ACT III SCENE II | The forest. | |
[Enter ORLANDO, with a paper] |
ORLANDO | Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love: |
| And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey |
| With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, |
| Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway. |
| O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books | 5 |
| And in their barks my thoughts I'll character; |
| That every eye which in this forest looks |
| Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. |
| Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree |
| The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she. |
[Exit] |
[Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE] |
CORIN | And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone? | 12 |
TOUCHSTONE | Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good |
| life, but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, |
| it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I |
| like it very well; but in respect that it is |
| private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it |
| is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in |
| respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As |
| is it a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; |
| but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much | 20 |
| against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? |
CORIN | No more but that I know the more one sickens the |
| worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, |
| means and content is without three good friends; |
| that the property of rain is to wet and fire to |
| burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a |
| great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that |
| he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may |
| complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred. |
TOUCHSTONE | Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in | 30 |
| court, shepherd? |
CORIN | No, truly. |
TOUCHSTONE | Then thou art damned. |
CORIN | Nay, I hope. |
TOUCHSTONE | Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg, all |
| on one side. |
CORIN | For not being at court? Your reason. |
TOUCHSTONE | Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawest |
| good manners; if thou never sawest good manners, |
| then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is | 40 |
| sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous |
| state, shepherd. |
CORIN | Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good manners |
| at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the |
| behavior of the country is most mockable at the |
| court. You told me you salute not at the court, but |
| you kiss your hands: that courtesy would be |
| uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds. |
TOUCHSTONE | Instance, briefly; come, instance. |
CORIN | Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their | 50 |
| fells, you know, are greasy. |
TOUCHSTONE | Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? and is not |
| the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of |
| a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come. |
CORIN | Besides, our hands are hard. |
TOUCHSTONE | Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. |
| A more sounder instance, come. |
CORIN | And they are often tarred over with the surgery of |
| our sheep: and would you have us kiss tar? The |
| courtier's hands are perfumed with civet. | 61 |
TOUCHSTONE | Most shallow man! thou worms-meat, in respect of a |
| good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and |
| perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the |
| very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. |
CORIN | You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest. |
TOUCHSTONE | Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! |
| God make incision in thee! thou art raw. | 70 |
CORIN | Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get |
| that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's |
| happiness, glad of other men's good, content with my |
| harm, and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes |
| graze and my lambs suck. |
TOUCHSTONE | That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes |
| and the rams together and to offer to get your |
| living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a
|
| bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a |
| twelvemonth to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, |
| out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not |
| damned for this, the devil himself will have no |
| shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst |
| 'scape. |
CORIN | Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother. |
[Enter ROSALIND, with a paper, reading] |
ROSALIND | From the east to western Ind, |
| No jewel is like Rosalind. |
| Her worth, being mounted on the wind, |
| Through all the world bears Rosalind. | 80 |
| All the pictures fairest lined |
| Are but black to Rosalind. |
| Let no fair be kept in mind |
| But the fair of Rosalind. |
TOUCHSTONE | I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and |
| suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: it is the |
| right butter-women's rank to market. |
ROSALIND | Out, fool! |
TOUCHSTONE | For a taste: |
| If a hart do lack a hind, |
| Let him seek out Rosalind. |
| If the cat will after kind, |
| So be sure will Rosalind. |
| Winter garments must be lined, |
| So must slender Rosalind. |
| They that reap must sheaf and bind; |
| Then to cart with Rosalind. |
| Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, |
| Such a nut is Rosalind. |
| He that sweetest rose will find |
| Must find love's prick and Rosalind. |
| This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you |
| infect yourself with them? |
ROSALIND | Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree. | 90 |
TOUCHSTONE | Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. |
ROSALIND | I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it |
| with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit |
| i' the country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half |
| ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar. |
TOUCHSTONE | You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the |
| forest judge. |
[Enter CELIA, with a writing] |
ROSALIND | Peace! Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside. |
CELIA | [Reads] |
| Why should this a desert be? |
| For it is unpeopled? No: |
| Tongues I'll hang on every tree, |
| That shall civil sayings show: |
| Some, how brief the life of man |
| Runs his erring pilgrimage, |
| That the stretching of a span |
| Buckles in his sum of age; |
| Some, of violated vows |
| 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend: | 110 |
| But upon the fairest boughs, |
| Or at every sentence end, |
| Will I Rosalinda write, |
| Teaching all that read to know |
| The quintessence of every sprite |
| Heaven would in little show. |
| Therefore Heaven Nature charged |
| That one body should be fill'd |
| With all graces wide-enlarged: |
| Nature presently distill'd | 120 |
| Helen's cheek, but not her heart, |
| Cleopatra's majesty, |
| Atalanta's better part, |
| Sad Lucretia's modesty. |
| Thus Rosalind of many parts |
| By heavenly synod was devised, |
| Of many faces, eyes and hearts, |
| To have the touches dearest prized. |
| Heaven would that she these gifts should have, |
| And I to live and die her slave. | 130 |
ROSALIND | O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of love |
| have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never |
| cried 'Have patience, good people!' |
CELIA | How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little. |
| Go with him, sirrah. |
TOUCHSTONE | Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; |
| though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. |
[Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE] |
CELIA | Didst thou hear these verses? |
ROSALIND | O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of |
| them had in them more feet than the verses would bear. | 142 |
CELIA | That's no matter: the feet might bear the verses. |
ROSALIND | Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear |
| themselves without the verse and therefore stood |
| lamely in the verse. |
CELIA | But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name |
| should be hanged and carved upon these trees? |
ROSALIND | I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder |
| before you came; for look here what I found on a |
| palm-tree. I was never so be-rhymed since |
| Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I |
| can hardly remember. |
CELIA | Trow you who hath done this? |
ROSALIND | Is it a man? |
CELIA | And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. | 156 |
| Change you colour? |
ROSALIND | I prithee, who? |
CELIA | O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to |
| meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes |
| and so encounter. |
ROSALIND | Nay, but who is it? |
CELIA | Is it possible? |
ROSALIND | Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence, |
| tell me who it is. |
CELIA | O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful |
| wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that, |
| out of all hooping! | 167 |
ROSALIND | Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am |
| caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in |
| my disposition? One inch of delay more is a |
| South-sea of discovery; I prithee, tell me who is it |
| quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst |
| stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man |
| out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow- |
| mouthed bottle, either too much at once, or none at |
| all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that |
| may drink thy tidings. |
CELIA | So you may put a man in your belly. |
ROSALIND | Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his |
| head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard? | 178 |
CELIA | Nay, he hath but a little beard. |
ROSALIND | Why, God will send more, if the man will be |
| thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if |
| thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. |
CELIA | It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's |
| heels and your heart both in an instant. |
ROSALIND | Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, sad brow and |
| true maid. |
CELIA | I' faith, coz, 'tis he. |
ROSALIND | Orlando? |
CELIA | Orlando. |
ROSALIND | Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and |
| hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What said |
| he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes |
| him here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? |
| How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see |
| him again? Answer me in one word. | 195 |
CELIA | You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a |
| word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To |
| say ay and no to these particulars is more than to |
| answer in a catechism. |
ROSALIND | But doth he know that I am in this forest and in |
| man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the |
| day he wrestled? |
CELIA | It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the |
| propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my |
| finding him, and relish it with good observance. |
| I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn. | 206 |
ROSALIND | It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops |
| forth such fruit. |
CELIA | Give me audience, good madam. |
ROSALIND | Proceed. |
CELIA | There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight. |
ROSALIND | Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well |
| becomes the ground. |
CELIA | Cry 'holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets |
| unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. | 216 |
ROSALIND | O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart. |
CELIA | I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest |
| me out of tune. |
ROSALIND | Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must |
| speak. Sweet, say on. | 221 |
CELIA | You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here? |
[Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES] |
ROSALIND | 'Tis he: slink by, and note him. |
JAQUES | I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had |
| as lief have been myself alone. |
ORLANDO | And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you |
| too for your society. |
JAQUES | God be wi' you: let's meet as little as we can. |
ORLANDO | I do desire we may be better strangers. |
JAQUES | I pray you, mar no more trees with writing |
| love-songs in their barks. | 231 |
ORLANDO | I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading |
| them ill-favouredly. |
JAQUES | Rosalind is your love's name? |
ORLANDO | Yes, just. |
JAQUES | I do not like her name. |
ORLANDO | There was no thought of pleasing you when she was |
| christened. |
JAQUES | What stature is she of? |
ORLANDO | Just as high as my heart. |
JAQUES | You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been |
| acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them |
| out of rings? |
ORLANDO | Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from |
| whence you have studied your questions. |
JAQUES | You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas made of |
| Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and |
| we two will rail against our mistress the world and |
| all our misery. |
ORLANDO | I will chide no breather in the world but myself, |
| against whom I know most faults. | 251 |
JAQUES | The worst fault you have is to be in love. |
ORLANDO | 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. |
| I am weary of you. |
JAQUES | By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found |
| you. |
ORLANDO | He is drowned in the brook: look but in, and you |
| shall see him. |
JAQUES | There I shall see mine own figure. |
ORLANDO | Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. | 260 |
JAQUES | I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good |
| Signior Love. |
ORLANDO | I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur |
| Melancholy. |
[Exit JAQUES] |
ROSALIND | [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him, like a saucy
|
| lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. |
| Do you hear, forester? |
ORLANDO | Very well: what would you? |
ROSALIND | I pray you, what is't o'clock? |
ORLANDO | You should ask me what time o' day: there's no clock | 271 |
| in the forest. |
ROSALIND | Then there is no true lover in the forest; else |
| sighing every minute and groaning every hour would |
| detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock. |
ORLANDO | And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that |
| been as proper? |
ROSALIND | By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with |
| divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles |
| withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops |
| withal and who he stands still withal. | 280 |
ORLANDO | I prithee, who doth he trot withal? |
ROSALIND | Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the |
| contract of her marriage and the day it is |
| solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight, |
| Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of |
| seven year. |
ORLANDO | Who ambles Time withal? |
ROSALIND | With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that |
| hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because |
| he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because |
| he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean |
| and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden |
| of heavy tedious penury; these Time ambles withal. | 296 |
ORLANDO | Who doth he gallop withal? |
ROSALIND | With a thief to the gallows, for though he go as |
| softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. |
ORLANDO | Who stays it still withal? |
ROSALIND | With lawyers in the vacation, for they sleep between |
| term and term and then they perceive not how Time moves. |
ORLANDO | Where dwell you, pretty youth? |
ROSALIND | With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the |
| skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. |
ORLANDO | Are you native of this place? |
ROSALIND | As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled. |
ORLANDO | Your accent is something finer than you could |
| purchase in so removed a dwelling. |
ROSALIND | I have been told so of many: but indeed an old |
| religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was |
| in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship |
| too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard |
| him read many lectures against it, and I thank God |
| I am not a woman, to be touched with so many |
| giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their |
| whole sex withal. |
ORLANDO | Can you remember any of the principal evils that he |
| laid to the charge of women? |
ROSALIND | There were none principal; they were all like one |
| another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming |
| monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it. | 320 |
ORLANDO | I prithee, recount some of them. |
ROSALIND | No, I will not cast away my physic but on those that |
| are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that |
| abuses our young plants with carving 'Rosalind' on |
| their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies |
| on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of |
| Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger I would |
| give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the |
| quotidian of love upon him. |
ORLANDO | I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you tell me |
| your remedy. |
ROSALIND | There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he | 332 |
| taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage |
| of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner. |
ORLANDO | What were his marks? |
ROSALIND | A lean cheek, which you have not, a blue eye and |
| sunken, which you have not, an unquestionable |
| spirit, which you have not, a beard neglected, |
| which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for |
| simply your having in beard is a younger brother's |
| revenue: then your hose should be ungartered, your |
| bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe |
| untied and every thing about you demonstrating a |
| careless desolation; but you are no such man; you |
| are rather point-device in your accoutrements as |
| loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other. | 346 |
ORLANDO | Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. |
ROSALIND | Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you |
| love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to |
| do than to confess she does: that is one of the |
| points in the which women still give the lie to |
| their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he |
| that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind |
| is so admired? |
ORLANDO | I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of |
| Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. | 356 |
ROSALIND | But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? |
ORLANDO | Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. |
ROSALIND | Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves |
| as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and |
| the reason why they are not so punished and cured |
| is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers |
| are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. |
ORLANDO | Did you ever cure any so? | 365 |
ROSALIND | Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me |
| his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to |
| woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish |
| youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing |
| and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, |
| inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every |
| passion something and for no passion truly any |
| thing, as boys and women are for the most part |
| cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe |
| him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep |
| for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor |
| from his mad humour of love to a living humour of |
| madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of |
| the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. |
| And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon |
| me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's |
| heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't. | 381 |
ORLANDO | I would not be cured, youth. |
ROSALIND | I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind |
| and come every day to my cote and woo me. |
ORLANDO | Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me |
| where it is. |
ROSALIND | Go with me to it and I'll show it you and by the way |
| you shall tell me where in the forest you live. |
| Will you go? |
ORLANDO | With all my heart, good youth. |
ROSALIND | Nay you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go? |
[Exeunt] |