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Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM |
OLIVER. Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic |
your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, |
Dennis! |
Enter DENNIS |
DENNIS. Calls your worship? |
OLIVER. not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me? |
DENNIS. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access |
to you. |
OLIVER. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS] 'Twill be a good way; and |
to-morrow the wrestling is. |
Enter CHARLES |
CHARLES. Good morrow to your worship. |
OLIVER. Good Monsieur Charles! What's the new news at the new |
court? |
CHARLES. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that |
is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke; |
and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary |
exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; |
therefore he gives them good leave to wander. |
OLIVER. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished |
with her father? |
CHARLES. O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, |
being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have |
followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at |
the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own |
daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. |
OLIVER. Where will the old Duke live? |
CHARLES. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many |
merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood |
of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, |
and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. |
OLIVER. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke? |
CHARLES. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a |
matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger |
brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against |
me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he |
that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. |
Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would |
be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come |
in; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint |
you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, |
or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is |
thing of his own search and altogether against my will. |
OLIVER. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt |
find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my |
brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to |
dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, |
Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of |
ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret |
and villainous contriver against me his natural brother. |
Therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his |
neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou |
dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace |
himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap |
thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he |
hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I |
assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one |
so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly |
of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush |
and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder. |
CHARLES. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come |
to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again, |
I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship! |
Exit |
OLIVER. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I |
hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, |
hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and |
yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly |
beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and |
especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am |
altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler |
shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy |
thither, which now I'll go about. Exit |
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SCENE II. |
A lawn before the DUKE'S palace |
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA |
CELIA. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. |
ROSALIND. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and |
would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget |
a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any |
extraordinary pleasure. |
CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I |
love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy |
uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I |
could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst |
thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd |
as mine is to thee. |
ROSALIND. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to |
rejoice in yours. |
CELIA. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to |
have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what |
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