Orl. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of sir Rowland de Bois.

Duke F. I would, thou hadst been son to some man else.

The world esteem'd thy father honourable,
But I did find him still mine enemy:
Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed,
Hadst thou descended from another house.
But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;
I would, thou hadst told me of another father.

[Exeunt Duke Fred. Train, and Le Beau.

Cel. Were I my father coz, would I do this? Orl. I am more proud to be sir Rowland's son, His youngest son; and would not change that calling,

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

Ros. My father lov'd sir Rowland as his soul,
And all the world was of my father's mind:
Had I before known this young man his son,
I should have given him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventur'd.

Cel.

Gentle cousin,

Let us go thank him, and encourage him:
My father's rough and envious disposition
Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd:
If you do keep your promises in love,
But justly, as you have exceeded promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.

Ros.

Gentleman,

[Giving him a chain from her neck. Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune; That could give more, but that her hand lacks

I'll ask him what he would:-Did you call, sir?-
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.

Cel.

Will you go, coz? [Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Ros. Have with you:-Fare you well.

Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue ?

I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference.
Re-enter Le Beau.

O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown:

Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.

Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you To leave this place: Albeit you have deserv'd High commendation, true applause, and love; Yet such is now the duke's condition,

That he misconstrues all that you have done.
The duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,

More suits you to conceive, than me to speak of.
Orl. I thank you, sir: and, pray you, tell me this;
Which of the two was daughter of the duke

That here was at the wrestling?

Cel. Why, cousin; why, Rosalind; -Cupid have mercy ! Not a word?

Ros. Not one to throw at 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 child's father: O, how full of briars is this working-day world!

Cel. 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.

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

Cel. Hem them away. Ros. I would try; if I

him.

if I could cry hem, and have

Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. Ros. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.

Cel. 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?

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.

Duke.

Me, uncle?

You, cousin:

Within these ten days if that thou be'st found So near our publick court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it.

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 frantick,
(As I do trust I am not,) then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn,

manners;

But yet, indeed, the shorter is his daughter:
The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,
And here detain'd 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.
Orl. I rest much bounden to you: fare you well!
[Exit Le Beau.

Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her 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, Why so am 1: 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.

ACT II.

SCENE I.- The Forest of Arden.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of Foresters.

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool she robs thee of thy name;

More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;

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 I cannot live out of her company. [liege; Duke F. You are fool:-You, niece, provide

yourself;

a

If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour,
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?
That he hath not.

Ros.

Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am 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 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. 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 forth 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 all points like a man ? A gallant curtle-ax 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.

Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man? Ros. I'll have no worse a name 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 assay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

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 publick haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running
brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Ami. 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 S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native na burghers of this desert city,-
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.
1 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 banish'd you.
To-day, 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 sequester'd stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke S.

But what said Jaques ?

Did he not moralize this spectacle?

1 Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping in 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 alone,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
'Tis right, quoth he; this 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,

SCENE II.-A Room in the Palace. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants. Duke F. Can it be possible, that no man saw them? It cannot be some villains of my court Are of consent and sufferance in this.

1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
2 Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. [oft
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 F. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant
If he be absent, bring his brother to me, [hither:
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.

Orl. Who's there?

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.

Orl. 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.

tle 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 bony priser 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.

0, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it!

Orl. 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.

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have

me go?

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

Shepherdess, and Touchstone.

Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

!

d

Ros. 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.

Cel. I pray you, bear with me; I can go no further.

Touch. 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.

Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.

Touch. 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.

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone:-Look you, who comes here; a young man, and an old, in solemn talk.

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:

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy ?

Yet this I will not do, do how I can;

I rather will subject me to the malice

Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. Sil. O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily:

Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

If thou remember'st not the slightest folly

in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming anight to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopp'd hands had milk'd: and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two eods, 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.

Ros. Thou speak'st wiser, than thou art 'ware of. Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be'ware of mine own wit, till I break my shins against it.

Ros. Jove! Jove! this shepherd's passion

Is much upon my fashion.

Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale

with me.

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man, If he for gold will give us any food;

I faint almost to death.

Touch. Holla: you, clown!

Ros.

Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

Cor. Who calls ?

Touch. Your betters, sir.

Cor. Else are they very wretched.

Ros.

Good even to you, friend.

Peace, I say:

Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. Ros.

shepherd, I pr'ythee,

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 oppress'd, And faints for succour.

Cor.

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 sheer 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.
Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and
[erewhile,

pasture ?
Cor. That young swain that you saw here but
That little cares for buying any thing.
Ros. 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.

Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I like this

place,

And willingly could waste my time in it. Cor. 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 faithful feeder

Jaq. I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you to sing: Come, more; another stanza; Call you them stanzas ?

এয়

Ami. What you will, monsieur Jaques. Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing: Will you sing? Ami. More at your request than to please myself. Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but that they call compliment, is like the 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.

Ami. 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.

But winter and rough weather.

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made

yesterday in despite of my invention.

Ami. And I'll sing it.

Jaq. Thus it goes.

If it do come to pass,
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and east,
A stubborn will to please,
Duedame, ducdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see,
Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to Ami.

Ami. What's that ducdame? Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'l rail against all the first-born Ami. And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is prepar'd. [Exeunt severally.

of Egypt.

SCENE VI. - The same.
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.

Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyselt

savage, I will either be food for it, or bring 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 cheerily 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 any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam! [Exeunt.

SCENE VII. The same. A Table set out Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Lords, and others. Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can no where find him like a man.

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

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,