As You Like It - 5

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.
Enter William.
Here comes the man you mean.
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 ev’n, Audrey.
AUDREY.
God ye good ev’n, William.
WILLIAM.
And good ev’n to you, sir.
TOUCHSTONE.
Good ev’n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head. Nay, prithee,
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’ th’ 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 sayst 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’errun 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.
Enter Rosalind.
ORLANDO.
You have my consent. Let your wedding be tomorrow. Thither will I
invite the Duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare
Aliena; for, look you, here comes my 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 showed
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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow 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, tomorrow 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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
PHOEBE.
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 followed by a faithful shepherd.
Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
PHOEBE.
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 Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
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 Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
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 Phoebe.
PHOEBE.
And so am I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO.
And so am I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND.
And so am I for no woman.
PHOEBE.
[_To Rosalind_.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
SILVIUS.
[_To Phoebe_.] 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 Phoebe_.] I would love you if I could.—Tomorrow meet me all
together.
[_to Phoebe_.] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be
married tomorrow.
[_to Orlando_.] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you
shall be married tomorrow.
[_to Silvius_.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you,
and you shall be married tomorrow.
[_to Orlando_.] As you love Rosalind, meet.
[_to Silvius_.] As you love Phoebe, 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.
PHOEBE.
Nor I.
ORLANDO.
Nor I.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
TOUCHSTONE.
Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey, tomorrow 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.
Enter two Pages.
Here come two of the banished Duke’s 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’ th’ 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
PAGES.
[_Sing_.]
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green cornfield 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.
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, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
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, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
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, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.
TOUCHSTONE
Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty,
yet the note was very untuneable.
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 wi’ 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 Phoebe.
ROSALIND.
Patience once more whiles our compact is urged.
[_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 Phoebe_.] You say you’ll marry me if I be willing?
PHOEBE.
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?
PHOEBE.
So is the bargain.
ROSALIND.
[_To Silvius_.] You say that you’ll have Phoebe if she will?
SILVIUS.
Though to have her and death were both one thing.
ROSALIND.
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, Phoebe, 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 tutored 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.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
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.
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 judgement. 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 peacemaker; 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, 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.
PHOEBE.
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 Phoebe_.] 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 Celia and Oliver_.] You and you are heart in heart.
[_To Phoebe_.] You to his love must accord
Or have a woman to your lord.
[_To Audrey and Touchstone_.] 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.
PHOEBE.
[_To Silvius_.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine,
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
Enter Jaques de Boys.
JAQUES DE BOYS.
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,
Addressed 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 banished brother,
And all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exiled. 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 endured 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 heaped in joy to th’ 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 BOYS.
He hath.
JAQUES.
To him will I. Out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learned.
[_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 victualled.—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 abandoned cave.
[_Exit._]
DUKE SENIOR.
Proceed, proceed! We will begin these rites,
As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.
[_Dance. Exeunt all but Rosalind._]
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.
[_Exit._]