[Enter SILVIUS.]

SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth;— My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this:

[Giving a letter.]

I know not the contents; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenor: pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger.

ROSALIND. 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. Od's my will! Her love is not the hare that I do hunt; Why writes she so to me?—Well, shepherd, well, This is a letter of your own device.

SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents: Phebe did write it.

ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool, And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand, A freestone-colour'd hand: I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands; She has a huswife's hand: but that's no matter: I say she never did invent this letter: This is a man's invention, and his hand.

SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers.

ROSALIND. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style; A style for challengers: why, she defies me, Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance.—Will you hear the letter?

SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet; Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

ROSALIND. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads] 'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?'

Can a woman rail thus?

SILVIUS. Call you this railing?

ROSALIND. 'Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?'

Did you ever hear such railing?

'Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me.'—

Meaning me a beast.—

'If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspect? Whiles you chid me, I did love; How then might your prayers move? He that brings this love to thee Little knows this love in me: And by him seal up thy mind; Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me and all that I can make; Or else by him my love deny, And then I'll study how to die.'

SILVIUS. Call you this chiding?

CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd!

ROSALIND. 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.

[Exit SILVIUS.]

[Enter OLIVER.]

OLIVER. Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?

CELIA. 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; There's none within.

OLIVER. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then should I know you by description; Such garments, and such years: 'The boy is fair, Of female favour, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister: the woman low, And browner than her brother.' Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for?

CELIA. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.

OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both; And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin:—are you he?

ROSALIND. I am: what must we understand by this?

OLIVER. Some of my shame; if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where, This handkerchief was stain'd.

CELIA. I pray you, tell it.

OLIVER. When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again 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 moss'd with age, And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, Who, with her head nimble in threats, approach'd The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself, And with indented glides did slip away Into a bush: under which bush's shade A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis The royal disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: This seen, Orlando did approach the man, And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

CELIA. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother; And he did render him the most unnatural That liv'd amongst men.

OLIVER. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural.

ROSALIND. But, to Orlando:—did he leave him there, Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

OLIVER. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awak'd.

CELIA. Are you his brother?

ROSALIND. Was it you he rescued?

CELIA. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

OLIVER. 'Twas I; but 'tis not I: I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

ROSALIND. But, for the bloody napkin?—

OLIVER. By and by. When from the first to last, betwixt us two, Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd, As, how I came into that desert place;— In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother's love, Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound, And, after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am, To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin, Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd-youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

[ROSALIND faints.]

CELIA. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

OLIVER. Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

CELIA. There is more in it:—Cousin—Ganymede!

OLIVER. Look, he recovers.

ROSALIND. I would I were at home.

CELIA. We'll lead you thither:— I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

OLIVER. Be of good cheer, youth:—you a man?—You lack a man's heart.

ROSALIND. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would think this was well counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited.—Heigh-ho!—

OLIVER. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.

ROSALIND. Counterfeit, I assure you.

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

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

CELIA. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you draw homewards.— Good sir, go with us.

OLIVER. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

ROSALIND. I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him.—Will you go?

[Exeunt.]



ACT V.

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden.

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

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

AUDREY. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman's saying.

TOUCHSTONE. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

AUDREY. Ay, I know who 'tis: he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean.

[Enter WILLIAM.]

TOUCHSTONE. 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.

WILLIAM. Good even, Audrey.

AUDREY. God ye good even, William.

WILLIAM. And good even to you, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee, be covered. How old are you, friend?

WILLIAM. Five and twenty, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. A ripe age. Is thy name William?

WILLIAM. William, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. A fair name. Wast born i' the forest here?

WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I thank God.

TOUCHSTONE. "Thank God;"—a good answer. Art rich?

WILLIAM. Faith, sir, so-so.

TOUCHSTONE. "So-so" is good, very good, very excellent good:—and yet it is not; it is but so-so. Art thou wise?

WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

TOUCHSTONE. Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying; 'The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.' The heathen 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 lips to open. You do love this maid?

WILLIAM. I do, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

WILLIAM. No, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. Then learn this of me:—to have is to have; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of 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.

WILLIAM. Which he, sir?

TOUCHSTONE. 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; will o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways; therefore tremble and depart.

AUDREY. Do, good William.

WILLIAM. God rest you merry, sir.

[Exit.]

[Enter CORIN.]

CORIN. Our master and mistress seek you; come away, away!

TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey;—I attend, I attend.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE II. Another part of the Forest.

[Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER.]

ORLANDO. Is't 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?

OLIVER. 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 father's house, and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.

ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke and all's contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

[Enter ROSALIND.]

ROSALIND. God save you, brother.

OLIVER. And you, fair sister.

[Exit.]

ROSALIND. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf!

ORLANDO. It is my arm.

ROSALIND. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

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

ROSALIND. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he show'd me your handkercher?

ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that.

ROSALIND. O, I know where you are:—nay, 'tis true: there was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar's 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 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 cannot part them.

ORLANDO. 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 man's 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.

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

ORLANDO. I can live no longer by thinking.

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 to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger.

ORLANDO. Speak'st thou in sober meanings?

ROSALIND. 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.

[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]

PHEBE. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness, To show the letter that I writ to you.

ROSALIND. I care not if I have: it is my study To seem despiteful and ungentle to you: You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd; Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

PHEBE. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

SILVIUS. It is to be all made of sighs and tears;— And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE. And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND. And I for no woman.

SILVIUS. It is to be all made of faith and service;— And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE. And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND. And I for no woman.

SILVIUS. It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion, and all made of wishes; All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience, and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance;— And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE. And so am I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman.

PHEBE. [To ROSALIND.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

SILVIUS. [To PHEBE.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

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

ROSALIND. Why do you speak too,—'Why blame you me to love you?'

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

ROSALIND. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon.— [to SILVIUS] I will help you if I can;— [to PHEBE] I would love you if I could.— To-morrow meet me all together.— [to PHEBE] I will marry you if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow:— [to ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow:— [to SILVIUS] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [to ORLANDO] As you love Rosalind, meet. [to SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;— and as I love no woman, I'll meet.—So, fare you well; I have left you commands.

SILVIUS. I'll not fail, if I live.

PHEBE. Nor I.

ORLANDO. Nor I.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE III. Another part of the Forest.

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be married.

AUDREY. 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 come two of the banished duke's pages.

[Enter two Pages.]

FIRST PAGE. Well met, honest gentleman.

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

SECOND PAGE. We are for you: sit i' the middle.

FIRST PAGE. Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice?

SECOND PAGE. I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse.

SONG. I. It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet lovers love the spring.

II. Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, &c. III. This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower, In the spring time, &c.

IV. And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime, In the spring time, &c.

TOUCHSTONE. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untimeable.

FIRST PAGE. You are deceived, sir; we kept time, we lost not our time.

TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be with you; and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey.

[Exeunt.]



SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest.

[Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA.]

DUKE SENIOR. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy Can do all this that he hath promised?

ORLANDO. I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not: As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.

[Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE.]

ROSALIND. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd:—

[To the Duke.]

You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, You will bestow her on Orlando here?

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

ROSALIND. [To Orlando.] And you say you will have her when I bring her?

ORLANDO. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

ROSALIND. [To Phebe.] You say you'll marry me, if I be willing?

PHEBE. That will I, should I die the hour after.

ROSALIND. But if you do refuse to marry me, You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

PHEBE. So is the bargain.

ROSALIND. [To Silvius.] You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will?

SILVIUS. Though to have her and death were both one thing.

ROSALIND. I have promis'd 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 you'll marry me; Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd:— Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her If she refuse me:—and from hence I go, To make these doubts all even.

[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.]

DUKE SENIOR. I do remember in this shepherd-boy Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.

ORLANDO. 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, And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments Of many desperate studies by his uncle, Whom he reports to be a great magician, Obscured in the circle of this forest.

JAQUES. 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.

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE. Salutation and greeting to you all!

JAQUES. 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.

TOUCHSTONE. 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.

JAQUES. And how was that ta'en up?

TOUCHSTONE. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.

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

DUKE SENIOR. I like him very well.

TOUCHSTONE. 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.

DUKE SENIOR. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

TOUCHSTONE. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.

JAQUES. But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?

TOUCHSTONE. Upon a lie seven times removed;—bear your body more seeming, Audrey:—as thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's 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 lie: this is called the Countercheck quarrelsome: and so, to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct.

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

TOUCHSTONE. I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie direct; and so we measured swords and parted.

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

TOUCHSTONE. 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 Countercheck 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 only peace-maker;—much virtue in 'If.'

JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he's as good at anything, and yet a fool.

DUKE SENIOR. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

[Enter HYMEN, leading ROSALIND in woman's clothes; and CELIA.]

[Still MUSIC.]

HYMEN. Then is there mirth in heaven, When earthly things made even Atone together. Good duke, receive thy daughter; Hymen from heaven brought her, Yea, brought her hither, That thou mightst join her hand with his, Whose heart within his bosom is.

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

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

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

PHEBE. If sight and shape be true, Why then, my love, adieu!

ROSALIND. [To DUKE SENIOR.] I'll have no father, if you be not he;— [To ORLANDO.] I'll have no husband, if you be not he;— [To PHEBE.] Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.

HYMEN. Peace, ho! I bar confusion: 'Tis I must make conclusion Of these most strange events: Here's eight that must take hands To join in Hymen's bands, If truth holds true contents. [To ORLANDO and ROSALIND.] You and you no cross shall part: [To OLIVER and CELIA.] You and you are heart in heart; [To PHEBE.] You to his love must accord, Or have a woman to your lord:— [To TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.] You and you are sure together, As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning, That reason wonder may diminish, How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG Wedding is great Juno's crown; O blessed bond of board and bed! 'Tis Hymen peoples every town; High wedlock then be honoured; Honour, high honour, and renown, To Hymen, god of every town!

DUKE SENIOR. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me! Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

PHEBE. [To SILVIUS.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

[Enter JAQUES DE BOIS.]

JAQUES DE BOIS. Let me have audience for a word or two; I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:— Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day Men of great worth resorted to this forest, Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot, In his own conduct, purposely to take 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 banish'd brother, And all their lands restored to them again That were with him exil'd. This to be true I do engage my life.

DUKE SENIOR. Welcome, young man: Thou offer'st fairly to thy brother's 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: And after, every of this happy number, That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us, Shall share the good of our returned fortune, According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity, And fall into our rustic revelry:— Play, music!—and you brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall.

JAQUES. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly, The duke hath put on a religious life, And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

JAQUES DE BOIS. He hath.

JAQUES. To him will I: out of these convertites There is much matter to be heard and learn'd.— [To DUKE SENIOR] You to your former honour I bequeath; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it:— [To ORLANDO] You to a love that your true faith doth merit:— [To OLIVER] You to your land, and love, and great allies:— [To SILVIUS] You to a long and well-deserved bed:— [To TOUCHSTONE] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage Is but for two months victuall'd.—So to your pleasures; I am for other than for dancing measures.

DUKE SENIOR. Stay, Jaques, stay.

JAQUES. To see no pastime I; what you would have I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave.

[Exit.]

DUKE SENIOR. Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites, As we do trust they'll end, in true delights.

[A dance.]



EPILOGUE

ROSALIND. 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 I'll 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.

[Exeunt.]

THE END