Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it.


Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, ORLANDO, CHARLES, and Attendants


Come on: since the youth will not be entreated, his


Alas, he is too young! yet he looks successfully.


How now, daughter and cousin! are you crept hither


Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.


You will take little delight in it, I can tell you;


there is such odds in the man. In pity of the


challengers youth I would fain dissuade him, but he


will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if


Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you.


I attend them with all respect and duty.


Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?


No, fair princess; he is the general challenger: I


come but in, as others do, to try with him the


Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your


years. You have seen cruel proof of this mans


strength: if you saw yourself with your eyes or


knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of your


adventure would counsel you to a more equal


enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to


embrace your own safety and give over this attempt.


Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore


be misprised: we will make it our suit to the duke


that the wrestling might not go forward.


I beseech you, punish me not with your hard


thoughts; wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny


so fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let


your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my


trial: wherein if I be foiled, there is but one


shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one


dead that was willing to be so: I shall do my


friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me, the


world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in


the world I fill up a place, which may be better


The little strength that I have, I would it were with you.


Fare you well: pray heaven I be deceived in you!


Come, where is this young gallant that is so


Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.


No, I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him


to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him


An you mean to mock me after, you should not have


I would I were invisible, to catch the strong


If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who


Yes, I beseech your grace: I am not yet well breathed.


Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?


Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.


I would thou hadst been son to some man else:


The world esteemd thy father honourable,


Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed,


Hadst thou descended from another house.


But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth:


I would thou hadst told me of another father.


Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK, train, and LE BEAU


His youngest son; and would not change that calling,


My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,


And all the world was of my fathers mind:


Had I before known this young man his son,


I should have given him tears unto entreaties,


My fathers rough and envious disposition


Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserved:


But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,


Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,


That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.


Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts


Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up


Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.


He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes;


Ill ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?


Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown


What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?


I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.


Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.


Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you


To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved


High commendation, true applause and love,


That he misconstrues all that you have done.


The duke is humorous; what he is indeed,


More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.


I thank you, sir: and, pray you, tell me this:


Which of the two was daughter of the duke


Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;


But yet indeed the lesser is his daughter


The other is daughter to the banishd duke,


To keep his daughter company; whose loves


Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.


But I can tell you that of late this duke


Hath taen displeasure gainst his gentle niece,


But that the people praise her for her virtues


And, on my life, his malice gainst the lady


Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well:


I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.


I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.


Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;


Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?


No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon


curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.


Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one


should be lamed with reasons and the other mad


No, some of it is for my childs father. O, how


full of briers is this working-day world!


They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in


holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden


paths our very petticoats will catch them.


I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.


I would try, if I could cry hem and have him.


Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.


O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!


O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in


despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of


service, let us talk in good earnest: is it


possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so


strong a liking with old Sir Rowlands youngest son?


The duke my father loved his father dearly.


Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son


dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him,


for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate


Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?


Let me love him for that, and do you love him


because I do. Look, here comes the duke.


Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste


Within these ten days if that thou best found


So near our public court as twenty miles,


Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:


Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,


If that I do not dream or be not frantic,--


As I do trust I am not--then, dear uncle,


If their purgation did consist in words,


Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.


Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:


Thou art thy fathers daughter; theres enough.


So was I when your highness took his dukedom;


So was I when your highness banishd him:


Or, if we did derive it from our friends,


Whats that to me? my father was no traitor:


Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much


Else had she with her father ranged along.


I did not then entreat to have her stay;


It was your pleasure and your own remorse:


But now I know her: if she be a traitor,


Why so am I; we still have slept together,


Rose at an instant, learnd, playd, eat together,


And wheresoever we went, like Junos swans,


She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,


Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;


And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous


When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:


Which I have passd upon her; she is banishd.


Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege:


You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself:


If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,


And in the greatness of my word, you die.


O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?


Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.


I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.


Prithee be cheerful: knowst thou not, the duke


No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love


Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:


Shall we be sunderd? shall we part, sweet girl?


Therefore devise with me how we may fly,


And do not seek to take your change upon you,


To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;


For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,


Say what thou canst, Ill go along with thee.


To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.


Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!


Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.


And with a kind of umber smirch my face;


Because that I am more than common tall,


That I did suit me all points like a man?


A boar-spear in my hand; and--in my heart


Lie there what hidden womans fear there will--


Well have a swashing and a martial outside,


That do outface it with their semblances.


What shall I call thee when thou art a man?


Ill have no worse a name than Joves own page;


And therefore look you call me Ganymede.


Something that hath a reference to my state


The clownish fool out of your fathers court?


Would he not be a comfort to our travel?


Hell go along oer the wide world with me;


And get our jewels and our wealth together,


To hide us from pursuit that will be made


Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three Lords, like foresters


Hath not old custom made this life more sweet


Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods


More free from peril than the envious court?


And churlish chiding of the winters wind,


Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,


Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say


This is no flattery: these are counsellors


Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,


And this our life exempt from public haunt


Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,


Sermons in stones and good in every thing.


That can translate the stubbornness of fortune


And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,


Being native burghers of this desert city,


Should in their own confines with forked heads


And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp


Than doth your brother that hath banishd you.


Under an oak whose antique root peeps out


Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:


To the which place a poor sequesterd stag,


That from the hunters aim had taen a hurt,


Did come to languish, and indeed, my lord,


The wretched animal heaved forth such groans


That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat


Almost to bursting, and the big round tears


Coursed one another down his innocent nose


In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool


Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,


First, for his weeping into the needless stream;


Poor deer, quoth he, thou makest a testament


As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more


To that which had too much: then, being there alone,


Left and abandond of his velvet friends,


Tis right: quoth he; thus misery doth part


The flux of company: anon a careless herd,


And never stays to greet him; Ay quoth Jaques,


Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look


Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?


Thus most invectively he pierceth through


Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we


Are mere usurpers, tyrants and whats worse,


To fright the animals and to kill them up


In their assignd and native dwelling-place.


And did you leave him in this contemplation?


I love to cope him in these sullen fits,


Can it be possible that no man saw them?


The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,


They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.


My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft


Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.


Your daughter and her cousin much commend


That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;


And she believes, wherever they are gone,


Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither;


If he be absent, bring his brother to me;


Ill make him find him: do this suddenly,


And let not search and inquisition quail


What, my young master? O, my gentle master!


Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?


Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?


And wherefore are you gentle, strong and valiant?


Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.


Know you not, master, to some kind of men


No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,


Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.


O, what a world is this, when what is comely


Come not within these doors; within this roof


Your brother--no, no brother; yet the son--


Yet not the son, I will not call him son


Hath heard your praises, and this night he means


To burn the lodging where you use to lie


He will have other means to cut you off.


This is no place; this house is but a butchery:


Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?


No matter whither, so you come not here.


What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?


Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce


But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,


The thrifty hire I saved under your father,


When service should in my old limbs lie lame


Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,


Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,


And all this I give you. Let me be your servant:


Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;


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 prunest a rotten tree,


But come thy ways; well go along together,


And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,


Well light upon some settled low content.


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;


Than to die well and not my masters debtor.


Enter ROSALIND for Ganymede, CELIA for Aliena, and TOUCHSTONE


I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.


I could find in my heart to disgrace my mans


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,


I pray you, bear with me; I cannot go no further.


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.


Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was


at home, I was in a better place: but travellers


Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in


That is the way to make her scorn you still.


O Corin, that thou knewst how I do love her!


I partly guess; for I have loved ere now.


No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,


Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover


But if thy love were ever like to mine--


O, thou didst then neer love so heartily!


If thou rememberst not the slightest folly


Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress praise,


Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,


I have by hard adventure found mine own.


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 cows dugs that her


pretty chopt 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.


Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.


Nay, I shall neer be ware of mine own wit till I


And mine; but it grows something stale with me.


I pray you, one of you question yond man


I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold


Can in this desert place buy entertainment,


Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:


Heres a young maid with travel much oppressd


And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,


My fortunes were more able to relieve her;


And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:


And little recks to find the way to heaven


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.


What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?


That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,


Buy thou the cottage, pasture and the flock,


And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.


And we will mend thy wages. I like this place.


And willingly could waste my time in it.


The soil, the profit and this kind of life,


And buy it with your gold right suddenly.


It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.


I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck


melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs.


My voice is ragged: I know I cannot please you.


I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to


sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call you em stanzos?


Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me


More at your request than to please myself.


Well then, if ever I thank any man, Ill thank you;


but that they call compliment is like the 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


Well, Ill end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the


duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all


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


Ill give you a verse to this note that I made


Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a


circle. Ill go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, Ill


rail against all the first-born of Egypt.


And Ill go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.


Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food!


Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell,


Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live


a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little.


If this uncouth forest yield any thing 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 arms end: I will here be with thee presently;


and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will


give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I


come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said!


thou lookest cheerly, and Ill 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 any thing in this


A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and Lords like outlaws


We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.


Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.


Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,


That your poor friends must woo your company?


A fool, a fool! I met a fool i the forest,


Who laid him down and baskd him in the sun,


And raild 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, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,


Thus we may see, quoth he, how the world wags:


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


My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,


That fools should be so deep-contemplative,


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 crammd


Provided that you weed your better judgments


To 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:


Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,


Even by the squandering glances of the fool.


To speak my mind, and I will through and through


Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,


If they will patiently receive my medicine.


Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.


What, for a counter, would I do but good?


Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:


And all the embossed sores and headed evils,


That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,


Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.


The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?


Who can come in and say that I mean her,


When such a one as she such is her neighbour?


That says his bravery is not of my cost,


Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits


There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein


My tongue hath wrongd him: if it do him right,


Then he hath wrongd himself; if he be free,


Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,


Unclaimd of any man. But who comes here?


Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.


Art thou thus boldend, man, by thy distress,


Or else a rude despiser of good manners,


You touchd 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 say:


An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.


What would you have? Your gentleness shall force


More than your force move us to gentleness.


I almost die for food; and let me have it.


Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.


Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:


I thought that all things had been savage here;


Of stern commandment. But whateer you are


Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time


If ever been where bells have knolld to church,


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.


True is it that we have seen better days,


And have with holy bell been knolld to church


And sat at good mens feasts and wiped our eyes


Of drops that sacred pity hath engenderd:


And therefore sit you down in gentleness


Then but 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,


Limpd in pure love: till he be first sufficed,


Oppressd with two weak evils, age and hunger,


And we will nothing waste till you return.


I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!


Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:


Presents more woeful pageants than the scene


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,


And then the whining school-boy, 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,


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,


And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts


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 all,


That ends this strange eventful history,


Is second childishness and mere oblivion,


Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen,


I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.


Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you


As yet, to question you about your fortunes.


Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.


Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:


Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:


If that you were the good Sir Rowlands son,


As you have whisperd faithfully you were,


And as mine eye doth his effigies witness


Most truly limnd and living in your face,


That loved 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.


Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,


And let me all your fortunes understand.


Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:


But were I not the better part made mercy,


Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:


Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living


Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more


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


O that your highness knew my heart in this!


More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;


Make an extent upon his house and lands:


Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:


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.


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 witnessd every where.


The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.


And how like you this shepherds life, Master 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 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


is it 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?


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 sun; that


he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may


complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.


Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in


Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg, all


Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawest


good manners; if thou never sawest good manners,


then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is


sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous


Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good manners


at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the


behavior 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


Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their


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.


Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again.


And they are often tarred over with the surgery of


our sheep: and would you have us kiss tar? The


courtiers hands are perfumed with civet.


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 cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.


You have too courtly a wit for me: Ill rest.


Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man!


God make incision in thee! thou art raw.


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 other mens good, content with my


harm, and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes


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 a she-lamb of a


twelvemonth to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,


out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not


damned for this, the devil himself will have no


shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst


Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistresss brother.


Ill rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and


suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: it is the


This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you


Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.


Ill graff it with you, and then I shall graff it


with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit


i the country; for youll be rotten ere you be half


ripe, and thats the right virtue of the medlar.


You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the


Peace! Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.


Heaven would that she these gifts should have,


O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of love


have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never


How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little.


Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;


though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.


O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of


them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.


Thats no matter: the feet might bear the verses.


Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear


themselves without the verse and therefore stood


But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name


should be hanged and carved upon these trees?


I was 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 be-rhymed since


Pythagoras time, that I was an Irish rat, which I


And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.


O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to


meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes


Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence,


O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful


wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that,


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


Is he of Gods making? What manner of man? Is his


head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?


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.


It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestlers


heels and your heart both in an instant.


Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, sad brow and


Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and


hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What said


he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes


him here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he?


How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see


You must borrow me Gargantuas mouth first: tis a


word too great for any mouth of this ages size. To


say ay and no to these particulars is more than to


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


mans apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the


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 good observance.


I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.


It may well be called Joves tree, when it drops


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


Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well


Cry holla to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets


unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.


I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest


Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must


You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?


I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had


And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you


God be wi you: lets meet as little as we can.


I pray you, mar no more trees with writing


I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading


There was no thought of pleasing you when she was


You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been


acquainted with goldsmiths wives, and conned them


Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from


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


I will chide no breather in the world but myself,


The worst fault you have is to be in love.


Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue.


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


He is drowned in the brook: look but in, and you


Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.


Ill tarry no longer with you: farewell, good


I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur


[Aside to CELIA]  I will speak to him, like a saucy


lackey and under that habit play the knave with him.


You should ask me what time o day: theres no clock


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.


And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that


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


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


With a priest that lacks Latin 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.


With a thief to the gallows, for though he go as


softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.


With lawyers in the vacation, for they sleep between


term and term and then they perceive not how Time moves.


With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the


skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.


As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.


Your accent is something finer than you could


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


Can you remember any of the principal evils that he


There were none principal; they were all like one


another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming


monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.


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


I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you tell me


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.


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 brothers


revenue: then your hose should be ungartered, your


bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe


untied and every thing 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.


Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.


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, in good sooth, are you he


that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind


I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of


Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.


But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?


Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.


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 lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers


are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.


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, 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 any


thing, 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 sheeps


heart, that there shall not be one spot of love int.


I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind


and come every day to my cote and woo me.


Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me


Go with me to it and Ill show it you and by the way


you shall tell me where in the forest you live.


Nay you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?


Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind


Come apace, good Audrey: I will fetch up your


goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the man yet?


Your features! Lord warrant us! what features!


I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most


capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.


[Aside]  O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove


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


I do not know what poetical is: is it honest in


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.


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


I do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou art


honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some


No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for


honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.


Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods


Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut


were to put good meat into an unclean dish.


I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.


Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness!


sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may


be, I 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


Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart,


stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple


but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what


though? C ourage! 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 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 a


bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no


skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to


Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: will you


dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go


Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.


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 to see you: even a


toy in hand here, sir: nay, pray be covered.


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.


And will you, being a man of your 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.


[Aside]  I am not in the mind but 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.


Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.


We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.


Tis no matter: neer a fantastical knave of them


Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider


As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.


His very hair is of the dissembling colour.


Something browner than Judass marry, his kisses are


An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.


And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch


He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun


of winters sisterhood kisses not more religiously;


But why did he swear he would come this morning, and


Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.


Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a


horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do


think him as concave as a covered goblet or a


Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.


You have heard him swear downright he was.


Was is not is: besides, the oath of a lover is


no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are


both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends


here in the forest on the duke your father.


I met the duke yesterday and had much question with


him: he asked me of what parentage I was; I told


him, of as good as he; so he laughed and let me go.


But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a


O, thats a brave man! he writes brave verses,


speaks brave words, swears brave oaths and breaks


them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of


his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse


but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble


goose: but alls brave that youth mounts and folly


Mistress and master, you have oft inquired


After the shepherd that complaind of love,


Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess


Between the pale complexion of true love


And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,


Go hence a little and I shall conduct you,


The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.


Bring us to this sight, and you shall say


Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe;


Say that you love me not, but say not so


Whose heart the accustomd sight of death makes hard,


But first begs pardon: will you sterner be


Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?


Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind


I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.


Thou tellst me there is murder in mine eye:


That eyes, that are the frailst and softest things,


Should be calld 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


Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,


Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,


Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes


You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,


Then shall you know the wounds invisible


Come not thou near me: and when that time comes,


As till that time I shall not pity thee.


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,--


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 natures sale-work. Ods 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?


That makes the world full of ill-favourd 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 mans 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.


Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together:


I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.


Hes fallen in love with your foulness and shell


fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as


she answers thee with frowning looks, Ill sauce her


with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?


I pray you, do not fall in love with me,


Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,


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,


Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,


Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?


Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.


Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?


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,


Than thine own gladness that thou art employd.


That I shall think it a most plenteous crop


That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then


A scatterd smile, and that Ill live upon.


Knowst now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?


And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds


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.


But, sure, hes proud, and yet his pride becomes him:


Hell 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 hes tall:


Than that mixd in his cheek; twas just the difference


Between the constant red and mingled damask.


There be some women, Silvius, had they markd 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:


He said mine eyes were black and my hair black:


But thats all one; omittance is no quittance.


Ill write to him a very taunting letter,


And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?


I will be bitter with him and passing short.


I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted


I am so; I do love it better than laughing.


Those that are in extremity of either are abominable


fellows and betray themselves to every modern


Why, tis good to be sad and say nothing.


I have neither the scholars melancholy, which is


emulation, nor the musicians, which is fantastical,


nor the courtiers, which is proud, nor the


soldiers, which is ambitious, nor the lawyers,


which is politic, nor the ladys, which is nice, nor


the lovers, which is all these: but it is a


melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,


extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundrys


contemplation of my travels, in which my often


rumination wraps me m a most humorous sadness.


A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to


be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see


other mens; then, to have seen much and to have


nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.


And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have


a fool to make me merry than experience to make me


Nay, then, God be wi you, an you talk in blank verse.


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. 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.


My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.


Break an hours promise in love! He that will


divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but


a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the


affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid


hath clapped him o the shoulder, but Ill warrant


Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I


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


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.


Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.


It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a


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?


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.


Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.


Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?


Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or


I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.


Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit.


I take some joy to say you are, because I would be


Well in her person I say I will not have you.


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,


videlicit, 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


coroners 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.


I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind,


for, I protest, her frown might kill me.


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


Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.


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?


Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?


Then you must say I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.


I might ask you for your commission; but I do take


thee, Orlando, for my husband: theres a girl goes


before the priest; and certainly a womans thought


Now tell me how long you would have her after you


Say a day, without the ever. No, no, Orlando;


men are April when they woo, December when they wed:


maids are May when they are maids, but the sky


changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous


of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen,


more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more


new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires


than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana


in the fountain, and I will do that when you are


disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and


Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the


wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a womans


wit and it will out at the casement; shut that and


twill out at the key-hole; stop that, twill fly


A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say


Nay, you might keep that cheque for it till you met


your wifes wit going to your neighbours bed.


And what wit could wit have to excuse that?


Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall


never take her without her answer, unless you take


her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot


make her fault her husbands occasion, let her


never nurse her child herself, for she will breed


For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.


Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.


I must attend the duke at dinner: by two oclock I


Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you


would prove: my friends told me as much, and I


thought no less: that flattering tongue of yours


won me: tis but one cast away, and so, come,


By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend


me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous,


if you break one jot of your promise or come one


minute behind your hour, I will think you the most


pathetical break-promise and the most hollow lover


and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that


may be chosen out of the gross band of the


unfaithful: therefore beware my censure and keep


With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my


Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such


You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate:


we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your


head, and show the world what the bird hath done to


O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou


didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But


it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown


Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour


No, that same wicked bastard of Venus that was begot


of thought, conceived of spleen and born of madness,


that blind rascally boy that abuses every ones eyes


because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I


am in love. Ill tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out


of the sight of Orlando: Ill go find a shadow and


Lets present him to the duke, like a Roman


conqueror; and it would do well to set the deers


horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have


you no song, forester, for this purpose?


Sing it: tis no matter how it be in tune, so it


How say you now? Is it not past two oclock? and


I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he


hath taen his bow and arrows and is gone forth to


I know not the contents; but, as I guess


Which she did use as she was writing of it,


Patience herself would startle at this letter


And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:


She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;


She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,


Were man as rare as phoenix. Ods my will!


Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:


Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,


I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand.


A freestone-colourd hand; I verily did think


That her old gloves were on, but twas her hands:


She has a huswifes hand; but thats no matter:


Why, tis a boisterous and a cruel style.


A style for-challengers; why, she defies me,


Like Turk to Christian: womens gentle brain


Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention


Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect


Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?


So please you, for I never heard it yet;


She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.


Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt


thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an


instrument and play false strains upon thee! not to


be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see


love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to


her: that if she love me, I charge her to love


thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless


thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover,


hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.


Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,


Where in the purlieus of this forest stands


A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees?


West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom:


The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream


Left on your right hand brings you to the place.


But at this hour the house doth keep itself;


Such garments and such years: The boy is fair,


And browner than her brother. Are not you


The owner of the house I did inquire for?


It is no boast, being askd, to say we are.


He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?


Some of my shame; if you will know of me


What man I am, and how, and why, and where


When last the young Orlando parted from you


Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,


Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,


Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside,


And mark what object did present itself:


Under an oak, whose boughs were mossd with age


A wretched ragged man, oergrown with hair,


Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck


A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,


Who with her head nimble in threats approachd


Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,


When that the sleeping man should stir; for tis


To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:


And found it was his brother, his elder brother.


O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;


And he did render him the most unnatural


But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,


Twice did he turn his back and purposed so;


And nature, stronger than his just occasion,


Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling


Wast you that did so oft contrive to kill him?


To tell you what I was, since my conversion


So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.


When from the first to last betwixt us two


Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed,


Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,


There strippd himself, and here upon his arm


Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted


Brief, I recoverd him, bound up his wound;


And, after some small space, being strong at heart,


To tell this story, that you might excuse


His broken promise, and to give this napkin


Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth


That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.


Many will swoon when they do look on blood.


I pray you, will you take him by the arm?


Be of good cheer, youth: you a man! you lack a


I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would


think this was well counterfeited! I pray you, tell


your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho!


This was not counterfeit: there is too great


testimony in your complexion that it was a passion


Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.


So I do: but, i faith, I should have been a woman by right.


Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw


That will I, for I must bear answer back


I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend


We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.


Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old


A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile


Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the


Ay, I know who tis; he hath no interest in me in


It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: by my


troth, we that have good wits have much to answer


for; we shall be flouting; we cannot hold.


Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy


head; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend?


A fair name. Wast born i the forest here?


So so is good, very good, very excellent good; and


yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise?


Why, thou sayest well. I do now remember a saying,


The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man


philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape,


would open his lips when he put it into his mouth;


meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and


Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it


is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out


of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty


the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse


is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he.


He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you


clown, abandon,--which is in the vulgar leave,--the


society,--which in the boorish is company,--of this


female,--which in the common is woman; which


together is, abandon the society of this female, or,


clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better


understanding, diest; or, to wit I kill thee, make


thee away, translate thy life into death, thy


liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with


thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy


with thee in faction; I will oerrun thee with


policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways:


Our master and mistress seeks you; come, away, away!


Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.


Ist possible that on so little acquaintance you


should like her? that but seeing you should love


her? and loving woo? and, wooing, she should


grant? and will you persever to enjoy her?


Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the


poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden


wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me,


I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me;


consent with both that we may enjoy each other: it


shall be to your good; for my fathers house and all


the revenue that was old Sir Rowlands will I


estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.


You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow:


thither will I invite the duke and alls contented


followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for look


O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee


I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws


Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.


Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to


swoon when he showed me your handkerchief?


O, I know where you are: nay, tis true: there was


never any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams


and Caesars thrasonical brag of I came, saw, and


overcame: for your brother and my sister no sooner


met but they looked, no sooner looked but they


loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner


sighed but they asked one another the reason, no


sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy;


and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs


to marriage which they will climb incontinent, or


else be incontinent before marriage: they are in


the very wrath of love and they will together; clubs


They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the


duke to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a thing it


is to look into happiness through another mans


eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at


the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall


think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.


Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?


I will weary you then no longer with idle talking.


Know of me then, for now I speak to some purpose,


that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit: I


speak not this that you should bear a good opinion


of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are;


neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in


some little measure draw a belief from you, to do


yourself good and not to grace me. Believe then, if


you please, that I can do strange things: I have,


since I was three year old, conversed with a


magician, most profound in his art and yet not


damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart


as your gesture cries it out, when your brother


marries Aliena, shall you marry her: I know into


what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is


not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient


to you, to set her before your eyes tomorrow human


By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I


say I am a magician. Therefore, put you in your


best array: bid your friends; for if you will be


married to-morrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.


Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.


Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,


You are there followed by a faithful shepherd;


Look upon him, love him; he worships you.


Good shepherd, tell this youth what tis to love.


It is to be all made of sighs and tears;


It is to be all made of faith and service;


All made of passion and all made of wishes,


All humbleness, all patience and impatience,


If this be so, why blame you me to love you?


Who do you speak to, Why blame you me to love you?


To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.


Pray you, no more of this; tis like the howling


I would love you, if I could. To-morrow meet me all together.


I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and Ill be


I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you


I will content you, if what pleases you contents


you, and you shall be married to-morrow.


as you love Phebe, meet: and as I love no woman,


Ill meet. So fare you well: I have left you commands.


To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will


I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is


no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the


world. Here comes two of the banished dukes pages.


By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and a song.


Shall we clap intot roundly, without hawking or


spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only


Ifaith, ifaith; and both in a tune, like two


In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,


When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:


Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great


matter in the ditty, yet the note was very


You are deceived, sir: we kept time, we lost not our time.


By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear


such a foolish song. God be wi you; and God mend


Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA


Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy


I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;


As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.


Patience once more, whiles our compact is urged:


That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.


And you say, you will have her, when I bring her?


That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.


You say, youll marry me, if I be willing?


That will I, should I die the hour after.


Youll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?


You say, that youll have Phebe, if she will?


Though to have her and death were both one thing.


I have promised to make all this matter even.


Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;


You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter:


Keep your word, Phebe, that youll marry me,


Or else refusing me, to wed this shepherd:


Keep your word, Silvius, that youll marry her.


Some lively touches of my daughters favour.


My lord, the first time that I ever saw him


Methought he was a brother to your daughter:


But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,


There is, sure, another flood toward, and these


couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of


very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.


Good my lord, bid him welcome: this is the


motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in


the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears.


If any man doubt that, let him put me to my


purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered


a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth


with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have


had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.


Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the


How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow.


God ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I


press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country


copulatives, to swear and to forswear: according as


marriage binds and blood breaks: a poor virgin,


sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor


humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else


will: rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a


poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.


By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.


According to the fools bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.


But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the


Upon a lie seven times removed:--bear your body more


seeming, Audrey:--as thus, sir. I did dislike the


cut of a certain courtiers beard: he sent me word,


if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the


mind it was: this is called the Retort Courteous.


If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he


would send me word, he cut it to please himself:


this is called the Quip Modest. If again it was


not well cut, he disabled my judgment: this is


called the Reply Churlish. If again it was not


well cut, he would answer, I spake not true: this


is called the Reproof Valiant. If again it was not


well cut, he would say I lied: this is called the


Counter-cheque Quarrelsome: and so to the Lie


And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?


I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial,


nor he durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we


Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?


O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have


books for good manners: I will name you the degrees.


The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the


Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the


fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the


Countercheque Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with


Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All


these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may


avoid that too, with an If. I knew when seven


justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the


parties were met themselves, one of them thought but


of an If, as, If you said so, then I said so; and


they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the


Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? hes as good at


He uses his folly like a stalking-horse and under


the presentation of that he shoots his wit.


That thou mightst join her hand with his


[To DUKE SENIOR]  To you I give myself, for I am yours.


If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.


If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.


How thus we met, and these things finish.


O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me!


Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree.


I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;


Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.


That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.


Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day


Men of great worth resorted to this forest,


Addressd a mighty power; which were on foot,


His brother here and put him to the sword:


And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;


Where meeting with an old religious man,


After some question with him, was converted


Both from his enterprise and from the world,


His crown bequeathing to his banishd brother,


And all their lands restored to them again


That were with him exiled. This to be true,


Thou offerst fairly to thy brothers wedding:


To one his lands withheld, and to the other


A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.


First, in this forest, let us do those ends


That here were well begun and well begot:


That have endured shrewd days and nights with us


Shall share the good of our returned fortune,


According to the measure of their states.


Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all,


With measure heapd in joy, to the measures fall.


Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,


And thrown into neglect the pompous court?


To him will I : out of these convertites


There is much matter to be heard and learnd.


Your patience and your virtue well deserves it:


You to a love that your true faith doth merit:


You to your land and love and great allies:


And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage


Is but for two months victualld. So, to your pleasures:


I am for other than for dancing measures.


Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,


As we do trust theyll end, in true delights.


It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue;


but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord


the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs


no bush, tis true that a good play needs no


epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes,


and good plays prove the better by the help of good


epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am


neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with


you in the behalf of a good play! I am not


furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not


become me: my way is to conjure you; and Ill begin


with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love


you bear to men, to like as much of this play as


please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love


you bear to women--as I perceive by your simpering,


none of you hates them--that between you and the


women the play may please. If I were a woman I


would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased


me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I


defied not: and, I am sure, as many as have good


beards or good faces or sweet breaths will, for my


kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.


SCENE I. Alexandria. A room in CLEOPATRAs palace.


Oerflows the measure: those his goodly eyes,


That oer the files and musters of the war


Have glowd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn,


Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst


The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper,


Flourish. Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, her Ladies, the Train, with Eunuchs fanning her


Take but good note, and you shall see in him.


The triple pillar of the world transformd


Theres beggary in the love that can be reckond.


Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.


Fulvia perchance is angry; or, who knows


If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent


His powerful mandate to you, Do this, or this;


Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that;


You must not stay here longer, your dismission


Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.


Wheres Fulvias process? Caesars I would say? both?


Call in the messengers. As I am Egypts queen,


Thou blushest, Antony; and that blood of thine


Is Caesars homager: else so thy cheek pays shame


When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!


Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch


Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.


Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike


Feeds beast as man: the nobleness of life


And such a twain can dot, in which I bind,


On pain of punishment, the world to weet


Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?


Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours,


Lets not confound the time with conference harsh:


Theres not a minute of our lives should stretch


Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?


Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh,


To weep; whose every passion fully strives


To make itself, in thee, fair and admired!


To-night well wander through the streets and note


The qualities of people. Come, my queen;


Last night you did desire it: speak not to us.


Exeunt MARK ANTONY and CLEOPATRA with their train


Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?


He comes too short of that great property


Thus speaks of him at Rome: but I will hope


Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy!


Enter CHARMIAN, IRAS, ALEXAS, and a Soothsayer


Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most any thing Alexas,


almost most absolute Alexas, wheres the soothsayer


that you praised so to the queen? O, that I knew


this husband, which, you say, must charge his horns


Is this the man? Ist you, sir, that know things?


Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough


You shall be yet far fairer than you are.


You shall be more beloving than beloved.


I had rather heat my liver with drinking.


Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married


to three kings in a forenoon, and widow them all:


let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry


may do homage: find me to marry me with Octavius


Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.


You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.


O excellent! I love long life better than figs.


You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune


Then belike my children shall have no names:


prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?


You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.


Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, shall


Theres a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.


Een as the oerflowing Nilus presageth famine.


Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.


prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee,


Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?


Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than


Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas,--come,


his fortune, his fortune! O, let him marry a woman


that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee! and let


her die too, and give him a worse! and let worst


follow worse, till the worst of all follow him


laughing to his grave, fifty-fold a cuckold! Good


Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a


matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!


Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people!


for, as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man


loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a


foul knave uncuckolded: therefore, dear Isis, keep


Lo, now, if it lay in their hands to make me a


cuckold, they would make themselves whores, but


He was disposed to mirth; but on the sudden


A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!


Here, at your service. My lord approaches.


Enter MARK ANTONY with a Messenger and Attendants


Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.


But soon that war had end, and the times state


Made friends of them, joining their force gainst Caesar;


Whose better issue in the war, from Italy,


The nature of bad news infects the teller.


When it concerns the fool or coward. On:


Things that are past are done with me. Tis thus:


Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,


This is stiff news--hath, with his Parthian force,


Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue:


Rail thou in Fulvias phrase; and taunt my faults


With such full licence as both truth and malice


Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds,


When our quick minds lie still; and our ills told us


Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.


The man from Sicyon,--is there such an one?


These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,


Her length of sickness, with what else more serious


Theres a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:


What our contempt doth often hurl from us,


We wish it ours again; the present pleasure,


The opposite of itself: shes good, being gone;


The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.


I must from this enchanting queen break off:


Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,


My idleness doth hatch. How now! Enobarbus!


we see how mortal an unkindness is to them;


if they suffer our departure, deaths the word.


Under a compelling occasion, let women die; it were


pity to cast them away for nothing; though, between


them and a great cause, they should be esteemed


nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of


this, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty


times upon far poorer moment: I do think there is


mettle in death, which commits some loving act upon


Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but


the finest part of pure love: we cannot call her


winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater


storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this


cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a


O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece


of work; which not to have been blest withal would


Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When


it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man


from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth;


comforting therein, that when old robes are worn


out, there are members to make new. If there were


no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut,


and the case to be lamented: this grief is crowned


with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new


petticoat: and indeed the tears live in an onion


The business she hath broached in the state


And the business you have broached here cannot be


without you; especially that of Cleopatras, which


Have notice what we purpose. I shall break


The cause of our expedience to the queen,


And get her leave to part. For not alone


The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,


Do strongly speak to us; but the letters too


Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands


The empire of the sea: our slippery people,


Whose love is never linkd to the deserver


Till his deserts are past, begin to throw


Upon his son; who, high in name and power,


Higher than both in blood and life, stands up


For the main soldier: whose quality, going on,


The sides o the world may danger: much is breeding,


Which, like the coursers hair, hath yet but life,


And not a serpents poison. Say, our pleasure,


To such whose place is under us, requires


Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS


See where he is, whos with him, what he does:


I did not send you: if you find him sad,


That I am sudden sick: quick, and return.


Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,


In each thing give him way, cross him nothing.


Thou teachest like a fool; the way to lose him.


Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear:


In time we hate that which we often fear.


I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose,--


Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall:


It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature


I know, by that same eye, theres some good news.


What says the married woman? You may go:


Would she had never given you leave to come!


Let her not say tis I that keep you here:


Why should I think you can be mine and true,


Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,


Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,


To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,


Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going,


But bid farewell, and go: when you sued staying,


Then was the time for words: no going then;


Bliss in our brows bent; none our parts so poor,


But was a race of heaven: they are so still,


Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,


I would I had thy inches; thou shouldst know


Shines oer with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius


Makes his approaches to the port of Rome:


Breed scrupulous faction: the hated, grown to strength,


Are newly grown to love: the condemnd Pompey,


Rich in his fathers honour, creeps apace,


Into the hearts of such as have not thrived


Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;


And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge


By any desperate change: my more particular,


And that which most with you should safe my going,


Though age from folly could not give me freedom,


It does from childishness: can Fulvia die?


Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read


The garboils she awaked; at the last, best:


Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill


In Fulvias death, how mine received shall be.


Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know


The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,


As you shall give the advice. By the fire


That quickens Nilus slime, I go from hence


Thy soldier, servant; making peace or war


But let it be: I am quickly ill, and well,


And give true evidence to his love, which stands


Belong to Egypt: good now, play one scene


Of excellent dissembling; and let it look


You can do better yet; but this is meetly.


But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,


Sir, you and I must part, but thats not it:


Sir, you and I have loved, but theres not it;


That you know well: something it is I would,


Holds idleness your subject, I should take you


As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;


Since my becomings kill me, when they do not


Eye well to you: your honour calls you hence;


And all the gods go with you! upon your sword


That thou, residing here, gost yet with me,


And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. Away!


Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, reading a letter, LEPIDUS, and their Train


You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,


This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes


The lamps of night in revel; is not more man-like


Than Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy


More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or


Vouchsafed to think he had partners: you shall find there


His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven,


More fiery by nights blackness; hereditary,


Rather than purchased; what he cannot change,


You are too indulgent. Let us grant, it is not


And keep the turn of tippling with a slave;


To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet


With knaves that smell of sweat: say this


Whom these things cannot blemish,--yet must Antony


No way excuse his soils, when we do bear


So great weight in his lightness. If he filld


Full surfeits, and the dryness of his bones,


Call on him fort: but to confound such time,


That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud


As his own state and ours,--tis to be chid


As we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge,


Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,


Thy biddings have been done; and every hour,


Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report


How tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea;


That only have feard Caesar: to the ports


The discontents repair, and mens reports


It hath been taught us from the primal state,


That he which is was wishd until he were;


And the ebbd man, neer loved till neer worth love,


Comes deard by being lackd. This common body,


Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,


Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,


Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound


With keels of every kind: many hot inroads


They make in Italy; the borders maritime


Lack blood to think ont, and flush youth revolt:


No vessel can peep forth, but tis as soon


Taken as seen; for Pompeys name strikes more


Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once


Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slewst


Did famine follow; whom thou foughtst against,


Though daintily brought up, with patience more


Than savages could suffer: thou didst drink


The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle


Which beasts would cough at: thy palate then did deign


Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,


The barks of trees thou browsedst; on the Alps


It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh,


Which some did die to look on: and all this--


It wounds thine honour that I speak it now--


Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek


Did show ourselves i the field; and to that end


I shall be furnishd to inform you rightly


Farewell, my lord: what you shall know meantime


Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,


Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN


That I might sleep out this great gap of time


Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure


In aught an eunuch has: tis well for thee,


That, being unseminard, thy freer thoughts


May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?


Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing


Where thinkst thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?


O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!


Do bravely, horse! for wotst thou whom thou movest?


Or murmuring Wheres my serpent of old Nile?


With most delicious poison. Think on me,


That am with Phoebus amorous pinches black,


And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,


When thou wast here above the ground, I was


A morsel for a monarch: and great Pompey


Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;


There would he anchor his aspect and die


Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath


He kissd,--the last of many doubled kisses,--


This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.


Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends


This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,


Her opulent throne with kingdoms; all the east,


Say thou, shall call her mistress. So he nodded,


And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,


Who neighd so high, that what I would have spoke


Like to the time o the year between the extremes


Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.


Note him good Charmian, tis the man; but note him:


He was not sad, for he would shine on those


That make their looks by his; he was not merry,


Which seemd to tell them his remembrance lay


In Egypt with his joy; but between both:


O heavenly mingle! Best thou sad or merry,


So does it no man else. Metst thou my posts?


Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.


Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,


When I was green in judgment: cold in blood,


He shall have every day a several greeting,


Enter POMPEY, MENECRATES, and MENAS, in warlike manner


If the great gods be just, they shall assist


Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays


Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers


The people love me, and the sea is mine;


My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope


Says it will come to the full. Mark Antony


No wars without doors: Caesar gets money where


Of both is flatterd; but he neither loves,


Are in the field: a mighty strength they carry.


He dreams: I know they are in Rome together,


Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love,


Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!


Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,


Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite;


That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour


This is most certain that I shall deliver:


This amorous surfeiter would have donnd his helm


Is twice the other twain: but let us rear


The higher our opinion, that our stirring


Caesar and Antony shall well greet together:


His wife thats dead did trespasses to Caesar;


His brother warrd upon him; although, I think,


How lesser enmities may give way to greater.


Weret not that we stand up against them all,


Twere pregnant they should square between


To draw their swords: but how the fear of us


Bet as our gods will havet! It only stands


Our lives upon to use our strongest hands.


And shall become you well, to entreat your captain


To answer like himself: if Caesar move him,


Serves for the matter that is then born int.


But small to greater matters must give way.


But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes


Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, MECAENAS, and AGRIPPA


That which combined us was most great, and let not


Our trivial difference loud, we do commit


Murder in healing wounds: then, noble partners,


Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,


Were we before our armies, and to fight.


I learn, you take things ill which are not so,


Should say myself offended, and with you


Chiefly i the world; more laughd at, that I should


Once name you derogately, when to sound your name


Might be to you in Egypt: yet, if you there


Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt


You may be pleased to catch at mine intent


By what did here befal me. Your wife and brother


Made wars upon me; and their contestation


Was theme for you, you were the word of war.


You do mistake your business; my brother never


Did urge me in his act: I did inquire it;


And have my learning from some true reports,


That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather


And make the wars alike against my stomach,


Having alike your cause? Of this my letters


Before did satisfy you. If youll patch a quarrel,


As matter whole you have not to make it with,


By laying defects of judgment to me; but


I know you could not lack, I am certain ont,


Your partner in the cause gainst which he fought,


Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars


Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife,


I would you had her spirit in such another:


The third o the world is yours; which with a snaffle


Would we had all such wives, that the men might go


So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar


Made out of her impatience, which not wanted


Shrewdness of policy too, I grieving grant


Did you too much disquiet: for that you must


Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts


Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want


Of what I was i the morning: but next day


As to have askd him pardon. Let this fellow


Be nothing of our strife; if we contend,


The article of your oath; which you shall never


The honour is sacred which he talks on now,


Supposing that I lackd it. But, on, Caesar;


To lend me arms and aid when I required them;


And then when poisond hours had bound me up


From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may,


Ill play the penitent to you: but mine honesty


Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power


To have me out of Egypt, made wars here;


For which myself, the ignorant motive, do


If it might please you, to enforce no further


The griefs between ye: to forget them quite


Or, if you borrow one anothers love for the


instant, you may, when you hear no more words of


Pompey, return it again: you shall have time to


wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.


That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.


You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.


The manner of his speech; fort cannot be


We shall remain in friendship, our conditions


So differing in their acts. Yet if I knew


What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to edge


To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts


Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims


No worse a husband than the best of men;


Whose virtue and whose general graces speak


That which none else can utter. By this marriage,


All little jealousies, which now seem great,


And all great fears, which now import their dangers,


Would then be nothing: truths would be tales,


Where now half tales be truths: her love to both


Would, each to other and all loves to both,


Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke;


For tis a studied, not a present thought,


To this good purpose, that so fairly shows,


Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand:


Further this act of grace: and from this hour


The heart of brothers govern in our loves


A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother


To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never


I did not think to draw my sword gainst Pompey;


For he hath laid strange courtesies and great


Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it:


Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we


Flourish. Exeunt OCTAVIUS CAESAR, MARK ANTONY, and LEPIDUS


Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Mecaenas! My


We have cause to be glad that matters are so well


digested. You stayed well by t in Egypt.


Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of countenance, and


Eight wild-boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and


This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had much more


monstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.


Shes a most triumphant lady, if report be square to


When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up


There she appeared indeed; or my reporter devised


The barge she sat in, like a burnishd throne,


Burnd on the water: the poop was beaten gold;


The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,


Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made


The water which they beat to follow faster,


As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,


In her pavilion--cloth-of-gold of tissue--


The fancy outwork nature: on each side her


Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,


With divers-colourd fans, whose wind did seem


To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,


So many mermaids, tended her i the eyes,


And made their bends adornings: at the helm


A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle


Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,


That yarely frame the office. From the barge


A strange invisible perfume hits the sense


Enthroned i the market-place, did sit alone,


Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,


It should be better he became her guest;


Which she entreated: our courteous Antony,


Whom neer the word of No woman heard speak,


Being barberd ten times oer, goes to the feast,


She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed:


Hop forty paces through the public street;


And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,


The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry


Where most she satisfies; for vilest things


Become themselves in her: that the holy priests


SCENE III. The same. OCTAVIUS CAESARs house.


Enter MARK ANTONY, OCTAVIUS CAESAR, OCTAVIA between them, and Attendants


The world and my great office will sometimes


Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers


Read not my blemishes in the worlds report:


I have not kept my square; but that to come


Shall all be done by the rule. Good night, dear lady.


Now, sirrah; you do wish yourself in Egypt?


Would I had never come from thence, nor you Thither!


My motion, have it not in my tongue: but yet


Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesars or mine?


Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side:


Thy demon, thats thy spirit which keeps thee, is


Where Caesars is not; but, near him, thy angel


Becomes a fear, as being oerpowerd: therefore


To none but thee; no more, but when to thee.


Thou art sure to lose; and, of that natural luck,


He beats thee gainst the odds: thy lustre thickens,


When he shines by: I say again, thy spirit


Say to Ventidius I would speak with him:


He hath spoken true: the very dice obey him;


And in our sports my better cunning faints


Under his chance: if we draw lots, he speeds;


His cocks do win the battle still of mine,


When it is all to nought; and his quails ever


Beat mine, inhoopd, at odds. I will to Egypt:


And though I make this marriage for my peace,


You must to Parthia: your commissions ready;


Trouble yourselves no further: pray you, hasten


Will een but kiss Octavia, and well follow.


Till I shall see you in your soldiers dress,


As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount


Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS


Let it alone; lets to billiards: come, Charmian.


As with a woman. Come, youll play with me, sir?


And when good will is showd, thought come


The actor may plead pardon. Ill none now:


Give me mine angle; well to the river: there,


Tawny-finnd fishes; my bended hook shall pierce


Their slimy jaws; and, as I draw them up,


You wagerd on your angling; when your diver


Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he


I laughd him out of patience; and that night


I laughd him into patience; and next morn,


Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;


Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst


Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,


Antonius dead!--If thou say so, villain,


Thou killst thy mistress: but well and free,


If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here


My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings


To say the dead are well: bring it to that,


The gold I give thee will I melt and pour


But theres no goodness in thy face: if Antony