SCENE III, A ROOM IN THE PALACE

(_Enter Celia and Rosalind._)

_Cel._ Why, cousin; why Rosalind;—Cupid have mercy;—Not a word?

_Ros._ Not one to throw to a dog.

_Cel._ No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

_Ros._ Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad without any.

_Cel._ But is all this for your father?

_Ros._ No, some of it for my father’s child: O, how full of briars is this working-day world!

_Cel._ They are but burrs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very coats will catch them.

_Ros._ I could shake them off my coat; these burrs are in my heart.

_Cel._ Hem them away.

_Ros._ I would try; if I could cry hem, and have him.

_Cel._ Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

_Ros._ O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.

_Cel._ Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?

_Ros._ The duke my father lov’d his father dearly.

_Cel._ Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

_Ros._ No ’faith, hate him not, for my sake.

_Cel._ Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?

_Ros._ Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do: Look, here comes the duke.

_Cel._ With his eyes full of anger.

(_Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords._)

_Duke F._ Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste, and get you from our Court.

_Ros._ Me, uncle?

_Duke F._ You, cousin, within these ten days if thou be’st found so near our public court as twenty miles, thou diest for it.

_Ros._ I do beseech your grace, let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me: if with myself I hold intelligence, or have acquaintance with mine own desires; if that I do not dream, or be not frantic (as I do trust I am not), then, dear uncle, never so much as in a thought unborn, did I offend your highness.

_Duke F._ Thus do all traitors, if their purgation did consist in words, they are as innocent as grace itself: let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.

_Ros._ Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor: tell me, whereon the likelihood depends.

_Duke F._ Thou art thy father’s daughter, there’s enough.

_Ros._ So was I, when your highness took his dukedom; so was I, when your highness banish’d him: treason is not inherited, my lord: or, if we did derive it from our friends, what’s that to me? my father was no traitor: then, good my liege, mistake me not so much, to think my poverty is treacherous.

_Cel._ Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

_Duke F._ Aye, Celia; we stay’d here for your sake. Else had she with her father rang’d along.

_Cel._ I did not then entreat to have her stay, it was your pleasure, and your own remorse; I was too young that time to value her, but now I know her; if she be a traitor, so am I: we still have slept together; rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together;

And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans, Still we went coupled, and inseparable.

_Duke F._ She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, Her very silence, and her patience, Speak to the people and they pity her. Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name; And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous, When she is gone: then open not thy lips; Firm and irrevocable is my doom Which I have pass’d upon her; she is banish’d.

_Cel._ Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege; I cannot live out of her company.

_Duke F._ You are a fool:—You, niece, provide yourself; If you outstay the time, upon my honor, And in the greatness of my word, you die.

(_Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords._)

_Cel._ O my poor Rosalind: whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more griev’d than I am.

_Ros._ I have more cause.

_Cel._ Thou hast not, cousin, Pr’ythee, be cheerful: know’st thou not, the duke Hath banish’d me his daughter?

_Ros._ That he hath not.

_Cel._ No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love Which teaches thee that thou and I art one: Shall we be sunder’d? shall we part, sweet girl? No; let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me, how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us: And do not seek to take your charge upon you, To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out; For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou can’st, I’ll go along with thee.

_Ros._ Why, whither shall we go?

_Cel._ To seek my uncle.

_Ros._ Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel so far? Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

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

_Ros._ Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me in all points like a man? A boar-spear in my hand; and in my heart Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will, We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside; As many other mannish cowards have, That do outface it with their semblances.

_Cel._ What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

_Ros._ I’ll have no other worse than Jove’s own page, And therefore, look you, call me Ganymede. But what will you be call’d?

_Cel._ Something that hath a reference to my state: No longer Celia, but Aliena.

_Ros._ But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal The clownish fool out of your father’s court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

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

—From “As You Like It,” Act I.

CORYDON

BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

SCENE, A ROAD-SIDE IN ARCADY

_Shepherd._ Good sir, have you seen pass this way A mischief straight from market-day? You’d know her at a glance, I think; Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; She has a way of looking back Over her shoulder, and alack! Who gets that look one time, good sir, Has naught to do but follow.

_Pilgrim._ I have not seen this maid methinks, Though she that passed had lips like pinks.

_Shepherd._ Or like two strawberries made one By some sly trick of dew and sun.

_Pilgrim._ A poet.

_Shepherd._ Nay, a simple swain That tends his flocks on yonder plain Naught else I swear by book and bell. But she that passed you marked her well Was she not smooth as any be That dwells here—in Arcady?

_Pilgrim._ Her skin was the satin bark of birches.

_Shepherd._ Light or dark?

_Pilgrim._ Quite dark.

_Shepherd._ Then ’twas not she.

_Pilgrim._ The peaches side That next the sun is not so dyed As was her cheek. Her hair hung down Like summer twilight falling brown; And when the breeze swept by, I wist Her face was in a somber twist.

_Shepherd._ No that is not the maid I seek; Her hair lies gold against her cheek, Her yellow tresses take the morn, Like silken tassels of the corn, And yet brown-locks are far from bad.

_Pilgrim._ Now I bethink me this one had A figure like the willow tree Which, slight and supple, wondrously Inclines to droop with pensive grace, And still retain its proper place. A foot so arched and very small The marvel was she walked at all; Her hand in sooth, I lack for words— Her hand, five slender snow-white birds, Her voice, tho’ she but said “God Speed”— Was melody blown through a reed; The girl Pan changed into a pipe Had not a note so full and rife. And then her eye—my lad, her eye! Discreet, inviting, candid, shy, An outward ice, an inward fire, And lashes to the heart’s desire. Soft fringes blacker than the sloe—

_Shepherd._ Good sir, which way did this one go?

_Pilgrim._ So he is off! The silly youth Knoweth not love in sober sooth, He loves—thus lads at first are blind— No woman, only womankind. I needs must laugh, for by the mass No maid at all did this way pass.