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than bear you: yet I should bear no cross, if I did bear you; for I think you have no money in your

purse.

Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.

Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a better place; but travelers must be content.

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone.-Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old, in solemn talk.

Enter CORIN and SILVIUS.

"Wear these for my sake." We that are true lovers, run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Ros. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 'ware of Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.

Ros. Jove! Jove! this shepherd's passion is much upon my fashion.

Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond' man, If he for gold will give us any food:

Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you I faint almost to death.

still.

Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

Cor. I partly guess; for I have loved ere now. Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess; Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow. But if thy love were ever like to mine (As sure I think did never man love so) How many actions most ridiculous Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily.
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly,
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved :

Or, if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not loved :

Or, if thou hast not broke from company
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not loved. O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe !
[Exit SILVIUS.
Ros. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy
wound,

I have by hard adventures found mine own.

Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming anight to Jane Smile : and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chapped hands had milked and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears,

Touch. Holloa; you clown!

Ros. Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.
Cor. Who calls?

Touch. Your betters, sir.

Cor. Else are they very wretched.
Ros. Peace, I say.-

Good even to you, friend.

Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. Ros. I pr'y thee, shepherd, if that love or gold Can in this desert place buy entertainment, Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed: Here's a young maid with travel much oppressed, And faints for succor.

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And wish for her sake, more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her:
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze;
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality:
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,
By reason af his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on but what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and
pasture?

Cor. That young swain that you saw here but
erewhile,

That little cares for buying anything.

Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I like this while; the Duke will drink under this tree:— he hath been all this day to look you.

place,

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Jaq. More, more; I pr'y thee, more.

Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'y thee, more, I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr'y thee, more.

Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.

All sing together here.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves too live i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

Ami. And I'll sing it.
Jaq. Thus it goes: :-

If it do come to pass,
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to me.

Ami. What's that ducdàme?

Jac. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into

Ami. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot a circle. I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll

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Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques. Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing.

Ami. More at your request than to please myself.

Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.

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Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.

Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little: if this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it for food for thee. Thy conceit is nearer death Ami. Well, I'll end the song.-Sirs, cover the than thy powers. For my sake, be comfortable;

hold death awhile at the arm's end. I will here be with thee presently; and if I bring thee not something to eat, I'll give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labor. Well said! thou look'st cheerily and I'll be with thee quickly.— Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live anything in this desert. Cheerily, good Adam! [Exeunt.

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A table set out.

SCENE VII. The same.
Enter DUKE, Senior, AMIENS, Lords, and others.

Duke S. I think he be transformed into a
beast;

For I can no where find him like a man.

And after one hour more 't will be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial.- O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
Duke S. What fool is this?

Jaq. O worthy fool!-One that hath been a
courtier ;

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,-
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage,- he hath strange places crammed
With observation, the which he vents

1st Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone In mangled forms.- O, that I were a fool!

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1st Lord. He saves my labor by his own ap- To blow on whom I please; for so fools have: proach. And they that are most galléd with my folly,

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they

is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What you look merrily.

so?

The why is plain as way to parish church:
He that a fool doth very wisely hit,

Jaq. A fool, a fool!—I met a fool i' the forest, Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

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As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,
And railed on lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms,- and yet a motley fool.
"Good-morrow, fool," quoth I: "No, sir," quoth
he,

"Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me for-
tune."

And then he drew a dial from his poke;
And looking on it with lack-luster eye,
Says, very wisely, "It is ten o'clock:

Thus may we see," quoth he, "how the world

wags:

"T is but an hour ago since it was nine;

Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomised
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou

wouldst do.

Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do, but good?

Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all the embosséd sores, and headed evils,
That thou with license of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

Till that the weary very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say, the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbor?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says his bravery is not on my cost
(Thinking that I mean him), but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?

There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wronged him: if it do him right, Then he hath wronged himself; if he be free, Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies, Unclaimed of any man. - But who comes here?

Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet.

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke S. Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy
distress;

Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

Orl. You touched my vein at first; the thorny point

Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred,
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;
He dies that touches any of this fruit,
Till I and my affairs are answered.

Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray

you:

I thought that all things had been savage here;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have looked on better days;

If ever been where bells have knolled to church;
If ever sat at any good man's feast;

If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear,
And know what 't is to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better

days;

And have with holy bell been knolled to church;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity had engendered:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be ministered.

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limped in pure love; till he be first sufficed,
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.

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All the world's a stage,

Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason, And all the men and women merely players:

I must die.

They have their exits and their entrances;

Duke S. What would you have? Your gentle- And one man in his time plays many parts,

ness shall force,

More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it. Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms: Then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school: and then, the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow: then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Secking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth: and then, the justice,

In fair round belly, with good capon lined,

age

shifts

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part: the sixth
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Re-enter ORLANDO, with Adam.

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As you have whispered faithfully you were; And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

Duke S. Welcome: set down your venerable Most truly limned and living in your face,

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SCENE I.

A Room in the Palace.

Seek him with candle; bring him, dead or living,
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords and At-To seek a living in our territory.

tendants.

Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine,

Duke F. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that can- Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands;

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