As You Like It - William Shakespeare (the reading list book TXT) 📗

Lords, and Attendants.]

DUKE FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be: some villains of my court Are of consent and sufferance in this.

FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her. The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, Saw her a-bed; and in the morning early They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.

SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman, Confesses that she secretly o'erheard Your daughter and her cousin much commend The parts and graces of the wrestler That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles; And she believes, wherever they are gone, That youth is surely in their company.

DUKE FREDERICK. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither: If he be absent, bring his brother to me, I'll make him find him: do this suddenly; And let not search and inquisition quail To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.]


SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S House.

[Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.]

ORLANDO. Who's there?

ADAM. What, my young master?--O my gentle master! O my sweet master! O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bonny prizer of the humorous duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master, Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. O, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it!

ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter?

ADAM. O unhappy youth, Come not within these doors; within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives: Your brother,--no, no brother; yet the son-- Yet not the son; I will not call him son-- Of him I was about to call his father,-- Hath heard your praises; and this night he means To burn the lodging where you use to lie, And you within it: if he fail of that, He will have other means to cut you off; I overheard him and his practices. This is no place; this house is but a butchery: Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

ORLANDO. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here.

ORLANDO. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food? Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce A thievish living on the common road? This I must do, or know not what to do: Yet this I will not do, do how I can: I rather will subject me to the malice Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

ADAM. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns, The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, Which I did store to be my foster-nurse, When service should in my old limbs lie lame, And unregarded age in corners thrown; Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; All this I give you. Let me be your servant; Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty: For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you; I'll do the service of a younger man In all your business and necessities.

ORLANDO. O good old man; how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion; And having that, do choke their service up Even with the having: it is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree, That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry: But come thy ways, we'll go along together; And ere we have thy youthful wages spent We'll light upon some settled low content.

ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow thee To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.-- From seventeen years till now almost fourscore Here lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek; But at fourscore it is too late a week: Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not my master's debtor.

[Exeunt.]


SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden.

[Enter ROSALIND in boy's clothes, CELIA dressed like a shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE.]

ROSALIND. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!

TOUCHSTONE. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat; therefore, courage, good Aliena.

CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I can go no further.

TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you: yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you have no money in your purse.

ROSALIND. Well, this is the forest of Arden.

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

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

[Enter CORIN and SILVIUS.]

CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still.

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

CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.

SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess; Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sigh'd 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?

CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily: If thou remember'st not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not lov'd: Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise, Thou hast not lov'd: Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou hast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

[Exit Silvius.]

ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine own.

TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chapp'd hands had milk'd: 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, '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.

ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 'ware of.

TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.

ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion Is much upon my fashion.

TOUCHSTONE. And mine: but it grows something stale with me.

CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food: I faint almost to death.

TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!

ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

CORIN. Who calls?

TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.

CORIN. Else are they very wretched.

ROSALIND. Peace, I say.-- Good even to you, friend.

CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

ROSALIND. I pr'ythee, 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 oppress'd, And faints for succour.

CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her, 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 of his absence, there is nothing That you will feed on; but what is, come see, And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, That little cares for buying anything.

ROSALIND. 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.

CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place, And willingly could waste my time in it.

CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold: Go with me: if you like, upon report, The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, I will your very faithful feeder be, And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[Exeunt.]


SCENE V. Another part of the Forest.

[Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others.]

AMIENS.
SONG
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES. More, more, I pr'ythee, more.

AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

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

AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.

JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more: another stanza. Call you them stanzas?

AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?

AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself.

JAQUES. 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 have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.

AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song.--Sirs, cover the while: the duke will drink under this tree:--he hath been all this day to look you.

JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my