| 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] |