ACT II SCENE VII | The Forest. | |
[
A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and
Lords like outlaws
] |
DUKE SENIOR | I think he be transform'd into a beast; |
| For I can no where 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? | 10 |
| What, you look merrily! |
JAQUES | A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest, |
| A motley fool; a miserable world! |
| As I do live by food, I met a fool |
| Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, |
| And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, |
| In good set terms and yet a motley fool. |
| 'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I. 'No, sir,' quoth he, |
| 'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune:' |
| And then he drew a dial from his poke, | 20 |
| And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, |
| Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock: |
| Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags: |
| 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, |
| And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; |
| And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, |
| And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; |
| And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear |
| The motley fool thus moral on the time, |
| My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, | 30 |
| That fools should be so deep-contemplative, |
| And I did laugh sans intermission |
| An hour by his dial. O noble fool! |
| A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear. |
DUKE SENIOR | What fool is this? |
JAQUES | O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier, |
| And says, if ladies be but young and fair, |
| They have the gift to know it: and in his brain, |
| Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit |
| After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd | 40 |
| With observation, the which he vents |
| In mangled forms. O that I were a fool! |
| I am ambitious for a motley coat. |
DUKE SENIOR | Thou shalt have one. |
JAQUES | It is my only suit; |
| Provided that you weed your better judgments |
| Of all opinion that grows rank in them |
| That I am wise. I must have liberty |
| Withal, as large a charter as the wind, |
| To blow on whom I please; for so fools have; |
| And they that are most galled with my folly, | 50 |
| They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? |
| The 'why' is plain as way to parish church: |
| He that a fool doth very wisely hit |
| Doth very foolishly, although he smart, |
| Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not, |
| The wise man's folly is anatomized |
| Even by the squandering glances of the fool. |
| Invest me in my motley; give me leave |
| To speak my mind, and I will through and through |
| Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, | 60 |
| If they will patiently receive my medicine. |
DUKE SENIOR | Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. |
JAQUES | What, for a counter, would I do but good? |
DUKE SENIOR | Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin: |
| For thou thyself hast been a libertine, |
| As sensual as the brutish sting itself; |
| And all the embossed sores and headed evils, |
| That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
|
| Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. |
JAQUES | Why, who cries out on pride, | 70 |
| That can therein tax any private party? |
| Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, |
| Till that the weary very means do ebb? |
| What woman in the city do I name, |
| When that I say the city-woman bears |
| The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? |
| Who can come in and say that I mean her, |
| When such a one as she such is her neighbour? |
| Or what is he of basest function |
| That says his bravery is not of my cost, | 80 |
| Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits |
| His folly to the mettle of my speech? |
| There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein |
| My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right, |
| Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free, |
| Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, |
| Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here? |
[Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn] |
ORLANDO | Forbear, and eat no more. |
JAQUES | Why, I have eat none yet. |
ORLANDO | Nor shalt not, till necessity be served. |
JAQUES | Of what kind should this cock come of? | 90 |
DUKE SENIOR | Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress, |
| Or else a rude despiser of good manners, |
| That in civility thou seem'st so empty? |
ORLANDO | You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point |
| Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show |
| Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred |
| And know some nurture. But forbear, I say: |
| He dies that touches any of this fruit |
| Till I and my affairs are answered. |
JAQUES | An you will not be answered with reason, I must die. | 100 |
DUKE SENIOR | What would you have? Your gentleness shall force |
| More than your force move us to gentleness. |
ORLANDO | I almost die for food; and let me have it. |
DUKE SENIOR | Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. |
ORLANDO | Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you: |
| I thought that all things had been savage here; |
| And therefore put I on the countenance |
| Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are |
| That in this desert inaccessible, |
| Under the shade of melancholy boughs, | 110 |
| Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time |
| If ever you have look'd on better days, |
| If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church, |
| If ever sat at any good man's feast, |
| If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear |
| And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, |
| Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: |
| In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. |
DUKE SENIOR | True is it that we have seen better days, |
| And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church | 120 |
| And sat at good men's feasts and wiped our eyes |
| Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd: |
| And therefore sit you down in gentleness |
| And take upon command what help we have |
| That to your wanting may be minister'd. |
ORLANDO | Then but forbear your food a little while, |
| Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn |
| And give it food. There is an old poor man, |
| Who after me hath many a weary step |
| Limp'd in pure love: till he be first sufficed, | 130 |
| Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, |
| I will not touch a bit. |
DUKE SENIOR | Go find him out, |
| And we will nothing waste till you return. |
ORLANDO | I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort! |
[Exit] |
DUKE SENIOR | Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: |
| This wide and universal theatre |
| Presents more woeful pageants than the scene |
| Wherein we play in. |
JAQUES | All the world's a stage, |
| And all the men and women merely players: |
| They have their exits and their entrances; | 140 |
| And one man in his time plays many parts, |
| His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, |
| Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. |
| And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel |
| And shining morning face, creeping like snail |
| Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, |
| Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad |
| Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, |
| Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, |
| Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, | 150 |
| Seeking the bubble reputation |
| Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, |
| In fair round belly with good capon lined, |
| With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, |
| Full of wise saws and modern instances; |
| And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts |
| Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, |
| With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, |
| His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide |
| For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, | 160 |
| Turning again toward childish treble, pipes |
| And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, |
| That ends this strange eventful history, |
| Is second childishness and mere oblivion, |
| Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. |
[Re-enter ORLANDO, with ADAM] |
DUKE SENIOR | Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen, |
| And let him feed. |
ORLANDO | I thank you most for him. |
ADAM | So had you need: |
| I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. |
DUKE SENIOR | Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you | 170 |
| As yet, to question you about your fortunes. |
| Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing. |
SONG. |
AMIENS | Blow, blow, thou winter wind. |
| Thou art not so unkind |
| As man's ingratitude; |
| Thy tooth is not so keen, |
| Because thou art not seen, |
| Although thy breath be rude. |
| Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: |
| Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: | 180 |
| Then, heigh-ho, the holly! |
| This life is most jolly. |
| Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, |
| That dost not bite so nigh |
| As benefits forgot: |
| Though thou the waters warp, |
| Thy sting is not so sharp |
| As friend remember'd not. |
| Heigh-ho! sing, &c. |
DUKE SENIOR | If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son, |
| As you have whisper'd faithfully you were, | 191 |
| And as mine eye doth his effigies witness |
| Most truly limn'd and living in your face, |
| Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke |
| That loved your father: the residue of your fortune, |
| Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, |
| Thou art right welcome as thy master is. |
| Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, |
| And let me all your fortunes understand. |
[Exeunt] |