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twg_000000015100 | A motley fool. A miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool, Who laid him down and basked him in the sun, And railed 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015101 | me fortune. And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, It is ten oclock. 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015102 | 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, That fools should be so deep-contemplative, And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motleys | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015103 | 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 crammed With observation, the which he vents | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015104 | 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 judgements 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015105 | blow on whom I please, for so fools have. And they that are most galled with my folly, 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015106 | The wise mans 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 th infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine. DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. JAQUES. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015107 | 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 th embossed sores and headed evils That thou with license of free foot hast caught Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. JAQUES. Why, who cries | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015108 | out on pride 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015109 | such a one as she, such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest function That says his bravery is not on my cost, 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 wronged him. If it do him | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015110 | right, Then he hath wronged himself. If he be free, Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies Unclaimed of any man. But who comes here? Enter Orlando with 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015111 | of? DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress? Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seemst so empty? ORLANDO. You touched my vein at first. The thorny point Of bare distress hath taen from me the show Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred And know some nurture. But forbear, I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015112 | 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. 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015113 | 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 whateer you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015114 | If ever you have looked on better days, If ever been where bells have knolled to church, If ever sat at any good mans 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. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015115 | True is it that we have seen better days, And have with holy bell been knolled to church, And sat at good mens feasts, and wiped our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered. And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be ministered. ORLANDO. Then but | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015116 | 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 Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed, Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit. DUKE SENIOR. Go | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015117 | 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 worlds a stage, And all the men and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015118 | women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurses arms; Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015119 | 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, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannons mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015120 | saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered 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, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015121 | all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. Enter Orlando bearing Adam. DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden, 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. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015122 | Welcome, fall to. I will not trouble you As yet to question you about your fortunes. Give us some music, and good cousin, sing. SONG. AMIENS. (_Sings_.) Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As mans ingratitude. Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015123 | the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 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 remembered not. Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015124 | most loving mere folly. Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. DUKE SENIOR. If that you were the good Sir Rowlands son, As you have whispered faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limned and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke That loved your father. The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015125 | 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. [_To Orlando_.] Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. A Room in the Palace Enter Duke Frederick, Lords and Oliver. DUKE FREDERICK. Not see him | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015126 | since? Sir, sir, that cannot be. But were I not the better part made mercy, I should not seek an absent argument Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: Find out thy brother wheresoeer he is. Seek him with candle. Bring him dead or living Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more To seek a living in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015127 | our territory. Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands, Till thou canst quit thee by thy brothers mouth Of what we think against thee. OLIVER. O that your highness knew my heart in this: I never loved my brother in my life. DUKE FREDERICK. More villain thou. Well, push | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015128 | him out of doors, And let my officers of such a nature Make an extent upon his house and lands. Do this expediently, and turn him going. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The Forest of Arden 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015129 | from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress name that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts Ill character, That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere. Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. [_Exit._] Enter | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015130 | Corin and Touchstone. CORIN. And how like you this shepherds life, Master Touchstone? TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherds 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015131 | 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 it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? CORIN. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015132 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015133 | 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 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015134 | one side. CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason. TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawst good manners; if thou never sawst good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015135 | at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour 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 fells, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015136 | you know, are greasy. TOUCHSTONE. Why, do not your courtiers 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015137 | are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtiers hands are perfumed with civet. 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015138 | cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. CORIN. You have too courtly a wit for me. Ill rest. TOUCHSTONE. Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee, thou art raw. CORIN. Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no mans happiness, glad of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015139 | other mens 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015140 | a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou best not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst scape. Enter Rosalind as Ganymede. CORIN. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistresss brother. ROSALIND. [_Reads_.] _From the east to western Inde No | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015141 | jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalind. All the pictures fairest lined Are but black to Rosalind. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind._ TOUCHSTONE. Ill rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-womens rank | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015142 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015143 | nut is Rosalind. He that sweetest rose will find Must find loves 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. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. ROSALIND. Ill graft it with you, and then I shall graft it | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015144 | with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i th country, for youll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and thats the right virtue of the medlar. TOUCHSTONE. You have said, but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge. Enter Celia as Aliena, reading a paper. ROSALIND. Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside. CELIA. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015145 | [_Reads_.] _Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No! Tongues Ill hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the streching of a span Buckles in his sum of age; Some, of violated vows Twixt the souls of friend and friend. But upon the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015146 | 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 filled With all graces wide-enlarged. Nature presently distilled Helens cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatras majesty; Atalantas better part, Sad Lucretias modesty. Thus Rosalind | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015147 | 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._ ROSALIND. O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried Have patience, good people! CELIA. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015148 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015149 | more feet than the verses would bear. CELIA. Thats 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015150 | 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 berhymed 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015151 | about his neck. 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015152 | wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping! 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. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015153 | I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouthed bottleeither too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly. ROSALIND. Is he of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015154 | Gods making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard? 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015155 | Orlando, that tripped up the wrestlers 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 sawst him? What said he? | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015156 | How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes he 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. CELIA. You must borrow me Gargantuas mouth first. Tis a word too great for any mouth of this ages size. To say ay and no | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015157 | to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism. ROSALIND. But doth he know that I am in this forest and in mans 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015158 | him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn. ROSALIND. It may well be called Joves 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015159 | well becomes the ground. CELIA. Cry holla! to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. ROSALIND. O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart. CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden. Thou bringst me out of tune. ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015160 | Sweet, say on. Enter Orlando and Jaques. CELIA. You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here? ROSALIND. Tis he! Slink by, and note him. [_Rosalind and Celia step aside._] 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015161 | you too for your society. JAQUES. God be wi you, lets 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. ORLANDO. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly. JAQUES. Rosalind is your loves | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015162 | 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; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015163 | 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 Atalantas 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015164 | I know most faults. 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015165 | him. JAQUES. There I shall see mine own figure. ORLANDO. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. JAQUES. Ill tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love. ORLANDO. I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. [_Exit Jaques.Celia and Rosalind come forward._] ROSALIND. I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015166 | under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester? ORLANDO. Very well. What would you? ROSALIND. I pray you, what ist oclock? ORLANDO. You should ask me what time o day. Theres no clock in the forest. ROSALIND. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015167 | 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. Ill tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. ORLANDO. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015168 | 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 sennight, times pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year. ORLANDO. Who ambles time withal? ROSALIND. With a priest that lacks Latin | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015169 | 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. ORLANDO. Who doth he gallop withal? ROSALIND. With a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015170 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015171 | in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. ORLANDO. Are you native of this place? ROSALIND. As the coney 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015172 | 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. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015173 | 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 halfpence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it. ORLANDO. I prithee recount some of them. ROSALIND. No. I will not cast away my physic | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015174 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015175 | 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 uncles marks upon you. He 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015176 | 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 notbut I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brothers revenue. Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015177 | 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. 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015178 | 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015179 | that unfortunate he. 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015180 | 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? 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015181 | 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 anything, 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015182 | 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 sheeps | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015183 | heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in t. 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015184 | to it, and Ill 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._] SCENE III. Another part of the Forest Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques at a distance observing | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015185 | them. 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, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015186 | worse than Jove in a thatched house! TOUCHSTONE. When a mans verses cannot be understood, nor a mans 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015187 | 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 swearst to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015188 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015189 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015190 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015191 | a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt, for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015192 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015193 | a bachelor. And by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Enter Sir Oliver Martext. Here comes Sir Oliver. Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel? MARTEXT. Is there none here to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015194 | give the woman? TOUCHSTONE. I will not take her on gift of any man. MARTEXT. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. JAQUES. [_Coming forward_.] Proceed, proceed. Ill give her. TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master What-ye-callt, how do you, sir? You are very well met. God ild you for your last company. I am very glad | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015195 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015196 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015197 | 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015198 | 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 Touchstone, Audrey and Jaques._] MARTEXT. Tis no matter. Neer a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Another part of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000015199 | the Forest. Before a Cottage 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 | 60 | gutenberg |
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