As You Like It: Act 3, Scene 2
Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.
1Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
2And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
3With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
4Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.
5O Rosalind! These trees shall be my books,
6And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,
7That every eye which in this forest looks
8Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
9Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree
10The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.
Enter CORIN and [TOUCHSTONE the] Clown.
11And how like you this shepherd's life, Master
13Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good
14life, but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it
15is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it
16very well; but in respect that it is private, it is
17a very vile life. Now, in respect it is in the
18fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is
19not in the court, it is tedious. As is it a spare life,
20look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is
21no more plenty in it, it goes much against my
22stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?
23No more but that I know the more one sickens the
24worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money,
25means and content is without three good friends;
26that the property of rain is to wet and fire to
27burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a
28great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that
29he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may
30complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull
32Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in
35Then thou art damned.
36Nay, I hope.
37Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg,
38all on one side.
39For not being at court? Your reason.
40Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never
41sawest good manners; if thou never sawest
42good manners, then thy manners must be
43wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is
44damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.
45Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good
46manners at the court are as ridiculous in the
47country as the behavior of the country is most
48mockable at the court. You told me you salute
49not at the court, but you kiss your hands: that
50courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were
52Instance, briefly; come, instance.
53Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their
54fells, you know, are greasy.
55Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? and
56is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome
57as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better
58instance, I say; come.
59Besides, our hands are hard.
60Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again.
61A more sounder instance, come.
62And they are often tarred over with the surgery
63of our sheep: and would you have us kiss tar?
64The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.
65Most shallow man! thou worm's-meat, in respect
66of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise,
67and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the
68very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance,
70You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest.
71Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow
72man! God make incision in thee! thou art raw.
73Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get
74that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's
75happiness, glad of other men's good, content
76with my harm, and the greatest of my pride is
77to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.
78That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes
79and the rams together and to offer to get your
80living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a
81bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a
82twelvemonth to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,
83out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damned
84for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds;
85I cannot see else how thou shouldst scape.
86Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new
Enter ROSALIND [with a paper, reading].
88"From the east to western Ind,
89No jewel is like Rosalind.
90Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
91Through all the world bears Rosalind.
92All the pictures fairest lined
93Are but black to Rosalind.
94Let no fair be kept in mind
95But the fair of Rosalind."
96I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners
97and suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: it
98is the right butter-women's rank to market.
100For a taste:
101"If a hart do lack a hind,
102Let him seek out Rosalind.
103If the cat will after kind,
104So be sure will Rosalind.
105Wint'red garments must be lined,
106So must slender Rosalind.
107They that reap must sheaf and bind;
108Then to cart with Rosalind.
109Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
110Such a nut is Rosalind.
111He that sweetest rose will find
112Must find love's prick and Rosalind."
113This is the very false gallop of verses:
114why do you infect yourself with them?
115Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.
116Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
117I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it
118with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit
119i' the country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half
120ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.
121You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the
Enter CELIA, with a writing.
124Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.
125"Why should this a desert be?
126For it is unpeopled? No:
127Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
128That shall civil sayings show:
129Some, how brief the life of man
130Runs his erring pilgrimage,
131That the stretching of a span
132Buckles in his sum of age;
133Some, of violated vows
134'Twixt the souls of friend and friend:
135But upon the fairest boughs,
136Or at every sentence end,
137Will I Rosalinda write,
138Teaching all that read to know
139The quintessence of every sprite
140Heaven would in little show.
141Therefore Heaven Nature charged
142That one body should be fill'd
143With all graces wide-enlarged:
144Nature presently distill'd
145Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
147Atalanta's better part,
148Sad Lucretia's modesty.
149Thus Rosalind of many parts
150By heavenly synod was devised,
151Of many faces, eyes and hearts,
152To have the touches dearest prized.
153Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
154And I to live and die her slave."
155O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of
156love have you wearied your parishioners withal,
157and never cried 'Have patience, good people!'
158How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little.
159Go with him, sirrah.
160Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
161retreat; though not with bag and baggage,
162yet with scrip and scrippage.
Exit [Touchstone with Corin].
163Didst thou hear these verses?
164O, yes, I heard them all, and more too;
165for some of them had in them more feet
166than the verses would bear.
167That's no matter: the feet might bear the
169Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear
170themselves without the verse and therefore stood
171lamely in the verse.
172But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name
173should be hanged and carved upon these trees?
174I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder
175before you came; for look here what I found on a
176palm-tree. I was never so be-rhymed since
177Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I
178can hardly remember.
179Trow you who hath done this?
180Is it a man?
181And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
182Change you colour?
183I prithee, who?
184O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to
185meet; but mountains may be removed with
186earthquakes and so encounter.
187Nay, but who is it?
188Is it possible?
189Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence,
190tell me who it is.
191O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
192wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that,
193out of all hooping!
194Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am
195caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in
196my disposition? One inch of delay more is a
197South-sea of discovery; I prithee, tell me who is it
198quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst
199stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man
200out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-
201mouthed bottle, either too much at once, or none at
202all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that
203I may drink thy tidings.
204So you may put a man in your belly.
205Is he of God's making? What manner of man?
206Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a
208Nay, he hath but a little beard.
209Why, God will send more, if the man will be
210thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if
211thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
212It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's
213heels and your heart both in an instant.
214Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, sad brow
215and true maid.
216I' faith, coz, 'tis he.
219Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and
220hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What said
221he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes
222him here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he?
223How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see
224him again? Answer me in one word.
225You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a
226word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To
227say ay and no to these particulars is more than to
228answer in a catechism.
229But doth he know that I am in this forest and in
230man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the
231day he wrestled?
232It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the
233propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my
234finding him, and relish it with good observance.
235I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.
236It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops
237forth such fruit.
238Give me audience, good madam.
240There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded
242Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
243becomes the ground.
244Cry 'holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets
245unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.
246O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
247I would sing my song without a burden:
248thou bringest me out of tune.
249Do you not know I am a woman? when
250I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
251You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?
Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.
252'Tis he: slink by, and note him.
253I thank you for your company; but, good faith,
254I had as lief have been myself alone.
255And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank
256you too for your society.
257God buy you: let's meet as little as we can.
258I do desire we may be better strangers.
259I pray you, mar no more trees with writing
260love-songs in their barks.
261I pray you, mar no moe of my verses with
262reading them ill-favouredly.
263Rosalind is your love's name?
265I do not like her name.
266There was no thought of pleasing you
267when she was christened.
268What stature is she of?
269Just as high as my heart.
270You are full of pretty answers. Have you
271not been acquainted with goldsmiths'
272wives, and conned them out of rings?
273Not so; but I answer you right painted
274cloth, from whence you have studied
276You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas made
277of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with
278me? And we two will rail against our mistress
279the world and all our misery.
280I will chide no breather in the world but myself,
281against whom I know most faults.
282The worst fault you have is to be in love.
283'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue.
284I am weary of you.
285By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I
287He is drowned in the brook: look but in,
288and you shall see him.
289There I shall see mine own figure.
290Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
291I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good
293I am glad of your departure: adieu, good
ROSALIND [Aside to Celia.]
295I will speak to him like a saucy lackey
296and under that habit play the knave
297with him. Do you hear, forester?
298Very well: what would you?
299I pray you, what is't o'clock?
300You should ask me what time o' day:
301there's no clock in the forest.
302Then there is no true lover in the forest;
303else sighing every minute and groaning
304every hour would detect the lazy foot of
305Time as well as a clock.
306And why not the swift foot of Time? had
307not that been as proper?
308By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces
309with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time
310ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time
311gallops withal and who he stands still withal.
312I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
313Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between
314the contract of her marriage and the day it is
315solemnized: if the interim be but a se'nnight,
316Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length
317of seven year.
318Who ambles Time withal?
319With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man
320that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily
321because he cannot study, and the other lives
322merrily because he feels no pain, the one lacking
323the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the
324other knowing no burden of heavy tedious
325penury; these Time ambles withal.
326Who doth he gallop withal?
327With a thief to the gallows, for though he go as
328softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon
330Who stays it still withal?
331With lawyers in the vacation, for they sleep
332between term and term and then they perceive
333not how Time moves.
334Where dwell you, pretty youth?
335With this shepherdess, my sister; here in
336the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a
338Are you native of this place?
339As the cony that you see dwell where she is
341Your accent is something finer than you could
342purchase in so removed a dwelling.
343I have been told so of many: but indeed an old
344religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who
345was in his youth an inland man; one that knew
346courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have
347heard him read many lectures against it, and I
348thank God I am not a woman, to be touch'd with
349so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed
350their whole sex withal.
351Can you remember any of the principal evils
352that he laid to the charge of women?
353There were none principal; they were all like
354one another as half-pence are, every one fault
355seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to
357I prithee, recount some of them.
358No, I will not cast away my physic but on those
359that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest,
360that abuses our young plants with carving
361'Rosalind' on their barks; hangs odes upon
362hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth,
363deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet
364that fancy-monger I would give him some good
365counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love
367I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you tell me
369There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he
370taught me how to know a man in love; in which
371cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
372What were his marks?
373A lean cheek, which you have not, a blue eye and
374sunken, which you have not, an unquestionable
375spirit, which you have not, a beard neglected,
376which you have not; but I pardon you for that,
377for simply your having in beard is a younger
378brother's revenue: then your hose should be
379ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve
380unbuttoned, your shoe untied and every thing
381about you demonstrating a careless desolation;
382but you are no such man; you are rather
383point-device in your accoutrements as loving
384yourself than seeming the lover of any other.
385Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe
387Me believe it! you may as soon make her that
388you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is
389apter to do than to confess she does: that is
390one of the points in the which women still
391give the lie to their consciences. But, in good
392sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on
393the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?
394I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of
395Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
396But are you so much in love as your rhymes
398Neither rhyme nor reason can express how
400Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you,
401deserves as well a dark house and a whip
402as madmen do: and the reason why they
403are not so punished and cured is, that the
404lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are
405in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
406Did you ever cure any so?
407Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine
408me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day
409to woo me: at which time would I, being but a
410moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,
411longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish,
412shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for
413every passion something and for no passion truly
414any thing, as boys and women are for the most
415part cattle of this colour; would now like him,
416now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear
417him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I
418drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a
419living humour of madness; which was, to forswear
420the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook
421merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this
422way will I take upon me to wash your liver as
423clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not
424be one spot of love in't.
425I would not be cured, youth.
426I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind
427and come every day to my cote and woo me.
428Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me
429where it is.
430Go with me to it and I'll show it you and by the
431way you shall tell me where in the forest you live.
432Will you go?
433With all my heart, good youth.
434Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister,
435will you go?