As You Like It Act 5, Scene 1

The forest.

    Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY

TOUCHSTONE

    We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

AUDREY

    Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old
    gentleman's saying.

TOUCHSTONE

    A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile
    Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the
    forest lays claim to you.

AUDREY

    Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no interest in me in
    the world: here comes the man you mean.

TOUCHSTONE

    It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: by my
    troth, we that have good wits have much to answer
    for; we shall be flouting; we cannot hold.

    Enter WILLIAM

WILLIAM

    Good even, Audrey.

AUDREY

    God ye good even, William.

WILLIAM

    And good even to you, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

    Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy
    head; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend?

WILLIAM

    Five and twenty, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

    A ripe age. Is thy name William?

WILLIAM

    William, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

    A fair name. Wast born i' the forest here?

WILLIAM

    Ay, sir, I thank God.

TOUCHSTONE

    'Thank God;' a good answer. Art rich?

WILLIAM

    Faith, sir, so so.

TOUCHSTONE

    'So so' is good, very good, very excellent good; and
    yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise?

WILLIAM

    Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

TOUCHSTONE

    Why, thou sayest well. I do now remember a saying,
    'The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man
    knows himself to be a fool.' The heathen
    philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape,
    would open his lips when he put it into his mouth;
    meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and
    lips to open. You do love this maid?

WILLIAM

    I do, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

    Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

WILLIAM

    No, sir.

TOUCHSTONE

    Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it
    is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out
    of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty
    the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse
    is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he.

WILLIAM

    Which he, sir?

TOUCHSTONE

    He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you
    clown, abandon,--which is in the vulgar leave,--the
    society,--which in the boorish is company,--of this
    female,--which in the common is woman; which
    together is, abandon the society of this female, or,
    clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better
    understanding, diest; or, to wit I kill thee, make
    thee away, translate thy life into death, thy
    liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with
    thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy
    with thee in faction; I will o'errun thee with
    policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways:
    therefore tremble and depart.

AUDREY

    Do, good William.

WILLIAM

    God rest you merry, sir.

    Exit

    Enter CORIN

CORIN

    Our master and mistress seeks you; come, away, away!

TOUCHSTONE

    Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.

    Exeunt

As You Like It Act 4, Scene 3

The forest.

    Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

ROSALIND

    How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? and
    here much Orlando!

CELIA

    I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he
    hath ta'en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to
    sleep. Look, who comes here.

    Enter SILVIUS

SILVIUS

    My errand is to you, fair youth;
    My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:
    I know not the contents; but, as I guess
    By the stern brow and waspish action
    Which she did use as she was writing of it,
    It bears an angry tenor: pardon me:
    I am but as a guiltless messenger.

ROSALIND

    Patience herself would startle at this letter
    And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:
    She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;
    She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,
    Were man as rare as phoenix. 'Od's my will!
    Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:
    Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
    This is a letter of your own device.

SILVIUS

    No, I protest, I know not the contents:
    Phebe did write it.

ROSALIND

    Come, come, you are a fool
    And turn'd into the extremity of love.
    I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand.
    A freestone-colour'd hand; I verily did think
    That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands:
    She has a huswife's hand; but that's no matter:
    I say she never did invent this letter;
    This is a man's invention and his hand.

SILVIUS

    Sure, it is hers.

ROSALIND

    Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style.
    A style for-challengers; why, she defies me,
    Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brain
    Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention
    Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect
    Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

SILVIUS

    So please you, for I never heard it yet;
    Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

ROSALIND

    She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.

    Reads
    Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
    That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?
    Can a woman rail thus?

SILVIUS

    Call you this railing?

ROSALIND

    [Reads]
    Why, thy godhead laid apart,
    Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?
    Did you ever hear such railing?
    Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
    That could do no vengeance to me.
    Meaning me a beast.
    If the scorn of your bright eyne
    Have power to raise such love in mine,
    Alack, in me what strange effect
    Would they work in mild aspect!
    Whiles you chid me, I did love;
    How then might your prayers move!
    He that brings this love to thee
    Little knows this love in me:
    And by him seal up thy mind;
    Whether that thy youth and kind
    Will the faithful offer take
    Of me and all that I can make;
    Or else by him my love deny,
    And then I'll study how to die.

SILVIUS

    Call you this chiding?

CELIA

    Alas, poor shepherd!

ROSALIND

    Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt
    thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an
    instrument and play false strains upon thee! not to
    be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see
    love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to
    her: that if she love me, I charge her to love
    thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless
    thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover,
    hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.

    Exit SILVIUS

    Enter OLIVER

OLIVER

    Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,
    Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
    A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees?

CELIA

    West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom:
    The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream
    Left on your right hand brings you to the place.
    But at this hour the house doth keep itself;
    There's none within.

OLIVER

    If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
    Then should I know you by description;
    Such garments and such years: 'The boy is fair,
    Of female favour, and bestows himself
    Like a ripe sister: the woman low
    And browner than her brother.' Are not you
    The owner of the house I did inquire for?

CELIA

    It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.

OLIVER

    Orlando doth commend him to you both,
    And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
    He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

ROSALIND

    I am: what must we understand by this?

OLIVER

    Some of my shame; if you will know of me
    What man I am, and how, and why, and where
    This handkercher was stain'd.

CELIA

    I pray you, tell it.

OLIVER

    When last the young Orlando parted from you
    He left a promise to return again
    Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
    Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
    Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside,
    And mark what object did present itself:
    Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age
    And high top bald with dry antiquity,
    A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
    Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck
    A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,
    Who with her head nimble in threats approach'd
    The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,
    Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
    And with indented glides did slip away
    Into a bush: under which bush's shade
    A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
    Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,
    When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
    The royal disposition of that beast
    To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:
    This seen, Orlando did approach the man
    And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

CELIA

    O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;
    And he did render him the most unnatural
    That lived amongst men.

OLIVER

    And well he might so do,
    For well I know he was unnatural.

ROSALIND

    But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,
    Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

OLIVER

    Twice did he turn his back and purposed so;
    But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
    And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
    Made him give battle to the lioness,
    Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling
    From miserable slumber I awaked.

CELIA

    Are you his brother?

ROSALIND

    Wast you he rescued?

CELIA

    Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

OLIVER

    'Twas I; but 'tis not I I do not shame
    To tell you what I was, since my conversion
    So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

ROSALIND

    But, for the bloody napkin?

OLIVER

    By and by.
    When from the first to last betwixt us two
    Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed,
    As how I came into that desert place:--
    In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
    Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
    Committing me unto my brother's love;
    Who led me instantly unto his cave,
    There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
    The lioness had torn some flesh away,
    Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted
    And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
    Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound;
    And, after some small space, being strong at heart,
    He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
    To tell this story, that you might excuse
    His broken promise, and to give this napkin
    Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth
    That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

    ROSALIND swoons

CELIA

    Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

OLIVER

    Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

CELIA

    There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede!

OLIVER

    Look, he recovers.

ROSALIND

    I would I were at home.

CELIA

    We'll lead you thither.
    I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

OLIVER

    Be of good cheer, youth: you a man! you lack a
    man's heart.

ROSALIND

    I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would
    think this was well counterfeited! I pray you, tell
    your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho!

OLIVER

    This was not counterfeit: there is too great
    testimony in your complexion that it was a passion
    of earnest.

ROSALIND

    Counterfeit, I assure you.

OLIVER

    Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.

ROSALIND

    So I do: but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right.

CELIA

    Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw
    homewards. Good sir, go with us.

OLIVER

    That will I, for I must bear answer back
    How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

ROSALIND

    I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend
    my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?

    Exeunt

As You Like It Act 4, Scene 2

The forest.

    Enter JAQUES, Lords, and Foresters

JAQUES

    Which is he that killed the deer?

A Lord

    Sir, it was I.

JAQUES

    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?

Forester

    Yes, sir.

JAQUES

    Sing it: 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it
    make noise enough.
    SONG.

Forester

    What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
    His leather skin and horns to wear.
    Then sing him home;

    The rest shall bear this burden
    Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;
    It was a crest ere thou wast born:
    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

As You Like It Act 4, Scene 1

The forest.

    Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES

JAQUES

    I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted
    with thee.

ROSALIND

    They say you are a melancholy fellow.

JAQUES

    I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

ROSALIND

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

JAQUES

    Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

ROSALIND

    Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

JAQUES

    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
    melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,
    extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry's
    contemplation of my travels, in which my often
    rumination wraps me m a most humorous sadness.

ROSALIND

    A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to
    be 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

    Yes, I have gained my experience.

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!

    Enter ORLANDO

ORLANDO

    Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

JAQUES

    Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.

    Exit

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. Why, how now, Orlando! where 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 thousandth part of a minute in the
    affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid
    hath clapped him o' the 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 as lief be wooed 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.

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.

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 were your very very Rosalind?

ORLANDO

    I would kiss before I spoke.

ROSALIND

    Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were
    gravelled for lack of matter, you might take
    occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are
    out, they will spit; and for 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.

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.
    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.

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,
    videlicit, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains
    dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he
    could to die before, and he is one of the patterns
    of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair
    year, though Hero had turned 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 drowned and the foolish
    coroners of that age found it was 'Hero of Sestos.'
    But these 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 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?

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, 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--'

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.'

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 winged.

ROSALIND

    Now tell me how long you would have her after you
    have possessed 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 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 are
    disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and
    that when thou art inclined 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.

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, whither wilt?'

ROSALIND

    Nay, you might keep that cheque 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 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.

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 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 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.

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 misused our sex in your love-prate:
    we must have your doublet and hose plucked 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.

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, conceived of spleen and born of madness,
    that blind rascally boy that abuses every one's eyes
    because his own are 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

As You Like It Act 3, 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 the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,
    Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
    But first begs pardon: will you sterner be
    Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

    Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHEBE

    I would not be thy executioner:
    I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
    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!
    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!
    Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
    Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
    Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
    The cicatrice and capable impressure
    Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,
    Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,
    Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
    That can do hurt.

SILVIUS

    O dear Phebe,
    If ever,--as that ever may be near,--
    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,
    Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
    As till that time I shall not pity thee.

ROSALIND

    And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
    That you insult, exult, and all at once,
    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?
    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,
    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
    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.
    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:
    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 fallen in love with your foulness and she'll
    fall 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,
    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,
    And be not proud: though all the world could see,
    None could be so abused 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 loved that loved not at first sight?'

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:
    If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
    By giving love your sorrow and my grief
    Were both extermined.

PHEBE

    Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

SILVIUS

    I would have you.

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,
    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,
    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 scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

PHEBE

    Know'st now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

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;
    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
    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,
    A little riper and more lusty red
    Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
    Between 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
    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:
    And, now I am remember'd, 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?

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

As You Like It Act 3, Scene 4

The forest.

    Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

ROSALIND

    Never talk to me; I will weep.

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.

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 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
    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 a covered 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 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 he; so he laughed 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 puisny tilter, that 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 inquired
    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?

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.

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

As You Like It Act 3, 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
    capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

JAQUES

    [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove
    in a thatched house!

TOUCHSTONE

    When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a
    man's good wit seconded with the forward child
    Understanding, it 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; 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 swearest to me thou art
    honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some
    hope thou didst feign.

AUDREY

    Would you not have me honest?

TOUCHSTONE

    No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for
    honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

JAQUES

    [Aside] A material fool!

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.

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 promised to meet me in this place
    of the forest and to couple us.

JAQUES

    [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? C ourage! As horns are 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 blessed? No: as a walled 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 a horn more precious than to
    want. Here comes Sir Oliver.

    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.

SIR OLIVER MARTEXT

    Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

JAQUES

    [Advancing]
    Proceed, proceed I'll give her.

TOUCHSTONE

    Good even, good Master What-ye-call't: how do you,
    sir? You are very well met: God 'ild you for your
    last company: I am very glad to see you: even a
    toy in hand here, sir: nay, pray be covered.

JAQUES

    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.

JAQUES

    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.

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

    Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

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,
    Leave me not behind thee: but,--
    Wind away,
    Begone, I say,
    I will not to wedding with thee.

    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