The Complete Works of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare (book suggestions .TXT) 📗

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 cramm’d With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one.

JAQUES. It is my only suit,

Provided that you weed your better judgments Of all opinion that grows rank in them That I am wise. I must have liberty

Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have; And they that are most galled with my folly, They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?

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

Doth very foolishly, although he smart, Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not, The wise man’s folly is anatomiz’d

Even by the squand’ring 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 th’ infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine.

DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

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

DUKE SENIOR. Most Mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin; For thou thyself hast been a libertine, As sensual as the brutish sting itself; And all th’ embossed sores and headed evils That thou with license of free foot hast caught Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

JAQUES. 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 wearer’s 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 neighbour?

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

 

Enter ORLANDO with his sword drawn ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more.

JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet.

ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv’d.

JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of?

DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by thy distress?

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

ORLANDO. You touch’d my vein at first: the thorny point Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show Of smooth civility; yet arn 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.

JAQUES. An you will not be answer’d with reason, I must die.

DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.

ORLANDO. I almost die for food, and let me have it.

DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

ORLANDO. 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 look’d on better days, If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church, If ever sat at any good man’s feast,

If ever from your eyelids wip’d a tear, And know what ‘tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be; In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

DUKE SENIOR. True is it that we have seen better days, And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church, And sat at good men’s feasts, and wip’d our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engend’red; And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be minist’red.

ORLANDO. 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

Limp’d in pure love; till he be first suffic’d, Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit.

DUKE SENIOR. Go find him out.

And we will nothing waste till you return.

ORLANDO. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!

Exit

DUKE SENIOR. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.

JAQUES. All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms; Then the whining schoolboy, 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’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well sav’d, 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 every thing.

 

Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM

 

DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden.

And let him feed.

ORLANDO. I thank you most for him.

ADAM. So had you need;

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you As yet to question you about your fortunes.

Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

 

SONG

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind

As man’s ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly.

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot;

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend rememb’red not.

Heigh-ho! sing, &c.

 

DUKE SENIOR. If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son, As you have whisper’d faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limn’d and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke That lov’d your father. The residue of your fortune, Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, Thou art right welcome as thy master is.

Support him by the arm. Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand. Exeunt

ACT III. SCENE I.

The palace

 

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS

 

FREDERICK. Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be.

But were I not the better part made mercy, I should not seek an absent argument

Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is; Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more To seek a living in our territory.

Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine Worth seizure do we seize into our hands, Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth Of what we think against thee.

OLIVER. O that your Highness knew my heart in this!

I never lov’d my brother in my life.

FREDERICK. More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors; And let my officers of such a nature

Make an extent upon his house and lands.

Do this expediently, and turn him going. Exeunt

SCENE II.

The forest

 

Enter ORLANDO, with a paper

 

ORLANDO. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love; And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character, That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witness’d every where.

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree, The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

 

CORIN. And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?

TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is nought.

In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

CORIN. No, truly.

TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damn’d.

CORIN. Nay, I hope.

TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn’d, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason.

TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw’st good manners; if thou never saw’st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.

TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance.

CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you know, are greasy.

TOUCHSTONE. Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? And is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come.

CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard.

TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder instance; come.

CORIN. And