Act III, Scene ii:
The Forest of Arden.

[Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.]

ORLANDO:

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 I'll character,

That every eye which in this forest looks

Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

[Exit.]

[Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.]

CORIN:

And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?

TOUCHSTONE:

Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good

life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught.

In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in

respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in

respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect

it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life,

look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more

plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any

philosophy in thee, shepherd?

CORIN:

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.

TOUCHSTONE:

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

shepherd?

CORIN:

No, truly.

TOUCHSTONE:

Then thou art damned.

CORIN:

Nay, I hope,—

TOUCHSTONE:

Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

CORIN:

For not being at court? Your reason.

TOUCHSTONE:

Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw'st good

manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must

be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art

in a parlous state, shepherd.

CORIN:

Not a whit, Touchstone; those that are good manners at the

court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour 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

uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.

TOUCHSTONE:

Instance, briefly; come, instance.

CORIN:

Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells,

you know, are greasy.

TOUCHSTONE:

Why, do not your courtier's 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.

CORIN:

Besides, our hands are hard.

TOUCHSTONE:

Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again: a more

sounder instance; come.

CORIN:

And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our

sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands

are perfumed with civet.

TOUCHSTONE:

Most shallow man! thou worm's-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.

CORIN:

You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest.

TOUCHSTONE:

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

God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

CORIN:

Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I

wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other

men's good, content with my harm: and the greatest of my

pride is, to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

TOUCHSTONE:

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 crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,

out of all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damned for this,

the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how

thou shouldst 'scape.

CORIN:

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.

[Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper.]

ROSALIND:

'From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind,

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lin'd

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind

But the fair of Rosalind.'

TOUCHSTONE:

I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and

suppers, and sleeping hours excepted. It is the right

butter-women's rank to market.

ROSALIND:

Out, fool!

TOUCHSTONE:

For a taste:—

If a hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat will after kind,

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lin'd,

So must slender Rosalind.

They that reap must sheaf and bind,—

Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalind.

He that sweetest rose will find

Must find love's prick, and Rosalind.

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

yourself with them?

ROSALIND:

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

TOUCHSTONE:

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

ROSALIND:

I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a

medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit in the country:

for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right

virtue of the medlar.

TOUCHSTONE:

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

[Enter CELIA, reading a paper.]

ROSALIND:

Peace!

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

CELIA:

'Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No;

Tongues I'll hang on every tree

That shall civil sayings show:

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the streching of a span

Buckles in his sum of age.

Some, of violated vows

'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;

But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence end,

Will I Rosalinda write,

Teaching all that read to know

The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show.

Therefore heaven nature charg'd

That one body should be fill'd

With all graces wide-enlarg'd:

Nature presently distill'd

Helen's cheek, but not her heart;

Cleopatra's majesty;

Atalanta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis'd,

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest priz'd.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.'

ROSALIND:

O most gentle Jupiter!—What tedious homily of love have

you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have

patience, good people!'

CELIA:

How now! back, friends; shepherd, go off a little:—go

with him, sirrah.

TOUCHSTONE:

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not

with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

[Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.]

CELIA:

Didst thou hear these verses?

ROSALIND:

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

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

CELIA:

That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.

ROSALIND:

Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves

without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

CELIA:

But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name

should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

ROSALIND:

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 berhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat,

which I can hardly remember.

CELIA:

Trow you who hath done this?

ROSALIND:

Is it a man?

CELIA:

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

Change you colour?

ROSALIND:

I pray thee, who?

CELIA:

O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but

mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.

ROSALIND:

Nay, but who is it?

CELIA:

Is it possible?

ROSALIND:

Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most petitionary vehemence,

tell me who it is.

CELIA:

O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful! and yet

again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!

ROSALIND:

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 pr'ythee 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 narrow-mouth'd bottle;

either too much at once or none at all. I pr'ythee take the cork

out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

CELIA:

So you may put a man in your belly.

ROSALIND:

Is he of God's making? What manner of man?

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

CELIA:

Nay, he hath but a little beard.

ROSALIND:

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.

CELIA:

It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's

heels and your heart both in an instant.

ROSALIND:

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

CELIA:

I' faith, coz, 'tis he.

ROSALIND:

Orlando?

CELIA:

Orlando.

ROSALIND:

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

What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he?

Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where

remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see

him again? Answer me in one word.

CELIA:

You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a word too

great for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to

these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

ROSALIND:

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

man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

CELIA:

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 dropp'd acorn.

ROSALIND:

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

fruit.

CELIA:

Give me audience, good madam.

ROSALIND:

Proceed.

CELIA:

There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.

ROSALIND:

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

becomes the ground.

CELIA:

Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets

unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.

ROSALIND:

O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

CELIA:

I would sing my song without a burden: thou bring'st me

out of tune.

ROSALIND:

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

Sweet, say on.

CELIA:

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

ROSALIND:

'Tis he: slink by, and note him.

{CELIA and ROSALIND retire.]

[Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.]

JAQUES:

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

lief have been myself alone.

ORLANDO:

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

too for your society.

JAQUES:

God buy you: let's meet as little as we can.

ORLANDO:

I do desire we may be better strangers.

JAQUES:

I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs in

their barks.

ORLANDO:

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

ill-favouredly.

JAQUES:

Rosalind is your love's name?

ORLANDO:

Yes, just.

JAQUES:

I do not like her name.

ORLANDO:

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

JAQUES:

What stature is she of?

ORLANDO:

Just as high as my heart.

JAQUES:

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been

acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of

rings?

ORLANDO:

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

whence you have studied your questions.

JAQUES:

You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas made of Atalanta's

heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail

against our mistress the world, and all our misery.

ORLANDO:

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against

whom I know most faults.

JAQUES:

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

ORLANDO:

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

weary of you.

JAQUES:

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

ORLANDO:

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

JAQUES:

There I shall see mine own figure.

ORLANDO:

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

JAQUES:

I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good Signior Love.

ORLANDO:

I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

[Exit JAQUES.—CELIA and ROSALIND come forward.]

ROSALIND:

I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey,

and under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you hear,

forester?

ORLANDO:

Very well: what would you?

ROSALIND:

I pray you, what is't o'clock?

ORLANDO:

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

forest.

ROSALIND:

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.

ORLANDO:

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

ROSALIND:

By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers

persons. I'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots

withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

ORLANDO:

I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal?

ROSALIND:

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 se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it

seems the length of seven year.

ORLANDO:

Who ambles time withal?

ROSALIND:

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.

ORLANDO:

Who doth he gallop withal?

ROSALIND:

With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly

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

ORLANDO:

Who stays it still withal?

ROSALIND:

With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term

and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.

ORLANDO:

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

ROSALIND:

With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of

the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

ORLANDO:

Are you native of this place?

ROSALIND:

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

ORLANDO:

Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in

so removed a dwelling.

ROSALIND:

I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious

uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland

man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love.

I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I

am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he

hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

ORLANDO:

Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid

to the charge of women?

ROSALIND:

There were none principal; they were all like one another

as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his

fellow fault came to match it.

ORLANDO:

I pr'ythee recount some of them.

ROSALIND:

No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are

sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young

plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon

hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the

name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give

him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love

upon him.

ORLANDO:

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

ROSALIND:

There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to

know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not

prisoner.

ORLANDO:

What were his marks?

ROSALIND:

A lean cheek; which you have not:a blue eye and sunken;

which you have not: an unquestionable spirit; which you have not:

a beard neglected; which you have not: but I pardon you for that,

for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's 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.

ORLANDO:

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

ROSALIND:

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 is so admired?

ORLANDO:

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

am that he, that unfortunate he.

ROSALIND:

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

ORLANDO:

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

ROSALIND:

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.

ORLANDO:

Did you ever cure any so?

ROSALIND:

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 anything, as boys and

women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like

him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now

weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his

mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to

forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook

merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I take

upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart,

that there shall not be one spot of love in 't.

ORLANDO:

I would not be cured, youth.

ROSALIND:

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

come every day to my cote and woo me.

ORLANDO:

Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

ROSALIND:

Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and, by the way,

you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

ORLANDO:

With all my heart, good youth.

ROSALIND:

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

[Exeunt.]