Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

Jaq.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and 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 nurse's 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 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 cannon's mouth: and then, the justice;
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
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 sav'd, 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 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.

As

Duke S. If that you were the good sir Rowland's son,—
you have whisper'd faithfully you were;

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 lov'd 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;

Duke S. Welcome: Set down your venerable burthen. Support him by the arm.-Give me your hand.
And let him feed.

And let me all your fortunes understand.

[Exeunt

ACT III.

SCENE I.--A Room in the Palace. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords, and

Attendants.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character;
That every eye. which in this forest looks,
Shall see thy virtue witness'd everywhere.

Duke F. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be: Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree

But were I not the better part made mercy,

I should not seek an absent argumenta

Of my revenge, thou present: But look to it;
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is;

Seek him with candle;b bring him dead or living
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in 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 brother's mouth,
Of what we think against thee.

Oli. O, that your highness knew my heart in this!
I never lov'd my brother in my life.

Duke F. More villain thou.-Well, push 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.

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

[Exit

Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.
Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life, master
Touchstone?

Touch. 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 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 ?

Cor. 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 [Exeunt. 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 gooi breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

love:

SCENE II.-The Forest.
Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.
Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my
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.
a Argument-subject matter.

Metaphorically, seek him in every corner.
Expediently-promptly.

Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside. sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: A better instance,

Ros. Is it a man?

Cel. I would sing my song without a burthen: thou Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his bring'st me out of tune. neck: Change you colour?

Ros. I prithee, who?

Cel. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.

Ros. Nay, but who is it?

Cel. Is it possible?

Ros. Nay, I pray thee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping."

Ros. 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 I may drink thy tidings. Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. Ros. Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard? Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros. 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.

Cel. It is young Orlando; that tripped up the wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in an instant.

Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak sad brow, and true maid.d

Cel. I' faith, coz, 't is he.

Ros. Orlando?

Cel. Orlando.

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think I must speak. Sweet, say on

Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.

Cel. You bring me out :"-Soft! comes he not here?
Ros. "T is he; slink by, and note him.

[CEL. and Ros. retire Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your society.

Jaq. God be with you; let's meet as little as we can.
Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers.

Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.

Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name?
Orl. Yes, just.

Jaq. I do not like her name.

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

Jaq. What stature is she of?

Orl. Just as high as my heart.

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers: Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?

Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.

of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and Jaq. You have a nimble wit; I think it was made we two will rail against our mistress the world, and al our misery.

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world but my

Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet self; against whom I know most faults.

and hose?-What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? 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.

Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 't is 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.

Ros. But doth he know that I am in this forest and

Jaq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love. Orl. "T is a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.

Orl. He is drowned in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him.

Jaq. There shall I see mine own figure.

Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good

in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the signior Love. day he wrestled?

Cel. 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 a good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit.

Cel. Give me audience, good madam.

Ros. Proceed.

Cel. There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight.

Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.

Cel. Cry, holla! to the tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. Ros. O ominous! he comes to kill my hart!

There is an old proverbial phrase, out of cry, meaning,

beyond all measure.

6 A little unmeaning exclamatory address to her beauty, in the nature of a small oath.

My curiosity can endure no longer. If you perplex me any farther I have a space for conjecture as wide as the South-sea. Speak with a serious countenance, and as a true maid. • Wherein went he ?-in what dress did he go? Gargantua's mouth-the mouth of the giant of Rabelais, who swallowed five pilgrims in a salad.

Orl. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good monsieur Melancholy.

[Exit JAQ.-CEL.. and Ros. come forward. Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him.-Do yon hear, forester?

Orl. Very well; What would you?
Ros. I pray you, what is 't a clock?

Orl. You should ask me what time o' day; there `s no clock in the forest.

Ros. 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.

Orl. And why not the swift foot of time? had not that been as proper?

Ros. 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.

Ori. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, be tween 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.

Bring me out-put me out.

Orl. Who ambles Time withal?

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout: for the one sleeps easily, because be cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burthen of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury: These Time ambles withal. Orl. Who doth he gallop withal?

Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Orl. Who stays it still withal?

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation: for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how

time moves.

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth?

in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Ro salind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark-house and a whip as madinen 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. Orl. Did you ever cure any so?

Ros. 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

Ros. With this shepherdess, iny sister; here, in the moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longskirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Ori. Are you native of this place?

Ros. As the coney, that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed" a dwelling.

Ros. 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.

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Ros. There were none principal; they were all like one another, as halfpence are: every one fault seeming monstrous, till its fellow fault came to match it.

Orl. I prithee recount some of them.

Ros. 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.

Orl. I aia he that is so love-shaked; I pray you, tell me your remedy.

Ros. There is none of my uncle's 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. Orl. What were his marks?

Ros. 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 revenne:) Then your hose should be ungartered, your barnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything 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. Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Ros. 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,

ing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, in-
constant, 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 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.'

Orl. I would not be cured, youth.

Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me. Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

Ros. 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?

Orl. With all my heart, good youth.
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind :-
sister, will you go?

SCENE III.

:-Come, [Exeunt.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES at a distance, observing them.

Touch. 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?

Aud. Your features! Lord warrant us! what features?

Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited!b worse than Jove in a thatched house! [Aside.

Touch. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man's 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.

Aud. I do not know what poetical is: is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?

Touch. 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.

Aud. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?

Touch. I do, truly for thou swear'st to me thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet I might have some hope thou didst feign.

Aud. Would you not have me honest?

a Living-actual, positive.

b Ill-inhabited-ill-lodged.

Q