As You Like It
This I must do, or know not what to do.
Yet this I will not do, do how I can.
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
ADAM.
But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age. Here is the gold.
All this I give you. Let me be your servant.
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty,
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility.
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty but kindly. Let me go with you.
I’ll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
ORLANDO.
O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed.
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion,
And having that do choke their service up
Even with the having. It is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we’ll go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent
We’ll light upon some settled low content.
ADAM.
Master, go on and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week.
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well and not my master’s debtor.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden
Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and Touchstone.
ROSALIND.
O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!
TOUCHSTONE.
I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.
ROSALIND.
I could find in my heart to disgrace my man’s apparel, and to cry like
a woman, but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose
ought to show itself courageous to petticoat. Therefore, courage, good
Aliena.
CELIA.
I pray you bear with me, I cannot go no further.
TOUCHSTONE.
For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you. Yet I should
bear no cross if I did bear you, for I think you have no money in your
purse.
ROSALIND.
Well, this is the forest of Arden.
TOUCHSTONE.
Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I! When I was at home I was in a
better place, but travellers must be content.
Enter Corin and Silvius.
ROSALIND.
Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here? A young man and
an old in solemn talk.
CORIN.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
SILVIUS.
O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!
CORIN.
I partly guess, for I have loved ere now.
SILVIUS.
No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow.
But if thy love were ever like to mine—
As sure I think did never man love so—
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
CORIN.
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
SILVIUS.
O, thou didst then never love so heartily!
If thou rememb’rest not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved.
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise,
Thou hast not loved.
Or if thou hast not broke from company
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not loved.
O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe!
[_Exit Silvius._]
ROSALIND.
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
TOUCHSTONE.
And I mine. I remember when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone
and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember
the kissing of her batlet, and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopped
hands had milked; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of
her, from whom I took two cods, and, giving her them again, said with
weeping tears, “Wear these for my sake.” We that are true lovers run
into strange capers. But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature
in love mortal in folly.
ROSALIND.
Thou speak’st wiser than thou art ware of.
TOUCHSTONE.
Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins
against it.
ROSALIND.
Jove, Jove, this shepherd’s passion
Is much upon my fashion.
TOUCHSTONE.
And mine, but it grows something stale with me.
CELIA.
I pray you, one of you question yond man
If he for gold will give us any food.
I faint almost to death.
TOUCHSTONE.
Holla, you clown!
ROSALIND.
Peace, fool, he’s not thy kinsman.
CORIN.
Who calls?
TOUCHSTONE.
Your betters, sir.
CORIN.
Else are they very wretched.
ROSALIND.
Peace, I say.—Good even to you, friend.
CORIN.
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
ROSALIND.
I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here’s a young maid with travel much oppressed,
And faints for succour.
CORIN.
Fair sir, I pity her
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her.
But I am shepherd to another man
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.
My master is of churlish disposition
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality.
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed
Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on. But what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
ROSALIND.
What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
CORIN.
That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
That little cares for buying anything.
ROSALIND.
I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
CELIA.
And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.
CORIN.
Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
Go with me. If you like upon report
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. Another part of the Forest
Enter Amiens, Jaques and others.
AMIENS.
[_Sings_.]
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
JAQUES.
More, more, I prithee, more.
AMIENS.
It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
JAQUES.
I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song
as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.
AMIENS.
My voice is ragged. I know I cannot please you.
JAQUES.
I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more,
another _stanzo_. Call you ’em _stanzos?_
AMIENS.
What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
JAQUES.
Nay, I care not for their names. They owe me nothing. Will you sing?
AMIENS.
More at your request than to please myself.
JAQUES.
Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank you; but that they call
compliment is like th’ encounter of two dog-apes. And when a man thanks
me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me the
beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.
AMIENS.
Well, I’ll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while. The Duke will drink
under this tree; he hath been all this day to look you.
JAQUES.
And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my
company. I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks and
make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.
AMIENS.
[_Sings_.]
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ th’ sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
JAQUES.
I’ll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of
my invention.
AMIENS.
And I’ll sing it.
JAQUES.
Thus it goes:
If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.
AMIENS.
What’s that “ducdame?”
JAQUES.
’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I’ll go sleep if I
can; if I cannot, I’ll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.
AMIENS.
And I’ll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepared.
[_Exeunt severally._]
SCENE VI. Another part of the Forest
Enter Orlando and Adam.
ADAM.
Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food! Here lie I down
and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.
ORLANDO.
Why, how now, Adam? No greater heart in thee? Live a little, comfort a
little, cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield anything
savage, I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee. Thy
conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake, be comfortable.
Hold death awhile at the arm’s end. I will here be with thee presently,
and if I bring thee not something to eat, I’ll give thee leave to die.
But if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well
said, thou look’st cheerly, and I’ll be with thee quickly. Yet thou
liest in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter and thou
shalt not die for lack of a dinner if there live anything in this
desert. Cheerly, good Adam!
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VII. Another part of the Forest
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens and Lords as outlaws.
DUKE SENIOR.
I think he be transformed into a beast,
For I can nowhere find him like a man.
FIRST LORD.
My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
DUKE SENIOR.
If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go seek him, tell him I would speak with him.
Enter Jaques.
FIRST LORD.
He saves my labour by his own approach.
DUKE SENIOR.
Why, how now, monsieur? What a life is this
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily.
JAQUES.
A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ th’ forest,
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 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 o’clock.
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 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! Motley’s 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