As You Like It
Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin, at a distance.
PHOEBE.
I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye.
’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable
That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor I am sure there is not force in eyes
That can do hurt.
SILVIUS.
O dear Phoebe,
If ever—as that ever may be near—
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love’s keen arrows make.
PHOEBE.
But till that time
Come not thou near me. And when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
ROSALIND.
[_Advancing_.] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty—
As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed—
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes too!
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it.
’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman. ’Tis such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favoured children.
’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her,
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love.
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
PHOEBE.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together!
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND.
He’s fall’n in love with your foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my
anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks,
I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?
PHOEBE.
For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND.
I pray you do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.
Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.
Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.
[_Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin._]
PHOEBE.
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE.
Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS.
Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS.
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined.
PHOEBE.
Thou hast my love. Is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS.
I would have you.
PHOEBE.
Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure, and I’ll employ thee too.
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
SILVIUS.
So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
PHOEBE.
Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
SILVIUS.
Not very well, but I have met him oft,
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
That the old carlot once was master of.
PHOEBE.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
’Tis but a peevish boy—yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? Yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—
But sure he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him.
He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall, yet for his years he’s tall;
His leg is but so-so, and yet ’tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but for my part
I love him not nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him.
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black,
And now I am remembered, scorned at me.
I marvel why I answered not again.
But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance.
I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS.
Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE.
I’ll write it straight,
The matter’s in my head and in my heart.
I will be bitter with him and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT IV
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Jaques.
JAQUES.
I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
ROSALIND.
They say you are a melancholy fellow.
JAQUES.
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
ROSALIND.
Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and
betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
JAQUES.
Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
ROSALIND.
Why then, ’tis good to be a post.
JAQUES.
I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the
musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud;
nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is
politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all
these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,
extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my
travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous
sadness.
ROSALIND.
A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you
have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and
to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
JAQUES.
Yes, I have gained my experience.
ROSALIND.
And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me
merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.
Enter Orlando.
ORLANDO.
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
JAQUES.
Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
ROSALIND.
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits;
disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your
nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are,
or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.
[_Exit Jaques._]
Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover!
An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
ORLANDO.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
ROSALIND.
Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a
thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute
in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped
him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
ORLANDO.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be
wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO.
Of a snail?
ROSALIND.
Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his
head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he
brings his destiny with him.
ORLANDO.
What’s that?
ROSALIND.
Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives
for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his
wife.
ORLANDO.
Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND.
And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA.
It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer
than you.
ROSALIND.
Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough
to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very
Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND.
Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack
of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when
they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn
us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
ORLANDO.
How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND.
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO.
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND.
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my
honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO.
What, of my suit?
ROSALIND.
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your
Rosalind?
ORLANDO.
I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND.
Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO.
Then, in mine own person, I die.
ROSALIND.
No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years
old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person,
_videlicet_, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a
Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of
the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer
night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont
and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish
chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all
lies. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but
not for love.
ORLANDO.
I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her
frown might kill me.
ROSALIND.
By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your
Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I
will grant it.
ORLANDO.
Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO.
And wilt thou have me?
ROSALIND.
Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO.
What sayest thou?
ROSALIND.
Are you not good?
ORLANDO.
I hope so.
ROSALIND.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you
shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do
you say, sister?
ORLANDO.
Pray thee, marry us.