius. Phebe, with all my heart.

• Phebe. I’ll write it straight;
  The matter’s in my head and in my heart;
  I will be bitter with him and passing short.
  Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt 1795

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES

• Jaques (lord). I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with
  thee.

• Rosalind. They say you are a melancholy fellow.

• Jaques (lord). I am so; I do love it better than laughing. 1800

• Rosalind. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable
  fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than
  drunkards.

• Jaques (lord). Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.

• Rosalind. Why then, ’tis good to be a post. 1805

• Jaques (lord). I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is
  emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the
  courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is
  ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s,
  which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these; but it is a 1810
  melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted
  from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my
  travels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous
  sadness.

• Rosalind. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be 1815
  sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then
  to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and
  poor hands.

• Jaques (lord). Yes, I have gain’d my experience.

Enter ORLANDO

• Rosalind. And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a
  fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad- and to
  travel for it too.

• Orlando. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

• Jaques (lord). Nay, then, God buy you, an you talk in blank verse. 1825

• Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp and wear
  strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be
  out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making
  you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have
  swam in a gondola. [Exit JAQUES] Why, how now, Orlando! where 1830
  have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such
  another trick, never come in my sight more.

• Orlando. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

• Rosalind. Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a
  minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the 1835
  thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said
  of him that Cupid hath clapp’d him o’ th’ shoulder, but I’ll
  warrant him heart-whole.

• Orlando. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

• Rosalind. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had 1840
  as lief be woo’d of a snail.

• Orlando. Of a snail!

• Rosalind. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries
  his house on his head- a better jointure, I think, than you make
  a woman; besides, he brings his destiny with him. 1845

• Orlando. What’s that?

• Rosalind. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding to
  your wives for; but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents
  the slander of his wife.

• Orlando. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous. 1850

• Rosalind. And I am your Rosalind.

• Celia. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a
  better leer than you.

• Rosalind. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour,
  and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I 1855
  were your very very Rosalind?

• Orlando. I would kiss before I spoke.

• Rosalind. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were
  gravell’d for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss.
  Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for 1860
  lovers lacking- God warn us!- matter, the cleanliest shift is to
  kiss.

• Orlando. How if the kiss be denied?

• Rosalind. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new
  matter. 1865

• Orlando. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

• Rosalind. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I
  should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

• Orlando. What, of my suit?

• Rosalind. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. 1870
  Am not I your Rosalind?

• Orlando. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking
  of her.

• Rosalind. Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.

• Orlando. Then, in mine own person, I die. 1875

• Rosalind. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six
  thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man
  died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had
  his brains dash’d out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he
  could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. 1880
  Leander, he would have liv’d many a fair year, though Hero had
  turn’d nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for,
  good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and,
  being taken with the cramp, was drown’d; and the foolish
  chroniclers of that age found it was- Hero of Sestos. But these 1885
  are all lies: men have died from time to time, and worms have
  eaten them, but not for love.

• Orlando. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I
  protest, her frown might kill me.

• Rosalind. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I 1890
  will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me
  what you will, I will grant it.

• Orlando. Then love me, Rosalind.

• Rosalind. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all.

• Orlando. And wilt thou have me? 1895

• Rosalind. Ay, and twenty such.

• Orlando. What sayest thou?

• Rosalind. Are you not good?

• Orlando. I hope so.

• Rosalind. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come, 1900
  sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us. Give me your hand,
  Orlando. What do you say, sister?

• Orlando. Pray thee, marry us.

• Celia. I cannot say the words.

• Rosalind. You must begin ‘Will you, Orlando’- 1905

• Celia. Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

• Orlando. I will.

• Rosalind. Ay, but when?

• Orlando. Why, now; as fast as she can marry us.

• Rosalind. Then you must say ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.’ 1910

• Orlando. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

• Rosalind. I might ask you for your commission; but- I do take thee,
  Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest;
  and, certainly, a woman’s thought runs before her actions.

• Orlando. So do all thoughts; they are wing’d. 1915

• Rosalind. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have
  possess’d her.

• Orlando. For ever and a day.

• Rosalind. Say ‘a day’ without the ‘ever.’ No, no, Orlando; men are
  April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when 1920
  they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will
  be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen,
  more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than
  an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for
  nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you 1925
  are dispos’d to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when
  thou are inclin’d to sleep.

• Orlando. But will my Rosalind do so?

• Rosalind. By my life, she will do as I do.

• Orlando. O, but she is wise. 1930

• Rosalind. Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser,
  the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out
  at the casement; shut that, and ’twill out at the key-hole; stop
  that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

• Orlando. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say ‘Wit, 1935
  whither wilt?’

• Rosalind. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your
  wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.

• Orlando. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

• Rosalind. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never 1940
  take her without her answer, unless you take her without her
  tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s
  occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will
  breed it like a fool!

• Orlando. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. 1945

• Rosalind. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!

• Orlando. I must attend the Duke at dinner; by two o’clock I will be
  with thee again.

• Rosalind. Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would
  prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That 1950
  flattering tongue of yours won me. ‘Tis but one cast away, and
  so, come death! Two o’clock is your hour?

• Orlando. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

• Rosalind. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and
  by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot 1955
  of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will
  think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow
  lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may
  be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore
  beware my censure, and keep your promise. 1960

• Orlando. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my
  Rosalind; so, adieu.

• Rosalind. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such
  offenders, and let Time try. Adieu. Exit ORLANDO

• Celia. You have simply misus’d our sex in your love-prate. We must 1965
  have your doublet and hose pluck’d over your head, and show the
  world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

• Rosalind. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst
  know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded;
  my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal. 1970

• Celia. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection
  in, it runs out.

• Rosalind. No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of
  thought, conceiv’d of spleen, and born of madness; that blind
  rascally boy, that abuses every one’s eyes, because his own are 1975
  out- let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee,
  Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a
  shadow, and sigh till he come.

• Celia. And I’ll sleep. Exeunt

Act IV, Scene 2

The forest

Enter JAQUES and LORDS, in the habit of foresters

• Jaques (lord). Which is he that killed the deer?

• Lord. Sir, it was I.

• Jaques (lord). Let’s present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; and
  it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a
  branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose? 1985

• Lord. Yes, sir.

• Jaques (lord). Sing it; ’tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise
  enough.
  SONG.
  What shall he have that kill’d the deer? 1990
  His leather skin and horns to wear.
  [The rest shall hear this burden:]
  Then sing him home.
  Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;
  It was a crest ere thou wast born. 1995
  Thy father’s father wore it;
  And thy father bore it.
  The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
  Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. Exeunt