As You Like It Read online

  ROSALIND    A lean cheek, which you have not: a blue341 eye and

  sunken, which you have not: an unquestionable342 spirit, which

  you have not: a beard neglected, which you have not — but

  I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is344

  a younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should be

  ungartered, your bonnet unbanded346, your sleeve unbuttoned,

  your shoe untied and everything about you demonstrating a

  careless desolation: but you are no such man: you are rather

  point-device in your accoutrements, as349 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 apter353 to do than to

  confess she does: that is one of the points in the which

  women still355 give the lie to their consciences. But, in good

  sooth356, 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 merely362 a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as

  well a dark house and a whip as madmen do363: 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 profess365

  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 moonish370 youth, grieve, be

  effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical371,

  apish372, 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 colour374:

  would now like him, now loathe him: then entertain375 him,

  then forswear him: now weep for him, then spit at him; that376

  I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living377

  humour of madness, which was, to forswear the full stream

  of the world, and to live in a nook merely379 monastic. And thus

  I cured him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your

  liver as clean as a sound381 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 cote385 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 by387 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

  Act 3 Scene 3

  running scene 9 continues

  Enter Clown [Touchstone], Audrey and Jaques [behind]

  TOUCHSTONE    Come apace1, good Audrey. I will fetch up your

  goats, Audrey. And how2, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my

  simple feature3 content you?

  AUDREY    Your features? Lord warrant4 us! What features?

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

  capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.6

  Aside

  JAQUES    O, knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove7

  in a thatched house.

  TOUCHSTONE    When a man’s verses cannot be understood,

  nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward10 child,

  understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great11

  reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made

  thee poetical.

  AUDREY    I do not know what ‘poetical’ is. Is it honest14 in deed

  and word? Is it a true thing?

  TOUCHSTONE    No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most

  feigning17, and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear

  in poetry may be said as lovers, they do feign.

  AUDREY    Do you wish then that the gods had made me

  poetical?

  TOUCHSTONE    I do truly, for thou swear’st to me thou art honest21.

  Now if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst

  feign.

  AUDREY    Would you not have me honest?

  TOUCHSTONE    No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured25, for

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

  Aside

  JAQUES    A material27 fool!

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

  make me honest.

  TOUCHSTONE    Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut30

  were to put good meat into an unclean dish31.

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

  TOUCHSTONE    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 Oliver35

  Martext, the vicar of the next36 village, who hath promised to

  meet me in this place of the forest and to couple37 us.

  Aside

  JAQUES    I would fain see this meeting38.

  AUDREY    Well, the gods give us joy!

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

  stagger41 in this attempt, for here we have no temple but the

  wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though42?

  Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary43. It is said,

  ‘many a man knows no end of his goods44’. 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 deer47 hath them

  as huge as the rascal48. Is the single man therefore blessed?

  No: as a walled49 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 defence51 is better

  than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to52

  want.

  Enter Sir Oliver Martext

  Here comes Sir Oliver.— Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met.

  Will you dispatch us55 here under this tree, or shall we go with

  you to your chapel?

  SIR OLIVER    Is there none here to give the woman?

  TOUCHSTONE    I will not take her on58 gift of any man.

  SIR OLIVER    Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not

  lawful.

  Steps forward

  JAQUES    Proceed, proceed I’ll give her.

  TOUCHSTONE    Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t62. How do

  you, sir? You are very well met. God ’ild you for your last63

  company, I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand64 h
ere,

  sir. Nay, pray be covered65.

  JAQUES    Will you be married, motley?

  TOUCHSTONE    As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb67 and

  the falcon her bells68, so man hath his desires, and as pigeons

  bill, so wedlock would be nibbling69.

  JAQUES    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 wainscot73, then

  one of you will prove a shrunk panel and, like green74 timber,

  warp75, warp.

  Aside

  TOUCHSTONE    I am not in the mind but76 I were better to be

  married of him than of another, for he is not like77 to marry

  me well78, and not being well married, it will be a good excuse

  for me hereafter to leave my wife.

  JAQUES    Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

  TOUCHSTONE    Come, sweet Audrey:

  We must be married, or we must live in bawdry82.

  Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not —

  ‘O sweet Oliver, O brave84 Oliver,

  Leave me not behind thee’

  but —

  ‘Wind87 away,

  Begone, I say,

  I will not to wedding with thee.’

  SIR OLIVER    ’Tis no matter; ne’er a fantastical90 knave of them all

  shall flout91 me out of my calling.

  Exeunt [separately]

  Act 3 Scene 4

  running scene 9 continues

  Enter Rosalind and Celia

  ROSALIND    Never talk to me. I will weep.

  CELIA    Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that

  tears do not become a man.

  ROSALIND    But have I not cause to weep?

  CELIA    As good cause as one would desire: therefore weep.

  ROSALIND    His very hair is of the dissembling colour.6

  CELIA    Something browner than Judas’. Marry, his kisses7

  are Judas’ own children.

  ROSALIND    I’faith, his hair is of a good colour.

  CELIA    An excellent colour, your10 chestnut was ever the

  only11 colour.

  ROSALIND    And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of

  holy bread13.

  CELIA    He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana14. A nun

  of winter’s sisterhood15 kisses not more religiously, the very ice

  of chastity is in them.

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

  and comes not?

  CELIA    Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

  ROSALIND    Do you think so?

  CELIA    Yes, I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-

  stealer, but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave22 as

  a covered goblet23 or a worm-eaten nut.

  ROSALIND    Not true in love?

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

  ROSALIND    You have heard him swear downright he was.

  CELIA    ‘Was’ is not ‘is’. Besides, the oath of a lover is no

  stronger than the word of a tapster28: they are both the

  confirmer of false reckonings29. He attends here in the forest

  on the duke your father.

  ROSALIND    I met the duke yesterday and had much question31

  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 man as Orlando?

  CELIA    O, that’s 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 puny tilter37,

  that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a

  noble goose39; but all’s brave that youth mounts and folly

  guides. Who comes here?

  Enter Corin

  CORIN    Mistress and master, you have oft inquired

  After the shepherd that complained of42 love,

  Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

  Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

  That was his mistress.

  CELIA    Well, and what of him?

  CORIN    If you will see a pageant47 truly played,

  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,

  If you will mark51 it.

  ROSALIND    O, come, let us remove52:

  The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

  Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

  I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.

  Exeunt

  Act 3 Scene 5

  running scene 9 continues

  Enter Silvius and Phoebe

  SILVIUS    Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe.

  Say that you love me not, but say not so

  In bitterness. The common executioner,

  Whose heart th’accustomed sight of death makes hard,

  Falls5 not the axe upon the humbled neck

  But first begs pardon6: will you sterner be

  Than he that dies and lives7 by bloody drops?

  They stand aside

  Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin

  PHOEBE    I would not be thy executioner.

  I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

  Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye:

  ’Tis pretty11, sure, and very probable,

  That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,

  Who shut their coward gates on atomies13,

  Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.

  Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,

  And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.

  Now counterfeit17 to swoon, why now fall down,

  Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,

  Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

  Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:

  Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

  Some scar of it. Lean but upon a rush22,

  The cicatrice and capable impressure23

  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

  That can do hurt.

  SILVIUS    O dear Phoebe, If ever — as that ever may be near —

  You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy29,

  Then shall you know the wounds invisible

  That love’s keen31 arrows make.

  PHOEBE    But till that time

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

  Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not,

  As till that time I shall not pity thee.

  Steps forward

  ROSALIND    And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

  That you insult, exult, and all at once,

  Over the wretched? What though38 you have no beauty —

  As, by my faith, I see no more in you

  Than without candle may go dark to bed40 —

  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 ordinary43

  Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s44 my little life,

  I think she means to tangle45 my eyes too!
>
  No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:

  ’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

  Your bugle48 eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream

  That can entame my spirits to your worship.

  To Silvius

  You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

  Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain51?

  You are a thousand times a properer52 man

  Than she a woman. ’Tis such fools as you

  That makes the world full of ill-favoured children.

  ’Tis not her glass55 but you that flatters her,

  And out of you she sees herself more proper

  Than any of her lineaments57 can show her.

  But mistress, know yourself: down on your knees,

  And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love;

  For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

  Sell when you can, you are not for all markets.

  Cry62 the man mercy, love him, take his offer:

  Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer63.

  So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

  PHOEBE    Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together65:

  I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

  Aside or to Phoebe/To Silvius

  ROSALIND    He’s fallen in love with your foulness—

  and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as

  fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll

  To Phoebe

  sauce70 her with bitter words.— Why look you so

  upon me?

  PHOEBE    For no ill will I bear you.

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

  For I am falser than vows made in wine74.

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

  ’Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard76 by.

  Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply77 her hard.

  Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,

  And be not proud: though all the world could see,

  None could be so abused in sight80 as he.

  Come, to our flock.

  Exeunt [Rosalind, Celia and Corin]

  PHOEBE    Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might82,

  ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’

  SILVIUS    Sweet Phoebe—

  PHOEBE    Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius?

  SILVIUS    Sweet Phoebe, pity me.