Part 18

LE BEAU. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners, But yet indeed the smaller is his daughter. The other is daughter to the banished Duke, And here detained by her usurping uncle To keep his daughter company, whose loves Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. But I can tell you that of late this Duke Hath ta’en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece, Grounded upon no other argument But that the people praise her for her virtues And pity her for her good father’s sake; And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well. Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

ORLANDO. I rest much bounden to you; fare you well!

[_Exit Le Beau._]

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother, From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother. But heavenly Rosalind!

[_Exit._]

SCENE III. A Room in the Palace

Enter Celia and Rosalind.

CELIA. Why, cousin, why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! Not a word?

ROSALIND. Not one to throw at a dog.

CELIA. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs. Throw some of them at me. Come, lame me with reasons.

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

CELIA. But is all this for your father?

ROSALIND. No, some of it is for my child’s father. O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

CELIA. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery. If we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

ROSALIND. I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

CELIA. Hem them away.

ROSALIND. I would try, if I could cry “hem” and have him.

CELIA. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

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

CELIA. O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of a fall. But turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible on such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?

ROSALIND. The Duke my father loved his father dearly.

CELIA. 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.

ROSALIND. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

CELIA. Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?

Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.

ROSALIND. Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do.—Look, here comes the Duke.

CELIA. With his eyes full of anger.

DUKE FREDERICK. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court.

ROSALIND. Me, uncle?

DUKE FREDERICK. You, cousin. Within these ten days if that thou be’st found So near our public court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it.

ROSALIND. 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 FREDERICK. 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.

ROSALIND. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor. Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

DUKE FREDERICK. Thou art thy father’s daughter, there’s enough.

ROSALIND. So was I when your highness took his dukedom; So was I when your highness banished 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.

CELIA. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

DUKE FREDERICK. Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake, Else had she with her father ranged along.

CELIA. I did not then entreat to have her stay; It was your pleasure and your own remorse. I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, ate together, And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable.

DUKE FREDERICK. 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 passed upon her. She is banished.

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

DUKE FREDERICK. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself. If you outstay the time, upon mine honour And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[_Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords._]

CELIA. O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.

ROSALIND. I have more cause.

CELIA. Thou hast not, cousin. Prithee be cheerful. Know’st thou not the Duke Hath banished me, his daughter?

ROSALIND. That he hath not.

CELIA. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. Shall we be sundered? Shall we part, sweet girl? No, let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us, And do not seek to take your change upon you, To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out. For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee.

ROSALIND. Why, whither shall we go?

CELIA. To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.

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

CELIA. 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.

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

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

ROSALIND. I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page, And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be called?

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

ROSALIND. 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?

CELIA. 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.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT II

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens and two or three Lords, dressed as foresters.

DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say: “This is no flattery. These are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.” Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

AMIENS. I would not change it. Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored.

FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that, And in that kind swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banished you. Today my lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; To the which place a poor sequestered stag, That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heaved forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Coursed one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase. And thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th’ extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.

DUKE SENIOR. But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle?

FIRST LORD. O yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream: “Poor deer,” quoth he “thou mak’st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much.” Then, being there alone, Left and abandoned of his velvet friends: “’Tis right”; quoth he, “thus misery doth part The flux of company.” Anon a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him And never stays to greet him. “Ay,” quoth Jaques, “Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens! ’Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?” Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse, To fright the animals and to kill them up In their assigned and native dwelling-place.

DUKE SENIOR. And did you leave him in this contemplation?

SECOND LORD. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.

DUKE SENIOR. Show me the place. I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he’s full of matter.

FIRST LORD. I’ll bring you to him straight.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. A Room in the Palace

Enter Duke Frederick with Lords.

DUKE FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be! Some villains of my court Are of consent and sufferance in this.

FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her. The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, Saw her abed, and in the morning early They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.

SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Hesperia, the princess’ gentlewoman, Confesses that she secretly o’erheard Your daughter and her cousin much commend The parts and graces of the wrestler That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles; And she believes wherever they are gone That youth is surely in their company.

DUKE FREDERICK. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither. If he be absent, bring his brother to me. I’ll make him find him. Do this suddenly! And let not search and inquisition quail To bring again these foolish runaways.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Before Oliver’s House

Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.

ORLANDO. Who’s there?

ADAM. What, my young master? O my gentle master, O my sweet master, O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master, Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. O, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it!

ORLANDO. Why, what’s the matter?

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

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

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

ORLANDO. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food, Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce A thievish living on the common road? This I must do, or know not what to do. Yet this I will not do, do how I can. I rather will subject me to the malice Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

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

ORLANDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed. Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. It is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree, That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. But come thy ways, we’ll go along together, And ere we have thy youthful wages spent We’ll light upon some settled low content.

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

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden

Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and Touchstone.

ROSALIND. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!

TOUCHSTONE. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man’s apparel, and to cry like a woman, but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat. Therefore, courage, good Aliena.

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

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

ROSALIND. Well, this is the forest of Arden.

TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I! When I was at home I was in a better place, but travellers must be content.

Enter Corin and Silvius.

ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here? A young man and an old in solemn talk.

CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still.

SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!

CORIN. I partly guess, for I have loved ere now.

SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess, Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow. But if thy love were ever like to mine— As sure I think did never man love so— How many actions most ridiculous Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily! If thou rememb’rest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not loved. Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise, Thou hast not loved. Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou hast not loved. O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe!

[_Exit Silvius._]

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

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

ROSALIND. Thou speak’st wiser than thou art ware of.

TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.

ROSALIND. Jove, Jove, this shepherd’s passion Is much upon my fashion.

TOUCHSTONE. And mine, but it grows something stale with me.

CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food. I faint almost to death.

TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!

ROSALIND. Peace, fool, he’s not thy kinsman.

CORIN. Who calls?

TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.

CORIN. Else are they very wretched.

ROSALIND. Peace, I say.—Good even to you, friend.

CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold Can in this desert place buy entertainment, Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. Here’s a young maid with travel much oppressed, And faints for succour.

CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, My fortunes were more able to relieve her. But I am shepherd to another man And do not shear the fleeces that I graze. My master is of churlish disposition And little recks to find the way to heaven By doing deeds of hospitality. Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now, By reason of his absence, there is nothing That you will feed on. But what is, come see, And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, That little cares for buying anything.

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

CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place, And willingly could waste my time in it.

CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold. Go with me. If you like upon report The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, I will your very faithful feeder be, And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Another part of the Forest

Enter Amiens, Jaques and others.

AMIENS. [_Sings_.]

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more.

AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

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

AMIENS. My voice is ragged. I know I cannot please you.

JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more, another _stanzo_. Call you ’em _stanzos?_

AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names. They owe me nothing. Will you sing?

AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself.

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

AMIENS. Well, I’ll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while. The Duke will drink under this tree; he hath been all this day to look you.

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

AMIENS. [_Sings_.]

Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i’ th’ sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES. I’ll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

AMIENS. And I’ll sing it.

JAQUES. Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass That any man turn ass, Leaving his wealth and ease A stubborn will to please, Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; Here shall he see Gross fools as he, An if he will come to me.

AMIENS. What’s that “ducdame?”

JAQUES. ’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I’ll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I’ll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

AMIENS. And I’ll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepared.

[_Exeunt severally._]

SCENE VI. Another part of the Forest

Enter Orlando and Adam.

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

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

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE VII. Another part of the Forest

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens and Lords as outlaws.

DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transformed into a beast, For I can nowhere find him like a man.

FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

DUKE SENIOR. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go seek him, tell him I would speak with him.

Enter Jaques.

FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach.

DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur? What a life is this That your poor friends must woo your company? What, you look merrily.