AS YOU LIKE IT

AS YOU LIKE IT As You Like It is first heard of in the Stationers’ Register on 4 August 1600, and was probably written not long before. In spite of its early entry for publication, it was not printed until 1623. This play, with its contrasts between court and country, its bucolic as well as its aristocratic characters, its inset songs and poems, its predominantly woodland setting, its conscious artifice and its romantic ending, is the one in which Shakespeare makes most use of the conventions of pastoral literature, though he does not wholly endorse them. The story of the love between a high-born maiden—Rosalind—oppressed by the uncle—Duke Frederick—who has usurped his elder brother’s dukedom, and Orlando, the third and youngest son of Duke Frederick’s old enemy Sir Rowland de Bois, himself oppressed by his tyrannical eldest brother Oliver, derives from Thomas Lodge’s Rosalynde, a prose romance interspersed with verses, which first appeared in 1590 and was several times reprinted. There are many indications that Shakespeare thought of the action as taking place in the Ardenne area of France, as in Rosalynde, even though there was also a Forest of Arden in Warwickshire. Like Lodge, Shakespeare counterpoints the developing love between Rosalind—who for much of the action is disguised as a boy, Ganymede—with the idealized pastoral romance of Silvius and Phoebe; he adds the down-to-earth, unromantic affair between the jester Touchstone and Audrey. Once Rosalind and her cousin Celia (also disguised) reach the forest, plot is virtually suspended in favour of a series of scintillating conversations making much use of prose. The sudden flowering of love between Celia and Orlando’s brother Oliver, newly converted to virtue, is based on Rosalynde, but Shakespeare alters the climax of the story, bringing Hymen, the god of marriage, on stage to resolve all complications. As well as Touchstone, Shakespeare added the melancholy courtier Jaques, both of whom act as commentators, though from very different standpoints. The first performances of Shakespeare’s text after his own time were given in 1740. It rapidly established itself in the theatrical repertoire, and has also been appreciated for its literary qualities. It has usually been played in picturesque settings, often since the late nineteenth century in the open air. Rosalind (written originally, of course, for a boy actor) is the dominant character, but other roles, especially Jaques, Touchstone, Audrey, Corin, and—in his single scene—William, have proved particularly effective when played by performers with a strong sense of their latent individuality. THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY DUKE SENIOR, living in banishment ROSALIND, his daughter, later disguised as Ganymede TWO PAGES

DUKE FREDERICK CELIA, his daughter, later disguised as Aliena LE BEAU, a courtier attending on him CHARLES, Duke Frederick’s wrestler TOUCHSTONE, a jester

OLIVER, eldest son of Sir Rowland de Bois ADAM, a former servant of Sir Rowland

DENIS, Oliver’s servant

SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a country clergyman CORIN, an old shepherd SILVIUS, a young shepherd, in love with Phoebe PHOEBE, a shepherdess WILLIAM, a countryman, in love with Audrey AUDREY, a goatherd, betrothed to Touchstone

HYMEN, god of marriage

Lords, pages, and other attendants

As You Like It

Atto 1, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando and Adam
ORLANDO	As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayst, charged my brother on his blessing to breed me well—and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me rustically at home—or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better, for besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manège, and to that end riders dearly hired. But I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth, for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
(didascalia)	Enter Oliver
ADAM	Yonder comes my master, your brother.
ORLANDO	Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up. Adam stands aside
OLIVER	Now, sir, what make you here?
ORLANDO	Nothing. I am not taught to make anything.
OLIVER	What mar you then, sir?
ORLANDO	Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
OLIVER	Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile.
ORLANDO	Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such penury?
OLIVER	Know you where you are, sir?
ORLANDO	O sir, very well; here in your orchard.
OLIVER	Know you before whom, sir?
ORLANDO	Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle condition of blood you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence.
OLIVER	(assailing him) What, boy!
ORLANDO	(seizing him by the throat) Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
OLIVER	Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
ORLANDO	I am no villein. I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois. He was my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villeins. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so. Thou hast railed on thyself.
ADAM	(coming forward) Sweet masters, be patient. For your father’s remembrance, be at accord.
OLIVER	(to Orlando) Let me go, I say.
ORLANDO	I will not till I please. You shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education. You have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it. Therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament. With that I will go buy my fortunes.
OLIVER	And what wilt thou do—beg when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with you. You shall have some part of your will. I pray you, leave me.
ORLANDO	I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
OLIVER	(to Adam) Get you with him, you old dog.
ADAM	Is ‘old dog’ my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master, he would not have spoke such a word.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Orlando and Adam
OLIVER	Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Denis!
(didascalia)	Enter Denis
DENIS	Calls your worship?
OLIVER	Was not Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, here to speak with me?
DENIS	So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access to you.
OLIVER	Call him in.
(didascalia)	Exit Denis
OLIVER	’Twill be a good way. And tomorrow the wrestling is.
(didascalia)	Enter Charles
CHARLES	Good morrow to your worship.
OLIVER	Good Monsieur Charles—what’s the new news at the new court?
CHARLES	There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother, the new Duke, and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander.
OLIVER	Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke’s daughter, be banished with her father?
CHARLES	O no; for the Duke’s daughter her cousin so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.
OLIVER	Where will the old Duke live?
CHARLES	They say he is already in the forest of Ardenne, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.
OLIVER	What, you wrestle tomorrow before the new Duke?
CHARLES	Marry do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall. Tomorrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he that escapes me without some broken limb, shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender, and for your love I would be loath to foil him, as I must for my own honour if he come in. Therefore out of my love to you I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search, and altogether against my will.
OLIVER	Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I’ll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man’s good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his natural brother. Therefore use thy discretion. I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to’t; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by some indirect means or other. For I assure thee—and almost with tears I speak it—there is not one so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him, but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
CHARLES	I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come tomorrow I’ll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again, I’ll never wrestle for prize more. And so God keep your worship.
OLIVER	Farewell, good Charles. Exit Charles Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an end of him, for my soul—yet I know not why—hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle; never schooled, and yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprized. But it shall not be so long. This wrestler shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I’ll go about. Exit

Atto 1, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind and Celia
CELIA	I pray thee Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.
ROSALIND	Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.
CELIA	Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine. So wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously tempered as mine is to thee.
ROSALIND	Well, I will forget the condition of my estate to rejoice in yours.
CELIA	You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have. And truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection. By mine honour I will, and when I break that oath, let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.
ROSALIND	From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see, what think you of falling in love?
CELIA	Marry, I prithee do, to make sport withal; but love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.
ROSALIND	What shall be our sport; then?
CELIA	Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.
ROSALIND	I would we could do so, for her benefits are mightily misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.
CELIA	’Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest, and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.
ROSALIND	Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s office to Nature’s. Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of nature. Enter Touchstone the clown
CELIA	No. When Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?
ROSALIND	Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the cutter-off of Nature’s wit.
CELIA	Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work, neither, but Nature’s, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, wit: whither wander you?
TOUCHSTONE	Mistress, you must come away to your father. CELIA Were you made the messenger?
TOUCHSTONE	No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you.
ROSALIND	Where learned you that oath, fool?
TOUCHSTONE	Of a certain knight that swore ‘by his honour’ they were good pancakes, and swore ’by his honour’ the mustard was naught. Now I’ll stand to it the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.
CELIA	How prove you that in the great heap of your knowledge?
ROSALIND	Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.
TOUCHSTONE	Stand you both forth now. Stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave.
CELIA	By our beards—if we had them—thou art.
TOUCHSTONE	By my knavery—if I had it—then I were; but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn. No more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or that mustard.
CELIA	Prithee, who is’t that thou meanest?
TOUCHSTONE	One that old Frederick, your father, loves. CELIA] My father’s love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no more of him; you’ll be whipped for taxation one of these days.
TOUCHSTONE	The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.
CELIA	By my troth, thou sayst true; for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.
(didascalia)	Enter Le Beau
ROSALIND	With his mouth full of news.
CELIA	Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young.
ROSALIND	Then shall we be news-crammed.
CELIA	All the better: we shall be the more marketable. Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau, what’s the news?
LE BEAU	Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.
CELIA	Sport? Of what colour?
LE BEAU	What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?
ROSALIND	As wit and fortune will.
TOUCHSTONE	Or as the destinies decrees.
CELIA	Well said. That was laid on with a trowel.
TOUCHSTONE	Nay, if I keep not my rank—
ROSALIND	Thou losest thy old smell.
LE BEAU	You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.
ROSALIND	Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
LE BEAU	I will tell you the beginning, and if it please your ladyships you may see the end, for the best is yet to do, and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.
CELIA	Well, the beginning that is dead and buried.
LE BEAU	There comes an old man and his three sons—
CELIA	I could match this beginning with an old tale.
LE BEAU	Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.
ROSALIND	With bills on their necks: ‘Be it known unto all men by these presents’—
LE BEAU	The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie, the poor old man their father making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weeping.
ROSALIND	Alas!
TOUCHSTONE	But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost?
LE BEAU	Why, this that I speak of.
TOUCHSTONE	Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.
CELIA	Or I, I promise thee.
ROSALIND	But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?
LE BEAU	You must if you stay here, for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.
CELIA	Yonder sure they are coming. Let us now stay and see it.
(didascalia)	Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and attendants
DUKE FREDERICK	Come on. Since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.
ROSALIND	Is yonder the man?
LE BEAU	Even he, madam.
CELIA	Alas, he is too young. Yet he looks successfully.
DUKE FREDERICK	How now, daughter and cousin; are you crept hither to see the wrestling?
ROSALIND	Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.
DUKE FREDERICK	You will take little delight in it, I can tell you, there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger’s youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him.
CELIA	Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
DUKE FREDERICK	Do SO. I’ll not be by. He stands aside
LE BEAU	(to Orlando) Monsieur the challenger, the Princess calls for you.
ORLANDO	I attend them with all respect and duty.
ROSALIND	Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?
ORLANDO	No, fair Princess. He is the general challenger; I come but in as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.
CELIA	Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man’s strength. If you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgement, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you for your own sake to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt.
ROSALIND	Do, young sir. Your reputation shall not therefore be misprized. We will make it our suit to the Duke that the wrestling might not go forward.
ORLANDO	I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious, if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing. Only in the world I fill up a place which may be better supplied when I have made it empty.
ROSALIND	The little strength that I have, I would it were with you.
CELIA	And mine, to eke out hers.
ROSALIND	Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceived in you.
CELIA	Your heart’s desires be with you.
CHARLES	Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth?
ORLANDO	Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.
DUKE FREDERICK	You shall try but one fall.
CHARLES	No, I warrant your grace you shall not entreat him to a second that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.
ORLANDO	You mean to mock me after; you should not have mocked me before. But come your ways.
ROSALIND	(to Orlando) Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!
CELIA	I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. Charles and Orlando wrestle
ROSALIND	O excellent young man!
CELIA	If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. Orlando throws Charles. Shout
DUKE FREDERICK	No more, no more.
ORLANDO	Yes, I beseech your grace. I am not yet well breathed.
DUKE FREDERICK	How dost thou, Charles?
LE BEAU	He cannot speak, my lord.
DUKE FREDERICK	Bear him away. Attendants carry Charles off What is thy name, young man?
ORLANDO	Orlando, my liege, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois.
DUKE FREDERICK	I would thou hadst been son to some man else. The world esteemed thy father honourable, But I did find him still mine enemy. Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed Hadst thou descended from another house. But fare thee well, thou art a gallant youth. I would thou hadst told me of another father.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Duke Frederick, Le Beau, [Touchstone,] Lords, and attendants
CELIA	(to Rosalind) Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
ORLANDO	I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son, His youngest son, and would not change that calling To be adopted heir to Frederick.
ROSALIND	My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, And all the world was of my father’s mind. Had I before known this young man his son I should have given him tears unto entreaties Ere he should thus have ventured.
CELIA	Gentle cousin, Let us go thank him, and encourage him. My father’s rough and envious disposition Sticks me at heart.—Sir, you have well deserved. If you do keep your promises in love But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, Your mistress shall be happy.
ROSALIND	(giving him a chain from her neck) Gentleman, Wear this for me—one out of suits with fortune, That could give more but that her hand lacks means. Shall we go, coz?
CELIA	Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. Rosalind and Celia turn to go
ORLANDO	(aside) Can I not say ‘I thank you’? My better parts Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
ROSALIND	(to Celia) He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes, I’ll ask him what he would.—Did you call, sir? Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown More than your enemies.
CELIA	Will you go, coz?
ROSALIND	Have with you. (To Orlando) Fare you well.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Rosalind and Celia
ORLANDO	What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.
(didascalia)	Enter Le Beau
ORLANDO	O poor Orlando! Thou art overthrown. Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.
LE BEAU	Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved High commendation, true applause, and love, Yet such is now the Duke’s condition That he misconsters all that you have done. The Duke is humorous. What he is indeed More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
ORLANDO	I thank you, sir. And pray you tell me this, Which of the two was daughter of the Duke That here was at the wrestling?
LE BEAU	Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners— But yet indeed the shorter is his daughter. The other is daughter to the banished Duke, And here detained by her usurping uncle To keep his daughter company, whose loves Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. But I can tell you that of late this Duke Hath ta‘en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece, Grounded upon no other argument But that the people praise her for her virtues And pity her for her good father’s sake. And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well. Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
ORLANDO	I rest much bounden to you. Fare you well.
(didascalia)	Exit Le Beau
ORLANDO	Thus must I from the smoke into the smother, From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.— But heavenly Rosalind! Exit 13. Enter Celia and Rosalind
CELIA	Why cousin, why Rosalind—Cupid have mercy, not a word?
ROSALIND	Not one to throw at a dog.
CELIA	No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs. Throw some of them at me. Come, lame me with reasons.
ROSALIND	Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.
CELIA	But is all this for your father?
ROSALIND	No, some of it is for my child’s father. O how full of briers is this working-day world!
CELIA	They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery. If we walk not in the trodden paths our very petticoats will catch them.
ROSALIND	I could shake them off my coat. These burs are in my heart.
CELIA	Hem them away.
ROSALIND	I would try, if I could cry ‘hem’ and have him.
CELIA	Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
ROSALIND	O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
CELIA	O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of a fall. But turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible on such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?
ROSALIND	The Duke my father loved his father dearly.
CELIA	Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
ROSALIND	No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
CELIA	Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well? Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords
ROSALIND	Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do. Look, here comes the Duke.
CELIA	With his eyes full of anger.
DUKE FREDERICK	(to Rosalind) Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court.
ROSALIND	Me, uncle?
DUKE FREDERICK	You, cousin. Within these ten days if that thou beest found So near our public court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it.
ROSALIND	I do beseech your grace Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me. If with myself I hold intelligence, Or have acquaintance with mine own desires, If that I do not dream, or be not frantic— As I do trust I am not—then, dear uncle, Never so much as in a thought unborn Did I offend your highness.
DUKE FREDERICK	Thus do all traitors. If their purgation did consist in words They are as innocent as grace itself. Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
ROSALIND	Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor. Tell me whereon the likelihood depends?
DUKE FREDERICK	Thou art thy father’s daughter—there’s enough.
ROSALIND	So was I when your highness took his dukedom; So was I when your highness banished him. Treason is not inherited, my lord, Or if we did derive it from our friends, What’s that to me? My father was no traitor. Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much To think my poverty is treacherous.
CELIA	Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
DUKE FREDERICK	Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake, Else had she with her father ranged along.
CELIA	I did not then entreat to have her stay. It was your pleasure, and your own remorse. I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans Still we went coupled and inseparable.
DUKE FREDERICK	She is too subtle for thee, and her smoothness, Her very silence, and her patience Speak to the people, and they pity her. Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name, And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous When she is gone. Then open not thy lips. Firm and irrevocable is my doom Which I have passed upon her. She is banished.
CELIA	Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege. I cannot live out of her company.
DUKE FREDERICK	You are a foot.—You, niece, provide yourself. If you outstay the time, upon mine honour And in the greatness of my word, you die.
(didascalia)	Exit Duke Frederick, with Lords
CELIA	O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
ROSALIND	I have more cause.
CELIA	Thou hast not, cousin. Prithee, be cheerful. Know’st thou not the Duke Hath banished me, his daughter?
ROSALIND	That he hath not.
CELIA	No, hath not? Rosalind, lack’st thou then the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one? Shall we be sundered? Shall we part, sweet girl? No. Let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us, And do not seek to take your change upon you, To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out. For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee.
ROSALIND	Why, whither shall we go?
CELIA	To seek my uncle in the forest of Ardenne.
ROSALIND	Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
CELIA	I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face. The like do you, so shall we pass along And never stir assailants.
ROSALIND	Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man, A gallant curtal-axe upon my thigh, A boar-spear in my hand, and in my heart, Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will. We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, As many other mannish cowards have, That do outface it with their semblances.
CELIA	What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
ROSALIND	I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page, And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be called?
CELIA	Something that hath a reference to my state. No longer Celia, but Aliena.
ROSALIND	But cousin, what if we essayed to steal The clownish fool out of your father’s court. Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
CELIA	He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me. Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, And get our jewels and our wealth together, Devise the fittest time and safest way To hide us from pursuit that will be made After my flight. Now go we in content, To liberty, and not to banishment.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 2, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords dressed as foresters
DUKE SENIOR	Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say ‘This is no flattery. These are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.’ Sweet are the uses of adversity Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
AMIENS	I would not change it. Happy is your grace That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
DUKE SENIOR	Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored.
FIRST LORD	Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that, And in that kind swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banished you. Today my lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak, whose antic root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood, To the which place a poor sequestered stag That from the hunter’s aim had ta‘en a hurt Did come to languish. And indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heaved forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Coursed one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase. And thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th’extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.
DUKE SENIOR	But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle?
FIRST LORD	O yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream; ‘Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘thou mak’st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much.’ Then being there alone, Left and abandoned of his velvet friend, “Tis right,’ quoth he, ‘thus misery doth part The flux of company.’ Anon a careless herd Full of the pasture jumps along by him And never stays to greet him. ‘Ay,’ quoth Jaques, ‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens, ’Tis just the fashion. Wherefore should you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?’ Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse, To fright the animals and to kill them up In their assigned and native dwelling place.
DUKE SENIOR	And did you leave him in this contemplation?
SECOND LORD	We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.
DUKE SENIOR	Show me the place. I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he’s full of matter.
FIRST LORD	I’ll bring you to him straight.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 2, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords
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 abed, and in the morning early They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.
SECOND LORD	My lord, the roynish clown at whom so oft Your grace was wont to laugh is also missing. Hisperia, 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Atto 2, Scena 3

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	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 saved 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 livèd 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

Atto 2, Scena 4

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind in man’s clothes as Ganymede; Celia as Aliena, a shepherdess; and Touchstone the clown
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 cannot 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 Ardenne.
TOUCHSTONE	Ay, now am I in Ardenne; the more fool I. When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.
(didascalia)	Enter Corin and Silvius
ROSALIND	Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here—a young man and an old in solemn talk.
CORIN	(to Silvius) 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 loved ere now.
SILVIUS	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?
CORIN	Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
SILVIUS	O, thou didst then never love so heartily. If thou rememberest 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, Wearing 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, Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe! Exit
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 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, ‘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 yon man If he for gold will give us any food. I faint almost to death.
TOUCHSTONE	(to Corin) 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	(to Touchstone) Peace, I say. (To Corin) Good even to you, friend.
CORIN	And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
ROSALIND	I prithee, 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 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 cot, 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

Atto 2, Scena 5

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Amiens, Jaques, and other Lords dressed as foresters
(didascalia)	[AMIENS] (sings) 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 prithee, more.
AMIENS	It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
JAQUES	I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, 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 ’em 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 th’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.
AMIENS	Well, I’ll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while. Lords prepare food and drink The Duke will drink under this tree. (To Jaques) 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 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) Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i’th’ 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.
JAQUES	I’ll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.
AMIENS	And I’ll sing it.
JAQUES	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.
AMIENS	What’s that ‘ducdame’?
JAQUES	’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I’ll go sleep if I can. If I cannot, I’ll rail against all the firstborn of Egypt.
AMIENS	And I’ll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepared.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 2, Scena 6

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando and Adam
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.
ORLANDO	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 to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death 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 will give thee leave to die. But if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said. Thou lookest cheerly, 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. Cheerly, good Adam. Orlando carries Adam off

Atto 2, Scena 7

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Senior and Lords dressed as outlaws
DUKE SENIOR	I think he be transformed into a beast, For I can nowhere find him like a man.
FIRST LORD	My lord, he is but even now gone hence. Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
DUKE SENIOR	If he, compact of jars, grow musical We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go seek him. Tell him I would speak with him.
(didascalia)	Enter Jaques
FIRST LORD	He saves my labour by his own approach.
DUKE SENIOR	Why, how now, monsieur, what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company! What, you look merrily.
JAQUES	A fool, a fool, I met a fool i‘th’ forest, A motley foot—a miserable world!— 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 fortune.’ And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking on it with lack-lustre eye Says very wisely ‘It is ten o‘clock.’ ‘Thus we may see’, quoth he, ‘how the world wags. ‘Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill 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 foot—motley’s the only wear.
DUKE SENIOR	What fool is this? 35
JAQUES	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 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 judgements 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, Seem aught but senseless of the bob. If not, The wise man’s folly is anatomized 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 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’embossèd sores and headed evils That thou with licence 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 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 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 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?
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando, with sword drawn
ORLANDO	Forbear, and eat no more!
JAQUES	Why, I have eat none yet.
ORLANDO	Nor shalt not till necessity be served.
JAQUES	Of what kind should this cock come of?
DUKE SENIOR	Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress? Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seem’st so empty?
ORLANDO	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.
JAQUES	An you will not be answered 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 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 ’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 knolled to church, And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered. And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be ministered.
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 Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed, Oppressed 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 blessed for your good comfortl 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 lined, 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 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando bearing 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. [amiens] (sings) 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. Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly. Then hey-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 remembered not. Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly. Then hey-ho, the holly; This life is most jolly.
DUKE SENIOR	(to Orlando) If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son, As you have whispered faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limned and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke That loved your father. The residue of your fortune, Go to my cave and tell me. (To Adam) Good old man, Thou art right welcome, as thy master is.— (To Lords) Support him by the arm. (To Orlando) Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand. Exeunt

Atto 3, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Oliver
DUKE 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,
(didascalia)	Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
DUKE FREDERICK	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 loved my brother in my life.
DUKE FREDERICK	More villain thou. (To Lords) 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Atto 3, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	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 witnessed everywhere. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit
(didascalia)	Enter Corin and Touchstone the clown
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 naught. 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 damned.
CORIN	Nay, I hope.
TOUCHSTONE	Truly thou art damned, 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 sawest good manners. If thou never sawest 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 they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.
TOUCHSTONE	Most shallow, man. Thou worms’ meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed, learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.
CORIN	You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.
TOUCHSTONE	Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man. God make incision in thee, thou art raw.
CORIN	Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness; glad of other men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.
TOUCHSTONE	That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst scape.
CORIN	Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede
ROSALIND	(reads) ‘From the east to western Ind No jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth being mounted on the wind Through all the world bears Rosalind. All the pictures fairest lined Are but black to Rosalind. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind.’
TOUCHSTONE	I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping-hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.
ROSALIND	Out, fool.
TOUCHSTONE	For a taste: If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalind. If the cat will after kind, So, be sure, will Rosalind. Wintered garments must be lined, So must slender Rosalind. They that reap must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with Rosalind. ‘Sweetest nut hath sourest rind’, Such a nut is Rosalind. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself with them?
ROSALIND	Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.
TOUCHSTONE	Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
ROSALIND	I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar; then it will be the earliest fruit i’th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere you be half-ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.
TOUCHSTONE	You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.
(didascalia)	Enter Celia, as Aliena, with a writing
ROSALIND	Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.
CELIA	(reads) ‘Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No. Tongues I’ll hang on every tree, That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the stretching of a span Buckles in his sum of age. Some of violated vows ’Twixt the souls of friend and friend. But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence end, Will I ‘Rosalinda’ write, Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven nature charged That one body should be filled With all graces wide-enlarged. Nature presently distilled Helen’s cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra’s majesty, Atalanta’s better part, Sad Lucretia’s modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devised Of many faces, eyes, and hearts To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have And I to live and die her slave.’
ROSALIND	O most gentle Jupiter! What tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried ‘Have patience, good people.’
CELIA	How now, back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.
TOUCHSTONE	Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. Exit with Corin
CELIA	Didst thou hear these verses?
ROSALIND	O yes, I heard them all, and more, too, for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
CELIA	That’s no matter; the feet might bear the verses.
ROSALIND	Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
CELIA	But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?
ROSALIND	I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree; (showing Celia the verses) I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
CELIA	Trow you who hath done this?
ROSALIND	Is it a man?
CELIA	And a chain that you once wore about his neck. Change you colour?
ROSALIND	I prithee, who?
CELIA	O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet. But mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.
ROSALIND	Nay, but who is it?
CELIA	Is it possible?
ROSALIND	Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
CELIA	O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful-wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!
ROSALIND	Good my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed bottle—either too much at once, or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
CELIA	So you may put a man in your belly.
ROSALIND	Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a beard?
CELIA	Nay, he hath but a little beard.
ROSALIND	Why, God will send more, if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
CELIA	It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your heart both in an instant.
ROSALIND	Nay, but the devil take mocking. Speak sad brow and true maid.
CELIA	I‘faith, coz, ’tis he.
ROSALIND	Orlando?
CELIA	Orlando.
ROSALIND	Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose! What did he when thou sawest him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.
CELIA	You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first, ’tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.
ROSALIND	But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
CELIA	It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn—
ROSALIND	It may well be called Jove’s tree when it drops forth such fruit.
CELIA	Give me audience, good madam. ROSALIND Proceed.
CELIA	There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight—
ROSALIND	Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
CELIA	Cry ‘holla’ to thy tongue, I prithee: it curvets unseasonably.—He was furnished like a hunter—
ROSALIND	O ominous—he comes to kill my heart.
CELIA	I would sing my song without a burden; thou bringest me out of tune.
ROSALIND	Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.—Sweet, say on.
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando and Jaques
CELIA	You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
ROSALIND	’Tis he. Slink by, and note him. Rosalind and Celia stand aside
JAQUES	(to Orlando) I thank you for your company, but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.
ORLANDO	And so had I. But yet for fashion’ sake, I thank you too for your society.
JAQUES	God b’wi’you; let’s meet as little as we can.
ORLANDO	I do desire we may be better strangers.
JAQUES	I pray you mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.
ORLANDO	I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.
JAQUES	Rosalind is your love’s name?
ORLANDO	Yes, just.
JAQUES	I do not like her name.
ORLANDO	There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
JAQUES	What stature is she of?
ORLANDO	Just as high as my heart.
JAQUES	You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?
ORLANDO	Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
JAQUES	You have a nimble wit; I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me, and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery?
ORLANDO	I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
JAQUES	The worst fault you have is to be in love.
ORLANDO	’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.
JAQUES	By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
ORLANDO	He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.
JAQUES	There I shall see mine own figure. ORLANDO Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
JAQUES	I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signor Love.
ORLANDO	I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. Exit Jaques
ROSALIND	(to Celia) I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him. (To Orlando) Do you hear, forester?
ORLANDO	Very well. What would you?
ROSALIND	I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
ORLANDO	You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest.
ROSALIND	Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock.
ORLANDO	And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?
ROSALIND	By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
ORLANDO	I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
ROSALIND	Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year.
ORLANDO	Who ambles time withal?
ROSALIND	With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These time ambles withal.
ORLANDO	Who doth he gallop withal? 317
ROSALIND	With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
ORLANDO	Who stays it still withal?
ROSALIND	With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.
ORLANDO	Where dwell you, pretty youth?
ROSALIND	With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
ORLANDO	Are you native of this place?
ROSALIND	As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.
ORLANDO	Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.
ROSALIND	I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.
ORLANDO	Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?
ROSALIND	There were none principal; they were all like one another as halfpence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.
ORLANDO	I prithee, recount some of them.
ROSALIND	No. I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.
ORLANDO	I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your remedy.
ROSALIND	There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you. He taught me how to know a man in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
ORLANDO	What were his marks?
ROSALIND	A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not—but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man. You are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.
ORLANDO	Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
ROSALIND	Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it, which I warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?
ORLANDO	I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
ROSALIND	But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
ORLANDO	Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
ROSALIND	Love is merely a madness, and I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
ORLANDO	Did you ever cure any so?
ROSALIND	Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me. At which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour—would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him, that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in’t.
ORLANDO	I would not be cured, youth.
ROSALIND	I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cot, and woo me.
ORLANDO	Now by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
ROSALIND	Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you. And by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
ORLANDO	With all my heart, good youth.
ROSALIND	Nay, you must call me Rosalind.—Come, sister. Will you go?
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 3, Scena 3

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown and Audrey, followed by Jaques
TOUCHSTONE	Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
AUDREY	Your features, Lord warrant us—what features?
TOUCHSTONE	I am here with thee and thy goats as the most capricious poet honest Ovid was among the Goths.
JAQUES	(aside) O knowledge ill-inhabited; worse than Jove in a thatched house.
TOUCHSTONE	When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
AUDREY	I do not know what ‘poetical’ is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?
TOUCHSTONE	No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry it may be said, as lovers, they do feign.
AUDREY	Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?
TOUCHTONE	I do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou art honest. Now if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.
AUDREY	Would you not have me honest?
TOUCHSTONE	No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
JAQUES	(aside) A material fool.
AUDREY	Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.
TOUCHSTONE	Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.
AUDREY	I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
TOUCHSTONE	Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness. Sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.
JAQUES	(aside) I would fain see this meeting.
AUDREY	Well, the gods give us joy.
TOUCHSTONE	Amen.—A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage. As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said many a man knows no end of his goods. Right: many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife, ‘tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor. And by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want.
(didascalia)	Enter Sir Oliver Martext
TOUCHSTONE	Here comes Sir Oliver.—Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT	Is there none here to give the woman?
TOUCHSTONE	I will not take her on gift of any man.
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT	Truly she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.
JAQUES	(coming forward) Proceed, proceed. I’ll give her.
TOUCHSTONE	Good even, good Monsieur What-ye-call’t. How do you, sir? You are very well met. God’ield you for your last company. I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Jaques removes his hat Nay, pray be covered.
JAQUES	Will you be married, motley?
TOUCHSTONE	As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.
JAQUES	And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is. This fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, warp.
TOUCHSTONE	I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another, for he is not like to marry me well, and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.
JAQUES	Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
TOUCHSTONE	Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not O, sweet Oliver, O, brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee but
(didascalia)	Wind away,
TOUCHSTONE	Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee.
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT	(aside) ‘Tis no matter. Ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. Exeunt

Atto 3, Scena 4

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede and Celia as Aliena
ROSALIND	Never talk to me. I will weep.
CELIA	Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.
ROSALIND	But have I not cause to weep?
CELIA	As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
ROSALIND	His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
CELIA	Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.
ROSALIND	I’faith, his hair is of a good colour.
CELIA	An excellent colour. Your chestnut was ever the only colour.
ROSALIND	And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
CELIA	He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously. The very ice of chastity is in them.
ROSALIND	But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
CELIA	Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
ROSALIND	Do you think so?
CELIA	Yes. I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.
ROSALIND	Not true in love?
CELIA	Yes, when he is in. But I think he is not in.
ROSALIND	You have heard him swear downright he was.
CELIA	‘Was’ is not ‘is’. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster. They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.
ROSALIND	I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as he, so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando?
CELIA	O that’s a brave man. He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover, as a puny tilter that spurs his horse but on one side breaks his staff, like a noble goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts, and folly guides. Who comes here?
(didascalia)	Enter Corin
CORIN	Mistress and master, you have oft enquired After the shepherd that complained of love Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress.
CELIA	Well, and what of him?
CORIN	If you will see a pageant truly played Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it.
ROSALIND	(to Celia) O come, let us remove. The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. (To Corin) Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 3, Scena 5

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Silvius and Phoebe
SILVIUS	Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe. Say that you love me not, but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th’accustomed sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and Corin, and stand aside
PHOEBE	(to Silvius) I would not be thy executioner. I fly thee for I would not injure thee. Thou tell‘st me there is murder in mine eye. ’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers. Now I do frown on thee with all my heart, And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee. Now counterfeit to swoon, why now fall down; Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee. Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains Some scar of it. Lean upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not; Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes That can do hurt.
SILVIUS	O dear Phoebe, If ever—as that ever may be near— You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love’s keen arrows make.
PHOEBE	But till that time Come not thou near me. And when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not, As till that time I shall not pity thee.
ROSALIND	(coming forward) And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty— As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed— Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature’s sale-work.—‘Od’s my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes, too. No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it. ’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. (To Silvius) You, foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. ‘Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favoured children. ’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her, And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. (To Phoebe) But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love; For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can. You are not for all markets. Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.— So, take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
PHOEBE	Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together. I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND	(to Phoebe) He’s fallen in love with your foulness, (to Silvius) and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. (To Phoebe) Why look you so upon me?
PHOEBE	For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND	I pray you do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine. Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, ’Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by. (To Celia) Will you go, sister? (To Silvius) Shepherd, ply her hard.— Come, sister. (To Phoebe) Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud. Though all the world could see, None could be so abused in sight as he.— Come, to our flock. Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin
PHOEBE	(aside) Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might: ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’
SILVIUS	Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE	Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS	Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE	Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS	Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined.
PHOEBE	Thou hast my love, is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS	I would have you.
PHOEBE	Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee; And yet it is not that I bear thee love. But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure; and I’ll employ thee, too. But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
SILVIUS	So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
PHOEBE	Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
SILVIUS	Not very well, but I have met him oft, And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old Carlot once was master of.
PHOEBE	Think not I love him, though I ask for him. ‘Tis but a peevish boy. Yet he talks well. But what care I for words? Yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth—not very pretty— But sure he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him. He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall. His leg is but so-so; and yet ’tis well. There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty-red Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not. And yet Have I more cause to hate him than to love him, For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black, And now I am remembered, scorned at me. I marvel why I answered not again. But that’s all one. Omittance is no quittance. I’ll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS	Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE	I’ll write it straight. The matter’s in my head and in my heart. I will be bitter with him, and passing short. Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt

Atto 4, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and Jaques
JAQUES	I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
ROSALIND	They say you are a melancholy fellow.
JAQUES	I am so. I do love it better than laughing.
ROSALIND	Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
JAQUES	Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
ROSALIND	Why then, ’tis good to be a post. 9
JAQUES	I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the musician‘s, which is fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the soldier‘s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the lady‘s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
ROSALIND	A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
JAQUES	Yes, I have gained my experience.
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando
ROSALIND	And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too!
ORLANDO	Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind.
JAQUES	Nay then, God b’wi’you an you talk in blank verse.
(didascalia)	ROSALIND Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. Exit Jaques Why, how now, Orlando? Where have you been all this while? You a lover? An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
ORLANDO	My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
ROSALIND.	Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’th’ shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.
ORLANDO	Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 47
ROSALIND	Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO	Of a snail?
ROSALIND	Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.
ORLANDO	What’s that?
ROSALIND	Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.
ORLANDO	Virtue is no hornmaker, and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND	And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA	It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
ROSALIND	Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now an I were your very, very Rosalind?
ORLANDO	I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND	Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking—God warr’nt us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
ORLANDO	How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND	Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO	Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND	Marry, that should you if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO	What, of my suit?
ROSALIND	Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
ORLANDO	I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND	Well, in her person I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO	Then in mine own person I die.
ROSALIND	No, faith; die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun if it had not been for a hot midsummer night, for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
ORLANDO	I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her frown might kill me.
ROSALIND	By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.
ORLANDO	Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND	Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO	And wilt thou have me? no
ROSALIND	Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO	What sayst thou?
ROSALIND	Are you not good?
ORLANDO	I hope so.
ROSALIND	Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? (To Celia) Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?
ORLANDO	(to Celia) Pray thee, marry us.
CELIA	I cannot say the words.
ROSALIND	You must begin, ‘Will you, Orlando’—
CELIA	Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
ORLANDO	I Will.
ROSALIND	Ay, but when?
ORLANDO	Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
ROSALIND	Then you must say, ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.’
ORLANDO	I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
ROSALIND	I might ask you for your commission; but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest; and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.
ORLANDO	So do all thoughts; they are winged.
ROSALIND	Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her?
ORLANDO	For ever and a day.
ROSALIND	Say a day without the ever. No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more newfangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.
ORLANDO	But will my Rosalind do so?
ROSALIND	By my life, she will do as I do.
ORLANDO	O, but she is wise.
ROSALIND	Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement. Shut that, and ‘twill out at the key-hole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
ORLANDO	A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say ‘Wit, whither wilt?’
ROSALIND	Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.
ORLANDO	And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
ROSALIND	Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
ORLANDO	For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
ROSALIND	Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
ORLANDO	I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee again.
ROSALIND	Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won me. ‘Tis but one cast away, and so, come, death! Two o’clock is your hour?
ORLANDO	Ay, sweet Rosalind.
ROSALIND	By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
ORLANDO	With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.
ROSALIND	Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders; and let Time try. Adieu. Exit Orlando
CELIA	You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate. We must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
ROSALIND	O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love. But it cannot be sounded. My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
CELIA	Or rather bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.
ROSALIND	No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses everyone’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
CELIA	And I’ll sleep. Exeunt

Atto 4, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Jaques and Lords dressed as foresters JAQUES Which is he that killed the deer? FIRST LORD Sir, it was I.
JAQUES	(to the others) Let’s present him to the Duke like a Roman conqueror. And it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?
SECOND LORD	Yes, sir.
JAQUES	Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
LORDS	(sing) What shall he have that killed the deer? His leather skin and horns to wear. Then sing him home; the rest shall bear This burden. Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; It was a crest ere thou wast born. Thy father’s father wore it, And thy father bore it. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 4, Scena 3

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede and Celia as Aliena
ROSALIND	How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? And here much Orlando.
CELIA	I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep.
(didascalia)	Enter Silvius
CELIA	Look who comes here.
SILVIUS	(to Rosalind) My errand is to you, fair youth. My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this. He offers Rosalind a letter, which she takes and reads 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. Phoebe did write it.
ROSALIND	Come, come, you are a fool, And turned into the extremity of love. I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand, A free-stone coloured hand. I verily did think That her old gloves were on; but ’twas her hands. She has a housewife’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 Phoebe’s cruelty.
ROSALIND	She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes: (reads) ‘Art thou god to shepherd turned, That a maiden’s heart hath burned?’ Can a woman rail thus?
SILVIUS	Call you this railing?
ROSALIND	(reads) ‘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. (To Silvius) 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.
(didascalia)	Exit Silvius
(didascalia)	Enter Oliver
OLIVER	Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheepcote fenced 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 enquire for?
CELIA	It is no boast, being asked, 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 stained.
CELIA	I pray you tell it.
OLIVER	When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again
(didascalia)	Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
OLIVER	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 old oak, whose boughs were mossed 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 wreathed itself, Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached The opening of his mouth. But suddenly Seeing Orlando, it unlinked 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 catlike 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 lived 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 sucked and hungry lioness?
OLIVER	Twice did he turn his back, and purposed 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 awaked.
CELIA	Are you his brother?
ROSALIND	Was’t 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 bathed— As how I came into that desert place— I’ 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 stripped 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 recovered 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, Dyed 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. (To Oliver) 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, sirrah, 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?
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 5, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown 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.
(didascalia)	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 ev’n, Audrey.
AUDREY	God ye good ev’n, William.
WILLIAM	(to Touchstone) 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 a 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 femate—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, I 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.
(didascalia)	Exit
(didascalia)	Enter Corin
CORIN	Our master and mistress seeks you. Come, away, away.
TOUCHSTONE	Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. (To Corin) I attend, I attend.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 5, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	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 persevere 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede
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 handkerchief?
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 a 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	Speakest 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Silvius and Phoebe
ROSALIND	Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
PHOEBE	(to Rosalind) 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	(to Silvius) 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 obedience, 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 satisfy 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Atto 5, Scena 3

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown 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. Here come two of the banished Duke’s pages.
(didascalia)	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’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.
BOTH PAGES	(sing) It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no, That o’er the green cornfield did pass In 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-nonny-no, These pretty country folks would lie, In 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-nonny-no, How that a life was but a flower, In 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-nonny-no, For love is crowned with the prime, In 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 untunable.
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 b’wi’you, and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey.
(didascalia)	Exeunt
TOUCHSTONE	severally

Atto 5, Scena 4

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia as Aliena
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.
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, with Silvius and
ORLANDO	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.
(didascalia)	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.
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown 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	(to the Duke) 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’ield 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	(to the Duke) 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.
(didascalia)	Still music Enter Hymen with Rosalind and Celia as themselves
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 the Duke) 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 the Duke) 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 Oliver and Celia) You and you are heart in heart. (To Phoebe) 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.
(didascalia)	Song
HYMEN	Wedding is great Juno’s crown, O blessèd 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	(to Celia) 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Jaques de Bois, the second brother
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, 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 brothers’ 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-fallen 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. (To Jaques de Bois) 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 learned. (To the Duke) 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’ll so begin these rites As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.
(didascalia)	They dance; then exeunt all but Rosalind
DUKE SENIOR	Epilogue
ROSALIND	(to the audience) 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.
(didascalia)	Exit
SEVERAL	references from 1589 onwards witness the existence of a play about Hamlet, but Francis Meres did not attribute a play with this title to Shakespeare in 1598. The first clear reference to Shakespeare’s play is its entry in the Stationers’ Register on 26 July 1602 as The Revenge of Hamlet Prince [of] Denmark, when it was said to have been ‘lately acted by the Lord Chamberlain his servants’. It survives in three versions; their relationship is a matter of dispute on which views about when Shakespeare wrote his play, and in what form, depend. In 1603 appeared an inferior text apparently assembled from actors’ memories; it has only about 2,200 lines. In the following year, as if to put the record straight, James Roberts (to whom the play had been entered in 1602) published it as ‘newly imprinted and enlarged to almost as much again as it was, according to the true and perfect copy’. At about 3,800 lines, this is the longest version. The 1623 Folio offers a still different text, some 230 lines shorter than the 1604 version, differing verbally from that at many points, and including about 70 additional lines. It is our belief that Shakespeare wrote Hamlet about 1600, and revised it later; that the 1604 edition was printed from his original papers; that the Folio represents the revised version; and that the 1603 edition represents a very imperfect report of an abridged version of the revision. So our text is based on the Folio; passages present in the 1604 quarto but absent from the Folio are printed as Additional Passages because we believe that, however fine they may be in themselves, Shakespeare decided that the play as a whole would be better without them. The plot of Hamlet originates in a Scandinavian folk-tale told in the twelfth-century Danish History written in Latin by the Danish Saxo Grammaticus. François de Belleforest retold it in the fifth volume (1570) of his Histoires Tragiques, not translated into English until 1608. Saxo, through Belleforest, provided the basic story of a Prince of Denmark committed to revenge his father’s murder by his own brother (Claudius) who has married the dead man’s widow (Gertrude). As in Shakespeare, Hamlet pretends to be mad, kills his uncle’s counsellor (Polonius) while he is eavesdropping, rebukes his mother, is sent to England under the escort of two retainers (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) who bear orders that he be put to death on arrival, finds the letter containing the orders and alters it so that it is the retainers who are executed, returns to Denmark, and kills the King. Belleforest’s story differs at some points from Shakespeare’s, and Shakespeare elaborates it, adding, for example, the Ghost of Hamlet’s father, the coming of the actors to Elsinore, the performance of the play through which Hamlet tests his uncle’s guilt, Ophelia’s madness and death, Laertes’ plot to revenge his father’s death, the grave-digger, Ophelia’s funeral, and the characters of Osric and Fortinbras. How much he owed to the lost Hamlet play we cannot tell; what is certain is that Shakespeare used his mastery of a wide range of diverse styles in both verse and prose, and his genius for dramatic effect, to create from these and other sources the most complex, varied, and exciting drama that had ever been seen on the English stage. Its popularity was instant and enduring. The play has had a profound influence on Western culture, and Shakespeare’s Hamlet has himself entered the world of myth.
THE PERSONS OF THE	PLAY

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando and Adam
ORLANDO	As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayst, charged my brother on his blessing to breed me well—and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me rustically at home—or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better, for besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manège, and to that end riders dearly hired. But I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth, for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
(didascalia)	Enter Oliver
ADAM	Yonder comes my master, your brother.
ORLANDO	Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up. Adam stands aside
OLIVER	Now, sir, what make you here?
ORLANDO	Nothing. I am not taught to make anything.
OLIVER	What mar you then, sir?
ORLANDO	Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
OLIVER	Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile.
ORLANDO	Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such penury?
OLIVER	Know you where you are, sir?
ORLANDO	O sir, very well; here in your orchard.
OLIVER	Know you before whom, sir?
ORLANDO	Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle condition of blood you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence.
OLIVER	(assailing him) What, boy!
ORLANDO	(seizing him by the throat) Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
OLIVER	Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
ORLANDO	I am no villein. I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois. He was my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villeins. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so. Thou hast railed on thyself.
ADAM	(coming forward) Sweet masters, be patient. For your father’s remembrance, be at accord.
OLIVER	(to Orlando) Let me go, I say.
ORLANDO	I will not till I please. You shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education. You have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it. Therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament. With that I will go buy my fortunes.
OLIVER	And what wilt thou do—beg when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with you. You shall have some part of your will. I pray you, leave me.
ORLANDO	I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
OLIVER	(to Adam) Get you with him, you old dog.
ADAM	Is ‘old dog’ my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master, he would not have spoke such a word.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Orlando and Adam
OLIVER	Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Denis!
(didascalia)	Enter Denis
DENIS	Calls your worship?
OLIVER	Was not Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, here to speak with me?
DENIS	So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access to you.
OLIVER	Call him in.
(didascalia)	Exit Denis
OLIVER	’Twill be a good way. And tomorrow the wrestling is.
(didascalia)	Enter Charles
CHARLES	Good morrow to your worship.
OLIVER	Good Monsieur Charles—what’s the new news at the new court?
CHARLES	There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother, the new Duke, and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander.
OLIVER	Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke’s daughter, be banished with her father?
CHARLES	O no; for the Duke’s daughter her cousin so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.
OLIVER	Where will the old Duke live?
CHARLES	They say he is already in the forest of Ardenne, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.
OLIVER	What, you wrestle tomorrow before the new Duke?
CHARLES	Marry do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall. Tomorrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he that escapes me without some broken limb, shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender, and for your love I would be loath to foil him, as I must for my own honour if he come in. Therefore out of my love to you I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search, and altogether against my will.
OLIVER	Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I’ll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man’s good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his natural brother. Therefore use thy discretion. I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to’t; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by some indirect means or other. For I assure thee—and almost with tears I speak it—there is not one so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him, but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
CHARLES	I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come tomorrow I’ll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again, I’ll never wrestle for prize more. And so God keep your worship.
OLIVER	Farewell, good Charles. Exit Charles Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an end of him, for my soul—yet I know not why—hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle; never schooled, and yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprized. But it shall not be so long. This wrestler shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I’ll go about. Exit

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Orlando e Adamo
ORLANDO	Per quel che ricordo, Adamo, fu in questo modo che mi vennero lasciati per testamento appena mille scudi miseri, e, come tu dici, fu imposto a mio fratello, sulla sua benedizione, di allevarmi bene—e proprio lì comincia la mia tristezza. Mio fratello Jaques lo tiene alla scuola, e la fama parla d’oro dei suoi progressi. Quanto a me, mi tiene rozzamente a casa—o, a parlare più propriamente, mi trattiene qui a casa senza tenermi affatto; ché chiamate voi custodia, per un gentiluomo della mia nascita, ciò che non differisce dallo stallaggio d’un bue? I suoi cavalli sono allevati meglio, poiché, oltre a essere belli per il nutrimento, son loro insegnate le arti del maneggio, e a tal fine si pagano a caro prezzo i cavallerizzi. Ma io, suo fratello, non guadagno sotto di lui nulla se non la crescita, per la quale gli animali dei suoi letamai gli sono obbligati quanto me. Oltre a questo nulla che egli sì generosamente mi dona, il qualcosa che la natura mi diede il suo contegno par volermi togliere. Mi fa mangiare coi suoi villani, m’esclude dal posto di fratello, e quanto più può mina la mia nobiltà con la mia educazione. È questo, Adamo, ciò che m’accora; e lo spirito di mio padre, che credo sia dentro di me, comincia ad ammutinarsi contro questa servitù. Non lo sopporterò più a lungo, benché ancora non conosca saggio rimedio per evitarlo.
(didascalia)	Entra Oliviero
ADAMO	Là viene il mio padrone, vostro fratello.
ORLANDO	Fatti da parte, Adamo, e udrai come mi strapazzerà. Adamo si tira in disparte
OLIVIERO	Ebbene, signore, che fate voi qui?
ORLANDO	Nulla. Non mi si è insegnato a far nulla.
OLIVIERO	E che guastate allora, signore?
ORLANDO	Per la Vergine, signore, vi aiuto a guastare con l’ozio ciò che Dio fece: un povero indegno fratello vostro.
OLIVIERO	Per la Vergine, signore, impiegatevi meglio, e per un poco fatevi da nulla.
ORLANDO	Devo custodire i vostri porci e mangiar ghiande con loro? Quale eredità da prodigo ho dissipato, per dover giungere a tanta miseria?
OLIVIERO	Sapete dove siete, signore?
ORLANDO	Oh signore, molto bene: qui nel vostro frutteto.
OLIVIERO	Sapete davanti a chi, signore?
ORLANDO	Sì, meglio di quanto colui davanti al quale sto conosca me. So che siete il mio fratello maggiore, e per la gentile condizione del sangue così dovreste conoscermi voi. La cortesia delle genti vi concede d’essermi superiore, in quanto siete il primogenito; ma la stessa tradizione non mi toglie il mio sangue, fossero pure venti fratelli fra noi. Ho in me tanto di mio padre quanto voi, sebbene confessi che il vostro venire prima di me è più prossimo alla sua reverenza.
OLIVIERO	(assalendolo) Come, ragazzo!
ORLANDO	(afferrandolo per la gola) Via, via, fratello maggiore, siete troppo giovane in questo.
OLIVIERO	Vuoi metter le mani addosso a me, villano?
ORLANDO	Non sono un servo della gleba. Sono il figlio più giovane di Sir Rowland de Bois. Egli fu mio padre, ed è tre volte villano chi dice che un tal padre generò servi. Se non fossi mio fratello, non toglierei questa mano dalla tua gola finché l’altra non t’avesse strappato la lingua per averlo detto. Hai insultato te stesso.
ADAMO	(facendosi avanti) Dolci padroni, siate pazienti. Per la memoria di vostro padre, mettetevi d’accordo.
OLIVIERO	(a Orlando) Lasciami andare, ti dico.
ORLANDO	Non lo farò finché non mi piaccia. Mi ascolterete. Mio padre v’impose nel suo testamento di darmi buona educazione. Voi m’avete allevato come un contadino, offuscando e nascondendomi ogni qualità da gentiluomo. Lo spirito di mio padre si fa forte in me, e non lo sopporterò più. Perciò concedetemi quegli esercizi che si convengono a un gentiluomo, oppure datemi la povera porzione che mio padre mi lasciò per testamento. Con quella andrò a comprarmi la mia fortuna.
OLIVIERO	E che farai—mendicare, quando l’avrai spesa? Bene, signore, entrate in casa. Non sarò a lungo importunato da voi. Avrete parte di ciò che volete. Vi prego, lasciatemi.
ORLANDO	Non vi offenderò più di quanto mi convenga per il mio bene.
OLIVIERO	(ad Adamo) Andatevene con lui, vecchio cane.
ADAMO	È ‘vecchio cane’ la mia ricompensa? Verissimo: ho perduto i denti al vostro servizio. Dio sia col mio vecchio padrone, egli non avrebbe pronunciato una tal parola.
(didascalia)	Escono Orlando e Adamo
OLIVIERO	È così davvero? Cominci a crescermi addosso? Curerò la tua rigogliosità, e nemmeno ti darò i mille scudi. Olà, Denis!
(didascalia)	Entra Denis
DENIS	Chiamava vostra signoria?
OLIVIERO	Non era qui Carlo, il lottatore del Duca, per parlarmi?
DENIS	Con vostra licenza, è qui alla porta, e chiede insistentemente d’essere ammesso da voi.
OLIVIERO	Fallo entrare.
(didascalia)	Esce Denis
OLIVIERO	Sarà un buon mezzo. E domani si tiene la lotta.
(didascalia)	Entra Carlo
CARLO	Buon giorno a vostra signoria.
OLIVIERO	Buon Monsieur Carlo—quali sono le nuove novità alla nuova corte?
CARLO	Non v’è nuova alla corte, signore, se non la vecchia: e cioè che il vecchio Duca è bandito dal fratello minore, il nuovo Duca, e tre o quattro amorevoli signori si sono posti in volontario esilio con lui; le loro terre e rendite arricchiscono il nuovo Duca, il quale perciò dà loro buon permesso d’andar ramingando.
OLIVIERO	Sapete dirmi se Rosalinda, la figlia del Duca, sia bandita col padre?
CARLO	Oh no; ché la figlia del Duca, sua cugina, tanto l’ama, essendo sempre state allevate insieme fin dalla culla, che l’avrebbe seguita nell’esilio, o sarebbe morta a restare senza di lei. Ella è alla corte, e non meno amata dallo zio della propria figlia; e mai due dame si amarono come quelle.
OLIVIERO	Dove vivrà il vecchio Duca?
CARLO	Dicono che sia già nella foresta d’Ardenne, e con lui molti allegri compagni; e là vivono come l’antico Robin Hood d’Inghilterra. Dicono che molti giovani gentiluomini accorrano a lui ogni giorno, e lascino scorrere il tempo spensieratamente, come si faceva nell’età dell’oro.
OLIVIERO	Come, lottate domani davanti al nuovo Duca?
CARLO	Per la Vergine sì, signore, e sono venuto a informarvi d’una cosa. Mi si è dato a intendere, signore, in segreto, che il vostro fratello minore, Orlando, ha intenzione di presentarsi travestito contro di me per tentare una caduta. Domani, signore, io lotto per il mio credito, e chi mi sfugge senza qualche membro rotto se la caverà bene. Vostro fratello è giovane e tenero, e per l’amore che ho per voi mi dorrebbe atterrarlo, come dovrei fare per il mio proprio onore se egli si presentasse. Perciò, per l’amore che vi porto, son venuto qui a informarvene, affinché o possiate trattenerlo dal suo proposito, o sopportiate bene la vergogna in cui incorrerà, essendo cosa cercata da lui stesso e del tutto contro la mia volontà.
OLIVIERO	Carlo, ti ringrazio per il tuo amore verso di me, che, come vedrai, ricompenserò assai gentilmente. Avevo io stesso notizia del proposito di mio fratello in questo, e con mezzi occulti mi sono adoperato a dissuaderlo; ma egli è risoluto. Ti dirò, Carlo: è il più caparbio giovane di Francia, pieno d’ambizione, invidioso emulo delle buone qualità d’ogni uomo, segreto e scellerato macchinatore contro di me, suo fratello naturale. Perciò usa la tua discrezione. Preferirei che tu gli rompessi il collo piuttosto che un dito. E faresti bene a guardartene; ché se tu gli infliggi anche una lieve umiliazione, o se egli non trionfa poderosamente su di te, egli tramerà contro di te col veleno, t’intrappolerà con qualche traditore artificio, e non ti lascerà finché non t’abbia tolta la vita per qualche via indiretta. Poiché t’assicuro—e quasi con le lacrime lo dico—che non v’è oggi al mondo uno così giovane e così scellerato. Parlo di lui solo da fratello, ma se dovessi anatomizzartelo qual è, dovrei arrossire e piangere, e tu impallidire e stupire.
CARLO	Sono di cuore lieto d’esser venuto qui da voi. Se viene domani, gli darò il suo compenso. Se mai se ne va solo di nuovo, non lotterò più per un premio. E così Dio conservi vostra signoria.
OLIVIERO	Addio, buon Carlo. Esce Carlo Ora aizzerò questo giocatore. Spero di vederne la fine, ché la mia anima—e non so perché—nulla odia più di lui. Eppure egli è gentile; mai istruito, e tuttavia dotto; pieno di nobili disegni; da ogni sorta di gente incantevolmente amato; e, in verità, tanto nel cuore del mondo, e specialmente della mia propria gente, che meglio lo conosce, che io ne sono del tutto disprezzato. Ma non sarà così a lungo. Questo lottatore chiarirà tutto. Non resta che spingere il ragazzo colà, cosa di cui vado ora a occuparmi. Esce

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind and Celia
CELIA	I pray thee Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.
ROSALIND	Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.
CELIA	Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine. So wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously tempered as mine is to thee.
ROSALIND	Well, I will forget the condition of my estate to rejoice in yours.
CELIA	You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have. And truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection. By mine honour I will, and when I break that oath, let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.
ROSALIND	From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see, what think you of falling in love?
CELIA	Marry, I prithee do, to make sport withal; but love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.
ROSALIND	What shall be our sport; then?
CELIA	Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.
ROSALIND	I would we could do so, for her benefits are mightily misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.
CELIA	’Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest, and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.
ROSALIND	Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s office to Nature’s. Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of nature. Enter Touchstone the clown
CELIA	No. When Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?
ROSALIND	Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the cutter-off of Nature’s wit.
CELIA	Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work, neither, but Nature’s, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, wit: whither wander you?
TOUCHSTONE	Mistress, you must come away to your father. CELIA Were you made the messenger?
TOUCHSTONE	No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you.
ROSALIND	Where learned you that oath, fool?
TOUCHSTONE	Of a certain knight that swore ‘by his honour’ they were good pancakes, and swore ’by his honour’ the mustard was naught. Now I’ll stand to it the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.
CELIA	How prove you that in the great heap of your knowledge?
ROSALIND	Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.
TOUCHSTONE	Stand you both forth now. Stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave.
CELIA	By our beards—if we had them—thou art.
TOUCHSTONE	By my knavery—if I had it—then I were; but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn. No more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or that mustard.
CELIA	Prithee, who is’t that thou meanest?
TOUCHSTONE	One that old Frederick, your father, loves. CELIA] My father’s love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no more of him; you’ll be whipped for taxation one of these days.
TOUCHSTONE	The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.
CELIA	By my troth, thou sayst true; for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.
(didascalia)	Enter Le Beau
ROSALIND	With his mouth full of news.
CELIA	Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young.
ROSALIND	Then shall we be news-crammed.
CELIA	All the better: we shall be the more marketable. Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau, what’s the news?
LE BEAU	Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.
CELIA	Sport? Of what colour?
LE BEAU	What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?
ROSALIND	As wit and fortune will.
TOUCHSTONE	Or as the destinies decrees.
CELIA	Well said. That was laid on with a trowel.
TOUCHSTONE	Nay, if I keep not my rank—
ROSALIND	Thou losest thy old smell.
LE BEAU	You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.
ROSALIND	Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
LE BEAU	I will tell you the beginning, and if it please your ladyships you may see the end, for the best is yet to do, and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.
CELIA	Well, the beginning that is dead and buried.
LE BEAU	There comes an old man and his three sons—
CELIA	I could match this beginning with an old tale.
LE BEAU	Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.
ROSALIND	With bills on their necks: ‘Be it known unto all men by these presents’—
LE BEAU	The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie, the poor old man their father making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weeping.
ROSALIND	Alas!
TOUCHSTONE	But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost?
LE BEAU	Why, this that I speak of.
TOUCHSTONE	Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.
CELIA	Or I, I promise thee.
ROSALIND	But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?
LE BEAU	You must if you stay here, for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.
CELIA	Yonder sure they are coming. Let us now stay and see it.
(didascalia)	Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and attendants
DUKE FREDERICK	Come on. Since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.
ROSALIND	Is yonder the man?
LE BEAU	Even he, madam.
CELIA	Alas, he is too young. Yet he looks successfully.
DUKE FREDERICK	How now, daughter and cousin; are you crept hither to see the wrestling?
ROSALIND	Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.
DUKE FREDERICK	You will take little delight in it, I can tell you, there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger’s youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him.
CELIA	Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
DUKE FREDERICK	Do SO. I’ll not be by. He stands aside
LE BEAU	(to Orlando) Monsieur the challenger, the Princess calls for you.
ORLANDO	I attend them with all respect and duty.
ROSALIND	Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?
ORLANDO	No, fair Princess. He is the general challenger; I come but in as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.
CELIA	Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man’s strength. If you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgement, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you for your own sake to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt.
ROSALIND	Do, young sir. Your reputation shall not therefore be misprized. We will make it our suit to the Duke that the wrestling might not go forward.
ORLANDO	I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious, if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing. Only in the world I fill up a place which may be better supplied when I have made it empty.
ROSALIND	The little strength that I have, I would it were with you.
CELIA	And mine, to eke out hers.
ROSALIND	Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceived in you.
CELIA	Your heart’s desires be with you.
CHARLES	Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth?
ORLANDO	Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.
DUKE FREDERICK	You shall try but one fall.
CHARLES	No, I warrant your grace you shall not entreat him to a second that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.
ORLANDO	You mean to mock me after; you should not have mocked me before. But come your ways.
ROSALIND	(to Orlando) Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!
CELIA	I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. Charles and Orlando wrestle
ROSALIND	O excellent young man!
CELIA	If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. Orlando throws Charles. Shout
DUKE FREDERICK	No more, no more.
ORLANDO	Yes, I beseech your grace. I am not yet well breathed.
DUKE FREDERICK	How dost thou, Charles?
LE BEAU	He cannot speak, my lord.
DUKE FREDERICK	Bear him away. Attendants carry Charles off What is thy name, young man?
ORLANDO	Orlando, my liege, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois.
DUKE FREDERICK	I would thou hadst been son to some man else. The world esteemed thy father honourable, But I did find him still mine enemy. Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed Hadst thou descended from another house. But fare thee well, thou art a gallant youth. I would thou hadst told me of another father.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Duke Frederick, Le Beau, [Touchstone,] Lords, and attendants
CELIA	(to Rosalind) Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
ORLANDO	I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son, His youngest son, and would not change that calling To be adopted heir to Frederick.
ROSALIND	My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, And all the world was of my father’s mind. Had I before known this young man his son I should have given him tears unto entreaties Ere he should thus have ventured.
CELIA	Gentle cousin, Let us go thank him, and encourage him. My father’s rough and envious disposition Sticks me at heart.—Sir, you have well deserved. If you do keep your promises in love But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, Your mistress shall be happy.
ROSALIND	(giving him a chain from her neck) Gentleman, Wear this for me—one out of suits with fortune, That could give more but that her hand lacks means. Shall we go, coz?
CELIA	Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. Rosalind and Celia turn to go
ORLANDO	(aside) Can I not say ‘I thank you’? My better parts Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
ROSALIND	(to Celia) He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes, I’ll ask him what he would.—Did you call, sir? Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown More than your enemies.
CELIA	Will you go, coz?
ROSALIND	Have with you. (To Orlando) Fare you well.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Rosalind and Celia
ORLANDO	What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.
(didascalia)	Enter Le Beau
ORLANDO	O poor Orlando! Thou art overthrown. Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.
LE BEAU	Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you To leave this place. Albeit you have deserved High commendation, true applause, and love, Yet such is now the Duke’s condition That he misconsters all that you have done. The Duke is humorous. What he is indeed More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
ORLANDO	I thank you, sir. And pray you tell me this, Which of the two was daughter of the Duke That here was at the wrestling?
LE BEAU	Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners— But yet indeed the shorter is his daughter. The other is daughter to the banished Duke, And here detained by her usurping uncle To keep his daughter company, whose loves Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. But I can tell you that of late this Duke Hath ta‘en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece, Grounded upon no other argument But that the people praise her for her virtues And pity her for her good father’s sake. And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well. Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
ORLANDO	I rest much bounden to you. Fare you well.
(didascalia)	Exit Le Beau
ORLANDO	Thus must I from the smoke into the smother, From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.— But heavenly Rosalind! Exit 13. Enter Celia and Rosalind
CELIA	Why cousin, why Rosalind—Cupid have mercy, not a word?
ROSALIND	Not one to throw at a dog.
CELIA	No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs. Throw some of them at me. Come, lame me with reasons.
ROSALIND	Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.
CELIA	But is all this for your father?
ROSALIND	No, some of it is for my child’s father. O how full of briers is this working-day world!
CELIA	They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery. If we walk not in the trodden paths our very petticoats will catch them.
ROSALIND	I could shake them off my coat. These burs are in my heart.
CELIA	Hem them away.
ROSALIND	I would try, if I could cry ‘hem’ and have him.
CELIA	Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
ROSALIND	O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
CELIA	O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of a fall. But turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible on such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?
ROSALIND	The Duke my father loved his father dearly.
CELIA	Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
ROSALIND	No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
CELIA	Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well? Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords
ROSALIND	Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do. Look, here comes the Duke.
CELIA	With his eyes full of anger.
DUKE FREDERICK	(to Rosalind) Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court.
ROSALIND	Me, uncle?
DUKE FREDERICK	You, cousin. Within these ten days if that thou beest found So near our public court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it.
ROSALIND	I do beseech your grace Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me. If with myself I hold intelligence, Or have acquaintance with mine own desires, If that I do not dream, or be not frantic— As I do trust I am not—then, dear uncle, Never so much as in a thought unborn Did I offend your highness.
DUKE FREDERICK	Thus do all traitors. If their purgation did consist in words They are as innocent as grace itself. Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
ROSALIND	Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor. Tell me whereon the likelihood depends?
DUKE FREDERICK	Thou art thy father’s daughter—there’s enough.
ROSALIND	So was I when your highness took his dukedom; So was I when your highness banished him. Treason is not inherited, my lord, Or if we did derive it from our friends, What’s that to me? My father was no traitor. Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much To think my poverty is treacherous.
CELIA	Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
DUKE FREDERICK	Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake, Else had she with her father ranged along.
CELIA	I did not then entreat to have her stay. It was your pleasure, and your own remorse. I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans Still we went coupled and inseparable.
DUKE FREDERICK	She is too subtle for thee, and her smoothness, Her very silence, and her patience Speak to the people, and they pity her. Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name, And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous When she is gone. Then open not thy lips. Firm and irrevocable is my doom Which I have passed upon her. She is banished.
CELIA	Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege. I cannot live out of her company.
DUKE FREDERICK	You are a foot.—You, niece, provide yourself. If you outstay the time, upon mine honour And in the greatness of my word, you die.
(didascalia)	Exit Duke Frederick, with Lords
CELIA	O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
ROSALIND	I have more cause.
CELIA	Thou hast not, cousin. Prithee, be cheerful. Know’st thou not the Duke Hath banished me, his daughter?
ROSALIND	That he hath not.
CELIA	No, hath not? Rosalind, lack’st thou then the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one? Shall we be sundered? Shall we part, sweet girl? No. Let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me how we may fly, Whither to go, and what to bear with us, And do not seek to take your change upon you, To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out. For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee.
ROSALIND	Why, whither shall we go?
CELIA	To seek my uncle in the forest of Ardenne.
ROSALIND	Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
CELIA	I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face. The like do you, so shall we pass along And never stir assailants.
ROSALIND	Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man, A gallant curtal-axe upon my thigh, A boar-spear in my hand, and in my heart, Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will. We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, As many other mannish cowards have, That do outface it with their semblances.
CELIA	What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
ROSALIND	I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page, And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be called?
CELIA	Something that hath a reference to my state. No longer Celia, but Aliena.
ROSALIND	But cousin, what if we essayed to steal The clownish fool out of your father’s court. Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
CELIA	He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me. Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, And get our jewels and our wealth together, Devise the fittest time and safest way To hide us from pursuit that will be made After my flight. Now go we in content, To liberty, and not to banishment.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Rosalinda e Celia
CELIA	Ti prego, Rosalinda, dolce cugina mia, sii allegra.
ROSALINDA	Cara Celia, mostro più letizia di quanta ne sia padrona; e vorresti ancora che fossi più allegra? Se non puoi insegnarmi a dimenticare un padre bandito, non devi ammaestrarmi a ricordare un piacere straordinario.
CELIA	In questo vedo che tu non mi ami col peso pieno con cui io ti amo. Se mio zio, il tuo padre bandito, avesse bandito tuo zio, il Duca mio padre, purché tu fossi rimasta con me, io avrei potuto insegnare al mio amore a prendere tuo padre per mio. Così faresti tu, se la verità del tuo amore verso di me fosse così rettamente temperata come il mio verso di te.
ROSALINDA	Bene, dimenticherò la condizione della mia sorte per rallegrarmi della tua.
CELIA	Sai che mio padre non ha altro figlio che me, né è probabile che ne abbia. E in verità, quando egli morrà tu sarai la sua erede; ché ciò che ha tolto per forza a tuo padre, io te lo renderò in affetto. Sul mio onore lo farò, e quando romperò quel giuramento, ch’io divenga un mostro. Perciò, mia dolce Rosa, mia cara Rosa, sii allegra.
ROSALINDA	D’ora innanzi lo sarò, cugina, e inventerò passatempi. Vediamo: che ne pensi dell’innamorarsi d’amore?
CELIA	Per la Vergine, ti prego, fallo, tanto per scherzarci; ma non amare nessun uomo sul serio, né per scherzo spingerti più in là di quanto, con la sicurezza d’un puro rossore, tu possa ritrarti con onore.
ROSALINDA	Quale sarà dunque il nostro passatempo?
CELIA	Sediamoci e beffiamo quella brava massaia della Fortuna dalla sua ruota, affinché d’ora in poi i suoi doni siano distribuiti con equità.
ROSALINDA	Vorrei che potessimo farlo, ché i suoi benefici sono grandemente mal collocati; e la generosa cieca sbaglia soprattutto nei doni alle donne.
CELIA	È vero; ché quelle che fa belle a stento le fa oneste, e quelle che fa oneste le fa assai mal fatte.
ROSALINDA	No, ora tu passi dall’ufficio della Fortuna a quello della Natura. La Fortuna regna sui doni del mondo, non sui lineamenti della natura. Entra Touchstone il buffone
CELIA	No. Quando la Natura ha fatto una bella creatura, non può forse costei per Fortuna cadere nel fuoco? Benché la Natura ci abbia dato l’arguzia per beffare la Fortuna, non ha forse la Fortuna mandato questo sciocco a troncare la disputa?
ROSALINDA	In verità, qui la Fortuna è troppo dura per la Natura, quando la Fortuna fa dello scemo di Natura il troncatore dell’arguzia di Natura.
CELIA	Forse questa non è opera della Fortuna, ma della Natura, la quale, accorgendosi che i nostri ingegni naturali sono troppo ottusi per ragionare di simili dee, ci ha mandato questo scemo come pietra da affilare; ché sempre l’ottusità dello sciocco è la cote degli ingegni. Ebbene, ingegno: dove vai vagando?
TOUCHSTONE	Padrona, dovete venire da vostro padre. CELIA Vi hanno fatto messaggero?
TOUCHSTONE	No, sul mio onore, ma mi fu ordinato di venirvi a prendere.
ROSALINDA	Dove imparasti quel giuramento, buffone?
TOUCHSTONE	Da un certo cavaliere che giurò ‘sul suo onore’ che le frittelle erano buone, e giurò ’sul suo onore’ che la senape non valeva nulla. Ora io sostengo che le frittelle non valevano nulla e la senape era buona, e tuttavia il cavaliere non fu spergiuro.
CELIA	Come lo provate col gran mucchio del vostro sapere?
ROSALINDA	Sì, per la Vergine, ora togliete la museruola alla vostra saggezza.
TOUCHSTONE	Fatevi avanti tutt’e due, ora. Carezzatevi il mento, e giurate sulle vostre barbe che io sono un furfante.
CELIA	Sulle nostre barbe—se le avessimo—tu lo sei.
TOUCHSTONE	Sulla mia furfanteria—se l’avessi—allora lo sarei; ma se giurate su ciò che non è, non siete spergiure. Né lo fu quel cavaliere, giurando sul suo onore, perché non ne ebbe mai; o se ne ebbe, l’aveva giurato via prima ancora di vedere quelle frittelle o quella senape.
CELIA	Di grazia, chi è colui che intendi?
TOUCHSTONE	Uno che il vecchio Federico, vostro padre, ama. CELIA] L’amore di mio padre basta a fargli onore. Basta, non parlarne più; uno di questi giorni sarai frustato per le tue accuse.
TOUCHSTONE	Tanto più è un peccato che agli sciocchi non sia dato dire saggiamente ciò che i saggi fanno scioccamente.
CELIA	In fede mia, dici il vero; ché da quando il poco ingegno che hanno gli sciocchi fu ridotto al silenzio, la poca sciocchezza che hanno i saggi fa gran mostra di sé. Ecco che viene Monsieur Le Beau.
(didascalia)	Entra Le Beau
ROSALINDA	Con la bocca piena di novità.
CELIA	Che ci rimpinzerà come i colombi nutrono i loro piccoli.
ROSALINDA	Allora saremo ingozzate di notizie.
CELIA	Tanto meglio: saremo più vendibili al mercato. Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau, quali novità?
LE BEAU	Bella principessa, avete perduto un bell’intrattenimento.
CELIA	Intrattenimento? Di che colore?
LE BEAU	Che colore, madama? Come devo rispondervi?
ROSALINDA	Come vorranno l’ingegno e la fortuna.
TOUCHSTONE	O come decretano i destini.
CELIA	Ben detto. Questa fu spalmata con la cazzuola.
TOUCHSTONE	Anzi, se non mantengo il mio rango—
ROSALINDA	Perdi il tuo vecchio odore.
LE BEAU	Voi mi sbalordite, signore. Volevo raccontarvi d’una bella lotta, di cui avete perduto lo spettacolo.
ROSALINDA	Raccontateci almeno com’è andata la lotta.
LE BEAU	Vi racconterò il principio, e se piace alle signorie vostre potrete vederne la fine, ché il meglio è ancora da farsi, e proprio qui, dove voi siete, vengono a compierlo.
CELIA	Bene, dunque il principio che è morto e sepolto.
LE BEAU	Viene un vecchio coi suoi tre figli—
CELIA	Potrei accoppiare questo principio a una vecchia fiaba.
LE BEAU	Tre bei giovani, d’eccellente statura e presenza.
ROSALINDA	Con dei cartelli al collo: ‘Sia noto a tutti gli uomini per la presente’—
LE BEAU	Il maggiore dei tre lottò con Carlo, il lottatore del Duca, il quale Carlo in un istante lo atterrò, e gli ruppe tre costole, sicché v’è poca speranza di vita in lui. Così servì il secondo, e così il terzo. Là giacciono, e il povero vecchio loro padre fa su di loro tal pietoso lamento che tutti gli astanti prendono le sue parti piangendo.
ROSALINDA	Ahimè!
TOUCHSTONE	Ma qual è il passatempo, monsieur, che le signore hanno perduto?
LE BEAU	Ma questo di cui parlo.
TOUCHSTONE	Così gli uomini possono farsi più saggi ogni giorno. È la prima volta che sento dire che rompere costole sia passatempo da signore.
CELIA	Anch’io, te l’assicuro.
ROSALINDA	Ma c’è qualcun altro che brama vedere questa musica rotta nei propri fianchi? C’è ancora qualcuno che va pazzo per lo spezzar costole? Vogliamo vederla, questa lotta, cugina?
LE BEAU	Dovrete, se restate qui, ché questo è il luogo destinato alla lotta, e sono pronti a compierla.
CELIA	Là di sicuro stanno venendo. Restiamo ora e guardiamola.
(didascalia)	Squillo di trombe. Entrano il Duca Federico, Signori, Orlando, Carlo e seguito
DUCA FEDERICO	Avanti. Poiché il giovane non si lascia pregare, il pericolo ricada sulla sua temerarietà.
ROSALINDA	È quello là l’uomo?
LE BEAU	Proprio lui, madama.
CELIA	Ahimè, è troppo giovane. Eppure ha l’aria di chi riesce.
DUCA FEDERICO	Ebbene, figlia e nipote; siete sgusciate qui a veder la lotta?
ROSALINDA	Sì, mio signore, se vi piace darcene licenza.
DUCA FEDERICO	Poco diletto ne trarrete, ve lo dico io: tanto è lo svantaggio nell’uomo. Per pietà della giovinezza dello sfidante volentieri lo dissuaderei, ma non si lascia pregare. Parlategli, signore; vedete se riuscite a smuoverlo.
CELIA	Chiamatelo qui, buon Monsieur Le Beau.
DUCA FEDERICO	Fatelo. Io non starò presente. Si tira in disparte
LE BEAU	(a Orlando) Monsieur lo sfidante, la Principessa vi chiama.
ORLANDO	Le servo con ogni rispetto e dovere.
ROSALINDA	Giovane, avete voi sfidato Carlo il lottatore?
ORLANDO	No, bella Principessa. Egli è lo sfidante universale; io mi presento solo come gli altri, per provare con lui la forza della mia giovinezza.
CELIA	Giovane gentiluomo, i vostri spiriti sono troppo arditi per i vostri anni. Avete visto crudele prova della forza di quest’uomo. Se voi vedeste voi stesso coi vostri occhi, o conosceste voi stesso col vostro giudizio, il timore della vostra avventura vi consiglierebbe un’impresa più pari. Vi preghiamo, per il vostro bene, di abbracciare la vostra sicurezza e di rinunciare a questo tentativo.
ROSALINDA	Fatelo, giovane signore. La vostra reputazione non ne sarà per questo disprezzata. Faremo istanza al Duca perché la lotta non abbia luogo.
ORLANDO	Vi supplico, non punitemi coi vostri duri pensieri, nei quali confesso d’essere assai colpevole nel negare qualcosa a dame così belle ed eccellenti. Ma i vostri begli occhi e i gentili auguri m’accompagnino alla mia prova, nella quale, se sarò atterrato, non v’è che uno svergognato che non fu mai favorito; se ucciso, non v’è che un morto che desidera esserlo. Non farò torto agli amici, ché non ne ho alcuno che mi compianga; nessun danno al mondo, ché in esso nulla possiedo. Nel mondo io non riempio che un posto, il quale potrà essere meglio occupato quando l’avrò lasciato vuoto.
ROSALINDA	La poca forza che ho, vorrei che fosse con voi.
CELIA	E la mia, ad accrescere la sua.
ROSALINDA	State bene. Voglia il cielo ch’io m’inganni sul conto vostro.
CELIA	I desideri del vostro cuore siano con voi.
CARLO	Suvvia, dov’è questo giovane galante così bramoso di giacere con la madre terra?
ORLANDO	Pronto, signore; ma la sua volontà ha in sé un più modesto proposito.
DUCA FEDERICO	Tenterete una sola caduta.
CARLO	No, garantisco a vostra grazia che non lo pregherete per una seconda, voi che con tanta forza l’avete dissuaso dalla prima.
ORLANDO	Volete beffarmi dopo; non avreste dovuto beffarmi prima. Ma venite pure.
ROSALINDA	(a Orlando) Ora Ercole ti sia di aiuto, giovane!
CELIA	Vorrei essere invisibile, per afferrare quel forzuto per una gamba. Carlo e Orlando lottano
ROSALINDA	Oh eccellente giovane!
CELIA	Se avessi un fulmine nell’occhio, so ben io chi cadrebbe. Orlando atterra Carlo. Grida
DUCA FEDERICO	Basta, basta.
ORLANDO	No, supplico vostra grazia. Non ho ancora ben ripreso fiato.
DUCA FEDERICO	Come stai, Carlo?
LE BEAU	Non può parlare, mio signore.
DUCA FEDERICO	Portatelo via. Il seguito porta via Carlo Qual è il tuo nome, giovane?
ORLANDO	Orlando, mio signore, il figlio più giovane di Sir Rowland de Bois.
DUCA FEDERICO	Vorrei che tu fossi stato figlio di qualche altro uomo. Il mondo stimava onorevole tuo padre, ma io sempre lo trovai mio nemico. Meglio m’avresti compiaciuto con quest’impresa se fossi disceso da un’altra casata. Ma sta’ bene, sei un giovane valoroso. Vorrei che m’avessi detto d’un altro padre.
(didascalia)	Escono il Duca Federico, Le Beau, [Touchstone,] i Signori e il seguito
CELIA	(a Rosalinda) Fossi io mio padre, cugina, farei questo?
ORLANDO	Più fiero sono d’essere figlio di Sir Rowland, il suo figlio minore, e non muterei tal nome per essere adottato erede di Federico.
ROSALINDA	Mio padre amava Sir Rowland come la propria anima, e tutto il mondo era del parere di mio padre. Se prima avessi saputo che questo giovane era suo figlio, alle preghiere avrei aggiunto le lacrime prima che così s’arrischiasse.
CELIA	Gentile cugina, andiamo a ringraziarlo e a incoraggiarlo. L’indole rozza e invidiosa di mio padre mi trafigge il cuore.—Signore, ben avete meritato. Se in amore manterrete le promesse anche solo con giustizia, come avete superato ogni promessa, la vostra signora sarà felice.
ROSALINDA	(dandogli una catena che porta al collo) Gentiluomo, portate questa per me—da parte d’una che è in disgrazia della fortuna, e che darebbe di più se la sua mano ne avesse i mezzi. Andiamo, cugina?
CELIA	Sì. State bene, bel gentiluomo. Rosalinda e Celia si volgono per andarsene
ORLANDO	(a parte) Non so dire ‘vi ringrazio’? Le mie parti migliori sono tutte atterrate, e ciò che qui resta in piedi non è che un manichino da giostra, un ceppo senza vita.
ROSALINDA	(a Celia) Ci richiama. Il mio orgoglio cadde con le mie fortune, gli chiederò che cosa voglia.—Avete chiamato, signore? Signore, avete lottato bene, e atterrato più dei vostri nemici.
CELIA	Volete venire, cugina?
ROSALINDA	Vengo con voi. (A Orlando) State bene.
(didascalia)	Escono Rosalinda e Celia
ORLANDO	Quale passione appende questi pesi alla mia lingua? Non so parlarle, e pure ella sollecitava un colloquio.
(didascalia)	Entra Le Beau
ORLANDO	O povero Orlando! Sei atterrato. O Carlo o qualcosa di più debole ti soggioga.
LE BEAU	Buon signore, per amicizia vi consiglio di lasciare questo luogo. Benché abbiate meritato alta lode, vero applauso e affetto, tale è ora la disposizione del Duca che egli travisa tutto ciò che avete fatto. Il Duca è umorale. Che cosa sia veramente più conviene a voi concepire che a me dire.
ORLANDO	Vi ringrazio, signore. E vi prego, ditemi questo: quale delle due era figlia del Duca, fra quelle che erano qui alla lotta?
LE BEAU	Nessuna delle due è sua figlia, a giudicare dai modi— ma pure in verità la più bassa è sua figlia. L’altra è figlia del Duca bandito, e qui trattenuta dallo zio usurpatore per far compagnia a sua figlia, i cui affetti sono più cari del vincolo naturale fra sorelle. Ma posso dirvi che di recente questo Duca ha preso in dispiacere la sua gentile nipote, fondandosi su nessun altro argomento se non che il popolo la loda per le sue virtù e la compiange per amore del suo buon padre. E, sulla mia vita, la sua malizia contro la dama d’improvviso proromperà. Signore, state bene. In seguito, in un mondo migliore di questo, desidererò maggior amicizia e conoscenza di voi.
ORLANDO	Vi resto molto obbligato. State bene.
(didascalia)	Esce Le Beau
ORLANDO	Così devo passare dal fumo alla brace, da un Duca tiranno a un fratello tiranno.— Ma celeste Rosalinda! Esce 13. Entrano Celia e Rosalinda
CELIA	Perché, cugina, perché, Rosalinda—Cupido abbia pietà, non una parola?
ROSALINDA	Neanche una da gettare a un cane.
CELIA	No, le tue parole sono troppo preziose per essere buttate ai bastardi. Gettane qualcuna a me. Su, azzoppami con le tue ragioni.
ROSALINDA	Allora ci sarebbero due cugine messe a letto, ché l’una sarebbe azzoppata dalle ragioni e l’altra pazza senza averne alcuna.
CELIA	Ma tutto questo è per tuo padre?
ROSALINDA	No, parte è per il padre del mio figlio. Oh, com’è pieno di rovi questo mondo dei giorni feriali!
CELIA	Non sono che lappole, cugina, gettate su di te in una follia di festa. Se non camminiamo per i sentieri battuti, le nostre stesse sottane le raccoglieranno.
ROSALINDA	Potrei scuoterle via dalla veste. Queste lappole sono nel mio cuore.
CELIA	Mandale via con un ‘ehm’.
ROSALINDA	Ci proverei, se col gridare ‘ehm’ potessi averlo.
CELIA	Via, via, lotta con i tuoi affetti.
ROSALINDA	Oh, essi parteggiano per un lottatore migliore di me.
CELIA	Oh, un buon augurio su di te! Ci proverai a suo tempo, a dispetto d’una caduta. Ma lasciando da parte questi scherzi, parliamo sul serio. È possibile che così all’improvviso tu sia caduta in una così forte inclinazione per il figlio minore del vecchio Sir Rowland?
ROSALINDA	Il Duca mio padre amava teneramente suo padre.
CELIA	Ne consegue forse che tu debba amare teneramente suo figlio? Con questo genere di caccia io dovrei odiarlo, ché mio padre odiava teneramente suo padre; eppure io non odio Orlando.
ROSALINDA	No, in fede mia, non odiarlo, per amor mio.
CELIA	Perché non dovrei? Non merita forse bene? Entrano il Duca Federico e Signori
ROSALINDA	Lascia dunque che io lo ami per questo, e tu amalo perché lo amo io. Guarda, ecco viene il Duca.
CELIA	Con gli occhi pieni d’ira.
DUCA FEDERICO	(a Rosalinda) Signorina, sbrigatevi con la massima fretta che vi salvi, e allontanatevi dalla nostra corte.
ROSALINDA	Io, zio?
DUCA FEDERICO	Tu, nipote. Entro dieci giorni, se sarai trovata così vicina alla nostra corte come venti miglia, ne morirai.
ROSALINDA	Supplico vostra grazia di lasciarmi portare con me la conoscenza della mia colpa. Se ho con me stessa qualche intelligenza, o conosco i miei propri desideri, se non sogno, o non sono in delirio— e confido di non esserlo—allora, caro zio, mai, neppure in un pensiero non nato, ho offeso vostra altezza.
DUCA FEDERICO	Così fanno tutti i traditori. Se la loro discolpa consistesse in parole, sarebbero innocenti come la grazia stessa. Ti basti che io non mi fido di te.
ROSALINDA	Eppure la vostra diffidenza non può farmi traditrice. Ditemi su che cosa si fonda la verosimiglianza.
DUCA FEDERICO	Sei figlia di tuo padre—questo basta.
ROSALINDA	Lo ero anche quando vostra altezza gli tolse il ducato; lo ero quando vostra altezza lo bandì. Il tradimento non s’eredita, mio signore, o, se pur lo traessimo dai nostri congiunti, che importa a me? Mio padre non fu traditore. Dunque, buon mio signore, non fraintendetemi tanto da credere traditrice la mia povertà.
CELIA	Caro sovrano, ascoltatemi.
DUCA FEDERICO	Sì, Celia, la trattenemmo per amor tuo, altrimenti sarebbe andata ramingando col padre.
CELIA	Allora non supplicai io che restasse. Fu vostro piacere, e vostro rimorso. Ero troppo giovane a quel tempo per apprezzarla, ma ora la conosco. Se ella è traditrice, ebbene, lo sono anch’io. Sempre abbiamo dormito insieme, ci alzammo nel medesimo istante, imparato, giocato, mangiato insieme, e ovunque andassimo, come i cigni di Giunone sempre andavamo accoppiate e inseparabili.
DUCA FEDERICO	Ella è troppo sottile per te, e la sua mitezza, il suo stesso silenzio, e la sua pazienza parlano al popolo, e il popolo la compiange. Tu sei una sciocca. Ella ti ruba il tuo nome, e tu apparirai più splendente e sembrerai più virtuosa quando sarà partita. Dunque non aprire le labbra. Ferma e irrevocabile è la condanna che ho pronunciato su di lei. Ella è bandita.
CELIA	Pronunciate allora quella sentenza anche su di me, mio signore. Non posso vivere fuori della sua compagnia.
DUCA FEDERICO	Sei una sciocca.—Voi, nipote, provvedete a voi stessa. Se oltrepassate il termine, sul mio onore e nella grandezza della mia parola, morrete.
(didascalia)	Esce il Duca Federico coi Signori
CELIA	O mia povera Rosalinda, dove andrai? Vuoi cambiare padre? Ti darò il mio. Ti scongiuro, non essere più afflitta di me.
ROSALINDA	Ne ho più motivo.
CELIA	Non ne hai, cugina. Di grazia, sii lieta. Non sai che il Duca ha bandito me, sua figlia?
ROSALINDA	Questo no.
CELIA	No, non l’ha fatto? Rosalinda, ti manca dunque l’amore che t’insegna che tu ed io siamo una cosa sola? Dovremo essere divise? Ci separeremo, dolce fanciulla? No. Che mio padre si cerchi un altro erede. Perciò studia con me come possiamo fuggire, dove andare, e che portare con noi, e non cercare di prendere su di te il tuo mutamento, di sopportare da sola i tuoi dolori, ed escludere me. Ché per questo cielo, ora pallido ai nostri dolori, di’ ciò che vuoi, io verrò con te.
ROSALINDA	Ma dove andremo?
CELIA	A cercare mio zio nella foresta d’Ardenne.
ROSALINDA	Ahimè, che pericolo sarà per noi, fanciulle come siamo, viaggiare così lontano! La bellezza provoca i ladri più dell’oro.
CELIA	Mi metterò poveri e umili panni, e con una specie di terra d’ombra mi tingerò il viso. Fa’ lo stesso tu, e così passeremo oltre senza mai suscitare assalitori.
ROSALINDA	Non sarebbe meglio, poiché io sono più alta del comune, che mi vestissi in tutto e per tutto da uomo, con una bella daga alla coscia, uno spiedo da cinghiale in mano, e nel cuore, vi giaccia pur nascosto quel timore di donna che vorrà. Avremo un aspetto spaccone e marziale, come tanti altri codardi virili che la sostengono con le apparenze.
CELIA	Come ti chiamerò quando sarai un uomo?
ROSALINDA	Non avrò nome peggiore del paggio di Giove, e perciò badate a chiamarmi Ganimede. Ma tu come ti farai chiamare?
CELIA	Qualcosa che alluda al mio stato. Non più Celia, ma Aliena.
ROSALINDA	Ma cugina, e se tentassimo di rubare quel buffone di scemo dalla corte di tuo padre? Non sarebbe un conforto al nostro viaggio?
CELIA	Verrà con me per il vasto mondo. Lascia a me sola di corteggiarlo. Andiamo, e raccogliamo insieme i nostri gioielli e le nostre ricchezze, studiamo il momento più adatto e la via più sicura per nasconderci all’inseguimento che seguirà alla mia fuga. Ora andiamo contente, alla libertà, e non al bando.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords dressed as foresters
DUKE SENIOR	Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say ‘This is no flattery. These are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.’ Sweet are the uses of adversity Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
AMIENS	I would not change it. Happy is your grace That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
DUKE SENIOR	Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored.
FIRST LORD	Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that, And in that kind swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banished you. Today my lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak, whose antic root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood, To the which place a poor sequestered stag That from the hunter’s aim had ta‘en a hurt Did come to languish. And indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heaved forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Coursed one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase. And thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th’extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.
DUKE SENIOR	But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle?
FIRST LORD	O yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream; ‘Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘thou mak’st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much.’ Then being there alone, Left and abandoned of his velvet friend, “Tis right,’ quoth he, ‘thus misery doth part The flux of company.’ Anon a careless herd Full of the pasture jumps along by him And never stays to greet him. ‘Ay,’ quoth Jaques, ‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens, ’Tis just the fashion. Wherefore should you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?’ Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse, To fright the animals and to kill them up In their assigned and native dwelling place.
DUKE SENIOR	And did you leave him in this contemplation?
SECOND LORD	We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.
DUKE SENIOR	Show me the place. I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he’s full of matter.
FIRST LORD	I’ll bring you to him straight.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano il Duca Seniore, Amiens e due o tre Signori vestiti da forestali
DUCA SENIORE	Or dunque, miei compagni e fratelli d’esilio, non ha la lunga usanza reso questa vita più dolce di quella della pompa dipinta? Non sono questi boschi più liberi da pericoli dell’invidiosa corte? Qui non sentiamo altro che la pena d’Adamo, la differenza delle stagioni, come la zanna gelida e il rimbrotto villano del vento d’inverno, il quale, quando morde e soffia sul mio corpo fino a farmi rattrappire dal freddo, io sorrido e dico: ‘Questa non è adulazione. Sono consiglieri che con sensibile forza mi persuadono di ciò che sono.’ Dolci sono gli usi dell’avversità, la quale, come il rospo, brutta e velenosa, porta tuttavia una preziosa gemma nel capo; e questa nostra vita, esente dal frequentare le folle, trova lingue negli alberi, libri nei ruscelli che scorrono, sermoni nelle pietre, e il bene in ogni cosa.
AMIENS	Non la muterei. Felice è vostra grazia che sa tradurre la caparbietà della fortuna in uno stile così quieto e così dolce.
DUCA SENIORE	Suvvia, andiamo a uccidere qualche capriolo? Eppure mi duole che quei poveri sciocchi screziati, cittadini nativi di questa città deserta, debbano entro i loro propri confini, con punte biforcute, vedersi trafiggere le tonde anche.
PRIMO SIGNORE	In verità, mio signore, il malinconico Jaques se ne affligge, e in tal senso giura che voi usurpate più di quanto faccia vostro fratello che vi ha bandito. Oggi il mio signore d’Amiens ed io ci siamo furtivamente accostati dietro a lui, mentre giaceva disteso sotto una quercia, la cui bizzarra radice sporge sul ruscello che brontola per questo bosco, al qual luogo un povero cervo appartato, che dalla mira del cacciatore aveva ricevuto una ferita, venne a languire. E in verità, mio signore, la misera bestia esalava tali gemiti che il loro sfogo tendeva il suo cuoiaceo mantello quasi a farlo scoppiare, e grosse tonde lacrime si rincorrevano l’una l’altra giù per il suo innocente muso in pietosa caccia. E così il villoso sciocco, molto osservato dal malinconico Jaques, stava sull’estremo orlo del rapido ruscello, accrescendolo con le lacrime.
DUCA SENIORE	Ma che disse Jaques? Non moraleggiò su questo spettacolo?
PRIMO SIGNORE	Oh sì, in mille similitudini. Primo, sul suo piangere in un ruscello che non ne ha bisogno: ‘Povero cervo,’ disse, ‘tu fai testamento come fanno i mondani, dando la tua somma di più a ciò che già aveva troppo.’ Poi, essendo là solo, lasciato e abbandonato dai suoi amici di velluto, “È giusto,’ disse, ‘così la miseria separa il flusso della compagnia.’ Poco dopo una mandria noncurante, satolla di pastura, gli salta accanto e non si ferma neppure a salutarlo. ‘Sì,’ disse Jaques, ‘passate oltre, voi grassi e untuosi cittadini, è proprio la moda. Perché mai dovreste guardare quel povero fallito e rotto laggiù?’ Così, invettivando al massimo, egli trafigge il corpo della campagna, della città, della corte, sì, e di questa nostra vita, giurando che noi siamo meri usurpatori, tiranni, e ciò ch’è peggio, a spaventare gli animali e ad ammazzarli nella loro assegnata e nativa dimora.
DUCA SENIORE	E lo lasciaste in questa contemplazione?
SECONDO SIGNORE	Sì, mio signore, che piangeva e commentava sul cervo singhiozzante.
DUCA SENIORE	Mostratemi il luogo. Amo affrontarlo in questi accessi cupi, ché allora è pieno di materia.
PRIMO SIGNORE	Vi condurrò subito da lui.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords
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 abed, and in the morning early They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.
SECOND LORD	My lord, the roynish clown at whom so oft Your grace was wont to laugh is also missing. Hisperia, 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano il Duca Federico e Signori
DUCA FEDERICO	È possibile che nessuno le abbia viste? Non può essere. Certi furfanti della mia corte vi hanno consentito e l’hanno tollerato.
PRIMO SIGNORE	Non odo di alcuno che l’abbia veduta. Le dame che l’assistono nella sua camera la videro a letto, e la mattina presto trovarono il letto privato del suo tesoro.
SECONDO SIGNORE	Mio signore, anche quel buffone rognoso di cui sì spesso vostra grazia soleva ridere è scomparso. Isperia, la gentildonna della Principessa, confessa d’avere udito di nascosto vostra figlia e sua cugina lodare assai le doti e le grazie del lottatore che poco fa atterrò il nerboruto Carlo, ed ella crede che, ovunque siano andate, quel giovane sia certamente in loro compagnia.
DUCA FEDERICO	Mandate da suo fratello; conducete qui quel galante. Se è assente, portate suo fratello da me, lo costringerò a trovarlo. Fate questo all’istante, e non venga meno la ricerca e l’inquisizione per ricondurre queste sciocche fuggitive.
(didascalia)	Escono separatamente

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	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 saved 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 livèd 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

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Orlando e Adamo, incontrandosi
ORLANDO	Chi è là?
ADAMO	Come, mio giovane padrone, o mio gentile padrone, o mio dolce padrone, o voi memoria del vecchio Sir Rowland, ma che fate voi qui! Perché siete virtuoso? Perché la gente vi ama? E perché siete gentile, forte e valoroso? Perché voleste essere tanto folle da vincere il gagliardo campione dell’umorale Duca? La vostra lode è giunta troppo presto a casa prima di voi. Non sapete, padrone, che a certa sorta d’uomini le loro grazie non servono che da nemici? Così fanno le vostre. Le vostre virtù, gentile padrone, vi sono santificati e sacri traditori. Oh, che mondo è questo, quando ciò ch’è avvenente avvelena chi lo porta!
ORLANDO	Ma che c’è?
ADAMO	Oh, giovane infelice, non entrate in queste porte. Sotto questo tetto vive il nemico di tutte le vostre grazie, vostro fratello—no, non fratello—eppure il figlio— eppure non il figlio, non lo chiamerò figlio— di colui che stavo per chiamare suo padre, ha udito le vostre lodi, e questa notte intende bruciare l’alloggio dove solete dormire, e voi dentro. Se ciò gli fallisce, avrà altri mezzi per sopprimervi. Ho udito lui e le sue macchinazioni. Questo non è luogo, questa casa non è che un macello. Abborritela, temetela, non entrateci.
ORLANDO	Ma dove, Adamo, vorresti che andassi?
ADAMO	Non importa dove, purché non veniate qui.
ORLANDO	Come, vorresti che andassi a mendicare il cibo, o che con vile e violenta spada mi procurassi un vivere da ladro sulla pubblica strada? Questo devo fare, o non so che fare. Eppure questo non lo farò, comunque io possa. Piuttosto mi sottometterò alla malizia d’un sangue sviato e d’un fratello sanguinario.
ADAMO	Ma non fatelo. Ho cinquecento scudi, il parco salario che risparmiai sotto vostro padre, e che riposi perché mi fosse nutrice quando il servizio giacesse zoppo nelle mie vecchie membra, e la vecchiaia negletta fosse gettata in un canto. Prendeteli, e colui che nutre i corvi, sì, e provvidamente provvede al passero, sia conforto alla mia età. Ecco l’oro. Tutto questo vi do. Lasciate che io sia vostro servo. Benché sembri vecchio, sono ancora forte e gagliardo, ché in gioventù non versai mai liquori caldi e ribelli nel mio sangue, né con fronte sfacciata corteggiai i mezzi della debolezza e della fiacchezza. Perciò la mia vecchiaia è come un inverno gagliardo, gelido ma benigno. Lasciate ch’io venga con voi, farò il servizio d’un uomo più giovane in tutte le vostre faccende e necessità.
ORLANDO	O buon vecchio, come bene appare in te il costante servizio del mondo antico, quando il servo sudava per dovere, non per mercede! Tu non sei fatto per la moda di questi tempi, in cui nessuno suda se non per un avanzamento, e ottenutolo soffoca il proprio servizio proprio con l’averlo. Non è così con te. Ma, povero vecchio, tu poti un albero marcio che non può darti neppure un fiore in cambio di tutte le tue pene e cure. Ma vieni pure. Andremo insieme, e prima d’aver speso la tua giovanile paga troveremo qualche umile e stabile contentezza.
ADAMO	Padrone, andate avanti, e io vi seguirò fino all’ultimo respiro con fedeltà e lealtà. Da diciassette anni fino a quasi ottanta qui ho vissuto, ma ora qui non vivo più. A diciassette anni molti cercan la fortuna, ma a ottanta è troppo tarda l’ora. Pur la fortuna non può meglio ricompensarmi che col farmi morir bene, e non debitore del mio padrone. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind in man’s clothes as Ganymede; Celia as Aliena, a shepherdess; and Touchstone the clown
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 cannot 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 Ardenne.
TOUCHSTONE	Ay, now am I in Ardenne; the more fool I. When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.
(didascalia)	Enter Corin and Silvius
ROSALIND	Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here—a young man and an old in solemn talk.
CORIN	(to Silvius) 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 loved ere now.
SILVIUS	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?
CORIN	Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
SILVIUS	O, thou didst then never love so heartily. If thou rememberest 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, Wearing 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, Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe! Exit
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 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, ‘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 yon man If he for gold will give us any food. I faint almost to death.
TOUCHSTONE	(to Corin) 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	(to Touchstone) Peace, I say. (To Corin) Good even to you, friend.
CORIN	And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
ROSALIND	I prithee, 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 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 cot, 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

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Rosalinda in abiti maschili come Ganimede; Celia come Aliena, pastorella; e Touchstone il buffone
ROSALINDA	O Giove, come sono stanchi i miei spiriti!
TOUCHSTONE	Poco m’importa dei miei spiriti, se le mie gambe non fossero stanche.
ROSALINDA	Mi sentirei in cuore di far disonore alle mie vesti d’uomo e di piangere come una donna. Ma devo confortare il vaso più debole, ché farsetto e brache devono mostrarsi coraggiosi davanti alla sottana; perciò, coraggio, buona Aliena!
CELIA	Vi prego, sopportatemi. Non posso andare più oltre.
TOUCHSTONE	Da parte mia, preferirei sopportarvi che portarvi. Eppure non porterei nessuna croce se vi portassi, ché credo non abbiate denaro nella borsa.
ROSALINDA	Bene, questa è la foresta d’Ardenne.
TOUCHSTONE	Sì, e ora sono in Ardenne; tanto più sciocco io. Quando ero a casa stavo in un luogo migliore; ma i viaggiatori devono contentarsi.
(didascalia)	Entrano Corino e Silvio
ROSALINDA	Sì, contentati, buon Touchstone. Guardate, chi viene qui—un giovane e un vecchio in solenne colloquio.
CORINO	(a Silvio) Questa è la via per farti disprezzare ancora da lei.
SILVIO	O Corino, se sapessi come la amo!
CORINO	In parte lo indovino; ché anch’io ho amato un tempo.
SILVIO	No, Corino, essendo vecchio non puoi indovinarlo, benché in gioventù tu fossi amante tanto fedele quanto mai sospirò su un guanciale a mezzanotte. Ma se il tuo amore fu mai simile al mio— e certo credo che mai uomo amò così— quante azioni ridicolissime ti trascinò a fare la tua fantasia?
CORINO	Mille, che ho dimenticate.
SILVIO	Oh, allora non hai mai amato così di cuore. Se non ricordi la minima follia in cui mai l’amore ti fece correre, tu non hai amato. O se non ti sei seduto come io faccio ora, logorando chi t’ascolta con la lode della tua signora, tu non hai amato. O se non ti sei staccato dalla compagnia bruscamente, come ora mi costringe la mia passione, tu non hai amato. O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe! Esce
ROSALINDA	Ahimè, povero pastore, frugando la tua ferita ho per dura ventura ritrovato la mia.
TOUCHSTONE	E io la mia. Ricordo che, quando ero innamorato, ruppi la mia spada contro una pietra e le dissi di prendersi quello per essere andata di notte da Jane Smile; e ricordo il bacio dato alla sua mestola da bucato, e alle poppe della vacca che le sue belle mani screpolate avevano munto; e ricordo il corteggiamento fatto a un baccello di piselli in vece sua, dal quale tolsi due granelli e, ridandoglieli, dissi con lacrime piangenti: ‘Portali per amor mio.’ Noi che siamo veri amanti corriamo in strane capriole. Ma poiché tutto è mortale in natura, così tutta la natura in amore è mortale nella follia.
ROSALINDA	Parli più saggiamente di quanto tu ne sia consapevole.
TOUCHSTONE	Anzi, non sarò mai consapevole del mio ingegno finché non ci abbia sbattuto contro gli stinchi.
ROSALINDA	Giove, Giove, la passione di questo pastore somiglia molto alla mia foggia.
TOUCHSTONE	E alla mia, ma con me comincia a farsi un po’ stantia.
CELIA	Vi prego, uno di voi interroghi quell’uomo laggiù se per oro voglia darci qualche cibo. Vengo meno quasi fino alla morte.
TOUCHSTONE	(a Corino) Olà, villano!
ROSALINDA	Taci, buffone, non è tuo parente.
CORINO	Chi chiama?
TOUCHSTONE	I vostri superiori, signore.
CORINO	Altrimenti sarebbero ben miserabili.
ROSALINDA	(a Touchstone) Taci, ti dico. (A Corino) Buona sera a voi, amico.
CORINO	E a voi, gentile signore, e a voi tutti.
ROSALINDA	Ti prego, pastore, se amore o oro possono in questo luogo deserto comprare ospitalità, conducici dove possiamo riposarci e nutrirci. Ecco una giovane fanciulla assai oppressa dal viaggio, che vien meno per bisogno di soccorso.
CORINO	Bel signore, io la compiango, e vorrei, per amor suo più che per il mio, che le mie fortune fossero più atte a sollevarla. Ma io sono pastore d’un altro uomo, e non toso i velli che pascolo. Il mio padrone è d’indole villana, e poco si cura di trovare la via del cielo compiendo opere d’ospitalità. Inoltre la sua capanna, le greggi e i confini del pascolo sono ora in vendita, e al nostro ovile adesso, a causa della sua assenza, non v’è nulla di cui possiate nutrirvi. Ma venite a vedere ciò che c’è, e per quanto sta in me sarete i benvenuti.
ROSALINDA	Chi è colui che comprerà il gregge e il pascolo?
CORINO	Quel giovane bifolco che avete visto qui poco fa, che poco si cura di comprare alcunché.
ROSALINDA	Ti prego, se ciò s’accorda con l’onestà, compra tu la capanna, il pascolo e il gregge, e avrai da noi di che pagarli.
CELIA	E accresceremo il tuo salario. Mi piace questo luogo, e volentieri vi consumerei il mio tempo.
CORINO	Certamente la cosa è da vendere. Venite con me. Se, dopo averne udita relazione, vi piacciono il terreno, il profitto e questo genere di vita, io sarò il vostro fedelissimo guardiano, e lo comprerò col vostro oro all’istante. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Amiens, Jaques, and other Lords dressed as foresters
(didascalia)	[AMIENS] (sings) 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 prithee, more.
AMIENS	It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
JAQUES	I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, 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 ’em 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 th’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.
AMIENS	Well, I’ll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while. Lords prepare food and drink The Duke will drink under this tree. (To Jaques) 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 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) Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i’th’ 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.
JAQUES	I’ll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.
AMIENS	And I’ll sing it.
JAQUES	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.
AMIENS	What’s that ‘ducdame’?
JAQUES	’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I’ll go sleep if I can. If I cannot, I’ll rail against all the firstborn of Egypt.
AMIENS	And I’ll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepared.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Amiens, Jaques e altri Signori vestiti da forestali
(didascalia)	[AMIENS] (canta) Sotto l’albero del verde bosco chi ama giacere con me, e volgere la sua allegra nota alla gola del dolce augello, venga qui, venga qui, venga qui. Qui non vedrà nemico alcuno se non l’inverno e il tempo aspro.
JAQUES	Ancora, ancora, ti prego, ancora.
AMIENS	Vi farà venire la malinconia, Monsieur Jaques.
JAQUES	Gliene rendo grazie. Ancora, ti prego, ancora. Io so succhiare malinconia da una canzone come una donnola succhia le uova. Ancora, ti prego, ancora.
AMIENS	La mia voce è rauca, so di non potervi piacere.
JAQUES	Non desidero che mi piacciate, desidero che cantiate. Su, ancora; un’altra stanza. Le chiamate stanze, voi?
AMIENS	Come volete, Monsieur Jaques.
JAQUES	Anzi, non m’importa dei loro nomi, non mi devono nulla. Volete cantare?
AMIENS	Più per vostra richiesta che per piacere a me stesso.
JAQUES	Bene dunque, se mai ringrazierò qualcuno, ringrazierò voi. Ma ciò che chiamano complimento è come l’incontro di due babbuini, e quando un uomo mi ringrazia di cuore mi pare d’avergli dato un soldo ed egli mi renda il ringraziamento d’un mendicante. Su, cantate; e voi che non volete, tenete a freno la lingua.
AMIENS	Bene, finirò la canzone.—Signori, apparecchiate intanto. I Signori preparano cibo e bevanda Il Duca berrà sotto quest’albero. (A Jaques) Vi ha cercato tutto il giorno.
JAQUES	E io tutto il giorno ho cercato d’evitarlo. È troppo disputatore per la mia compagnia. Io penso a tante cose quanto lui, ma ne rendo grazie al cielo, e non me ne vanto. Su, gorgheggia, su.
TUTTI	(cantano) Chi fugge l’ambizione, e ama vivere al sole, cercandosi il cibo che mangia e contento di quel che ottiene, venga qui, venga qui, venga qui. Qui non vedrà nemico alcuno se non l’inverno e il tempo aspro.
JAQUES	Vi darò una strofa su quest’aria, che feci ieri a dispetto della mia invenzione.
AMIENS	E io la canterò.
JAQUES	Fa così: Se mai accade che un uomo si faccia asino, lasciando ricchezze e agi per compiacere un’ostinata voglia, ducdame, ducdame, ducdame. Qui egli vedrà sciocchi grossolani com’è lui, se vorrà venire da me.
AMIENS	Che cos’è questo ‘ducdame’?
JAQUES	È un’invocazione greca per chiamare gli sciocchi in cerchio. Andrò a dormire, se ci riesco. Se non ci riesco, inveirò contro tutti i primogeniti d’Egitto.
AMIENS	E io andrò a cercare il Duca; il suo banchetto è pronto.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando and Adam
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.
ORLANDO	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 to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death 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 will give thee leave to die. But if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said. Thou lookest cheerly, 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. Cheerly, good Adam. Orlando carries Adam off

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Orlando e Adamo
ADAMO	Caro padrone, non posso andare più oltre. Oh, muoio di fame. Qui mi corico e misuro la mia fossa. Addio, buon padrone.
ORLANDO	Suvvia, come, Adamo? Non c’è in te cuore più grande? Vivi ancora un poco, confortati un poco, rallegrati un poco. Se questa selvaggia foresta produce qualche fiera, o sarò cibo per lei o la porterò a te come cibo. La tua immaginazione è più vicina alla morte che le tue forze. Per amor mio, fatti animo. Tieni ancora un poco la morte a distanza di braccio. Sarò qui con te fra breve, e se non ti porto qualcosa da mangiare, ti darò licenza di morire. Ma se muori prima ch’io torni, ti fai beffe della mia fatica. Ben detto. Hai l’aria più lieta, e sarò da te presto. Eppure giaci nell’aria gelida. Vieni, ti porterò a qualche riparo, e non morrai per mancanza d’un pranzo se qualcosa vive in questo deserto. Su, allegro, buon Adamo. Orlando porta via Adamo

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Senior and Lords dressed as outlaws
DUKE SENIOR	I think he be transformed into a beast, For I can nowhere find him like a man.
FIRST LORD	My lord, he is but even now gone hence. Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
DUKE SENIOR	If he, compact of jars, grow musical We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go seek him. Tell him I would speak with him.
(didascalia)	Enter Jaques
FIRST LORD	He saves my labour by his own approach.
DUKE SENIOR	Why, how now, monsieur, what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company! What, you look merrily.
JAQUES	A fool, a fool, I met a fool i‘th’ forest, A motley foot—a miserable world!— 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 fortune.’ And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking on it with lack-lustre eye Says very wisely ‘It is ten o‘clock.’ ‘Thus we may see’, quoth he, ‘how the world wags. ‘Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill 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 foot—motley’s the only wear.
DUKE SENIOR	What fool is this? 35
JAQUES	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 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 judgements 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, Seem aught but senseless of the bob. If not, The wise man’s folly is anatomized 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 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’embossèd sores and headed evils That thou with licence 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 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 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 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?
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando, with sword drawn
ORLANDO	Forbear, and eat no more!
JAQUES	Why, I have eat none yet.
ORLANDO	Nor shalt not till necessity be served.
JAQUES	Of what kind should this cock come of?
DUKE SENIOR	Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress? Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seem’st so empty?
ORLANDO	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.
JAQUES	An you will not be answered 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 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 ’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 knolled to church, And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered. And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be ministered.
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 Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed, Oppressed 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 blessed for your good comfortl 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 lined, 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 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando bearing 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. [amiens] (sings) 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. Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly. Then hey-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 remembered not. Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly. Then hey-ho, the holly; This life is most jolly.
DUKE SENIOR	(to Orlando) If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son, As you have whispered faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limned and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke That loved your father. The residue of your fortune, Go to my cave and tell me. (To Adam) Good old man, Thou art right welcome, as thy master is.— (To Lords) Support him by the arm. (To Orlando) Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand. Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano il Duca Seniore e Signori vestiti da fuorilegge
DUCA SENIORE	Credo che si sia trasformato in bestia, ché in nessun luogo lo trovo in forma d’uomo.
PRIMO SIGNORE	Mio signore, se n’è andato di qui proprio ora. Qui era allegro, ascoltando una canzone.
DUCA SENIORE	Se lui, impastato di dissonanze, si fa musicale, avremo presto discordia nelle sfere. Andate a cercarlo. Ditegli che voglio parlargli.
(didascalia)	Entra Jaques
PRIMO SIGNORE	Mi risparmia la fatica venendo da sé.
DUCA SENIORE	Ebbene, monsieur, che vita è questa, che i vostri poveri amici debbano corteggiare la vostra compagnia! Come, avete l’aria allegra.
JAQUES	Uno sciocco, uno sciocco, ho incontrato uno sciocco nella foresta, uno sciocco variopinto—mondo miserabile!— com’è vero ch’io vivo di cibo, ho incontrato uno sciocco, che si coricò a crogiolarsi al sole, e inveiva contro Madonna Fortuna in buoni termini, in ben studiati termini, e pure era uno sciocco variopinto. ‘Buon giorno, sciocco,’ dissi io. ‘No, signore,’ disse lui, ‘non chiamatemi sciocco finché il cielo non m’abbia mandato fortuna.’ E allora trasse un orologio dalla sua bisaccia, e guardandolo con occhio spento dice assai saggiamente ‘Sono le dieci all’orologio.’ ‘Così possiamo vedere’, disse, ‘come va il mondo. Non è che un’ora fa che erano le nove, e dopo un’altra ora saranno le undici. E così di ora in ora maturiamo e maturiamo, e poi di ora in ora marciamo e marciamo; e da ciò pende una storia.’ Quando udii lo sciocco variopinto moraleggiare così sul tempo, i miei polmoni cominciarono a cantare come un gallo, che gli sciocchi potessero essere così profondamente contemplativi, e risi senza intermissione un’ora al suo orologio. O nobile sciocco, degno sciocco—il variopinto è l’unico abito da portare.
DUCA SENIORE	Chi è questo sciocco? 35
JAQUES	O degno sciocco!—Uno che è stato cortigiano, e dice: ‘Se le dame sono giovani e belle, hanno il dono di saperlo.’ E nel suo cervello, che è secco come il biscotto avanzato dopo un viaggio, ha stipato strani ripostigli d’osservazione, che egli sfoga in forme sconquassate. Oh, fossi io uno sciocco! Ambisco a un abito variopinto.
DUCA SENIORE	L’avrai.
JAQUES	È la mia sola richiesta, purché estirpiate dai vostri migliori giudizi ogni opinione che vi cresce rigogliosa ch’io sia saggio. Devo avere insieme libertà, un privilegio ampio come il vento, di soffiare su chi mi piace, ché tale l’hanno gli sciocchi; e quelli che più sono scorticati dalla mia follia, quelli più devono ridere. E perché, signore, devono farlo? Il perché è chiaro come la via della chiesa parrocchiale: colui che uno sciocco colpisce assai saggiamente fa assai scioccamente, per quanto gli bruci, a mostrarsi altro che insensibile alla frecciata. Se no, la follia del saggio viene anatomizzata proprio dagli sguardi sprecati dello sciocco. Rivestitemi del mio abito variopinto. Datemi licenza di dire ciò che penso, e io da parte a parte purgherò il turpe corpo di questo mondo infetto, se accetteranno con pazienza la mia medicina.
DUCA SENIORE	Vergogna a te, so bene che cosa faresti.
JAQUES	Come, per un gettone, che farei se non del bene?
DUCA SENIORE	Peccato turpe e maligno al sommo, rimproverare il peccato; ché tu stesso sei stato libertino, sensuale quanto il pungolo bestiale medesimo, e tutte le piaghe gonfie e i mali giunti a maturazione che tu, con licenza di piede libero, hai contratto, li vomiteresti addosso al mondo intero.
JAQUES	E chi grida contro l’orgoglio che possa con ciò accusare qualcuno in particolare? Non fluisce esso vasto quanto il mare, finché i mezzi stessi, esausti, non rifluiscano? Quale donna della città nomino io quando dico che la donna di città porta su spalle indegne il costo dei principi? Chi può farsi avanti e dire che intendo lei, quando una tale è come la sua vicina? O chi, del più basso mestiere, che dica che la sua sfarzosità non è a mie spese, credendo ch’io intenda lui, ma con ciò adatta la sua follia alla tempra del mio discorso? Ebbene, come dunque, che dunque, vediamo in che cosa la mia lingua gli abbia fatto torto. Se gli rende giustizia, allora è lui che ha fatto torto a sé stesso. Se ne è libero, allora la mia accusa vola come un’oca selvatica, non reclamata da alcuno. Ma chi viene qui?
(didascalia)	Entra Orlando, con la spada sguainata
ORLANDO	Fermatevi, e non mangiate più!
JAQUES	Ma io non ho ancora mangiato nulla.
ORLANDO	Né mangerai finché la necessità non sia soddisfatta.
JAQUES	Di che razza sarà mai questo gallo?
DUCA SENIORE	Sei tu così imbaldanzito, uomo, dalla tua sventura? O sei un rozzo spregiatore delle buone maniere, che ti mostri così vuoto di civiltà?
ORLANDO	Avete toccato subito la mia vena. La spinosa punta della nuda sventura m’ha tolto l’apparenza della liscia civiltà. Eppure sono cresciuto nell’interno, e conosco qualche educazione. Ma fermatevi, dico. Muore chi tocca uno solo di questi frutti finché io e le mie faccende non siamo soddisfatti.
JAQUES	Se non vi si può rispondere con la ragione, devo morire.
DUCA SENIORE	Che cosa volete? La vostra gentilezza ci costringerà più di quanto la vostra forza ci muova a gentilezza.
ORLANDO	Muoio quasi di fame; datemi da mangiare.
DUCA SENIORE	Sedete e mangiate, e siate benvenuto alla nostra tavola.
ORLANDO	Parlate voi così gentilmente? Perdonatemi, vi prego. Credevo che tutto qui fosse selvaggio, e perciò mi son messo il volto del severo comando. Ma chiunque voi siate, che in questo deserto inaccessibile, sotto l’ombra di rami malinconici, perdete e trascurate le ore striscianti del tempo, se mai avete conosciuto giorni migliori, se mai foste dove le campane hanno chiamato alla chiesa, se mai sedeste alla mensa di qualche uomo dabbene, se mai vi asciugaste dalle palpebre una lacrima, e sapete che cosa sia compatire ed essere compatiti, sia la gentilezza la mia forte costrizione. In questa speranza arrossisco e nascondo la mia spada.
DUCA SENIORE	È vero che abbiamo veduto giorni migliori, e da sacra campana siamo stati chiamati alla chiesa, e sedemmo a mense d’uomini dabbene, e ci asciugammo gli occhi di gocce che sacra pietà aveva generate. E perciò sedete in gentilezza, e prendete a vostro comando quel soccorso che abbiamo e che possa essere prestato al vostro bisogno.
ORLANDO	Allora trattenetevi un poco dal cibo, mentre io, come una cerva, vado a cercare il mio cerbiatto e a dargli da mangiare. C’è un povero vecchio che dietro a me con molti passi affaticati ha zoppicato per puro amore. Finché egli non sia sazio, oppresso da due deboli mali, la vecchiaia e la fame, non toccherò un boccone.
DUCA SENIORE	Andate a trovarlo, e noi non consumeremo nulla finché non tornerete.
ORLANDO	Vi ringrazio; e siate benedetti per il vostro buon conforto Esce
DUCA SENIORE	Vedi che non siamo i soli infelici, soli al mondo. Questo vasto e universale teatro rappresenta spettacoli più dolorosi della scena in cui noi recitiamo.
JAQUES	Tutto il mondo è un palcoscenico, e tutti gli uomini e le donne non sono che attori. Hanno le loro uscite e le loro entrate, e un uomo nel suo tempo recita molte parti, e i suoi atti sono sette età. Dapprima il neonato, che vagisce e vomita fra le braccia della balia. Poi il piagnucoloso scolaretto con la sua cartella e il viso lucente di mattino, che striscia come lumaca controvoglia verso la scuola. E poi l’amante, che sospira come fornace, con una dolente ballata fatta al sopracciglio della sua signora. Poi il soldato, pieno di strani giuramenti, e barbuto come il pardo, geloso dell’onore, repentino e pronto alla lite, che insegue la bolla della reputazione fin nella bocca del cannone. E poi il giudice, con bella pancia rotonda foderata di buon cappone, con occhi severi e barba di taglio solenne, pieno di saggi detti e di moderni esempi; e così recita la sua parte. La sesta età trapassa nel magro pantalone in pantofole, con gli occhiali sul naso e la borsa al fianco, le calze della gioventù, ben conservate, d’un mondo troppo larghe per lo stinco rattrappito, e la sua voce grossa e virile, tornando di nuovo al soprano infantile, zufola e fischia nel suo suono. Ultima scena di tutte, che chiude questa strana e movimentata storia, è la seconda fanciullezza e il puro oblio, senza denti, senza occhi, senza gusto, senza nulla.
(didascalia)	Entra Orlando portando Adamo
DUCA SENIORE	Benvenuto. Deponete il vostro venerabile fardello e lasciate che si nutra.
ORLANDO	Vi ringrazio soprattutto per lui.
ADAMO	E ne avevate ben bisogno; a stento posso parlare per ringraziarvi io stesso.
DUCA SENIORE	Benvenuto. Mettetevi a tavola. Non vi importunerò ancora con domande sulle vostre vicende. Dateci un po’ di musica, e tu, buon cugino, canta. [amiens] (canta) Soffia, soffia, tu vento d’inverno, tu non sei così crudele come l’ingratitudine dell’uomo. Il tuo dente non è così acuto, perché non sei veduto, benché il tuo fiato sia rude. Ehi-oh, cantate ehi-oh, all’agrifoglio verde. Ogni amicizia è finzione, ogni amore, pura follia. Dunque ehi-oh, l’agrifoglio; questa vita è assai gioconda. Gela, gela, tu cielo amaro, che non mordi così da presso come i benefici dimenticati. Benché tu deformi le acque, il tuo pungiglione non è così aguzzo come l’amico non ricordato. Ehi-oh, cantate ehi-oh, all’agrifoglio verde. Ogni amicizia è finzione, ogni amore, pura follia. Dunque ehi-oh, l’agrifoglio; questa vita è assai gioconda.
DUCA SENIORE	(a Orlando) Se voi foste il figlio del buon Sir Rowland, come fedelmente avete sussurrato d’essere, e come il mio occhio testimonia dalla sua effigie verissimamente disegnata e viva nel vostro volto, siate qui veramente benvenuto. Io sono il Duca che amò vostro padre. Il resto della vostra sorte, venite alla mia caverna e raccontatemelo. (Ad Adamo) Buon vecchio, tu sei ben venuto, come il tuo padrone.— (Ai Signori) Sostenetelo per il braccio. (A Orlando) Datemi la mano, e fatemi intendere tutte le vostre vicende. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Oliver
DUKE 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,
(didascalia)	Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
DUKE FREDERICK	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 loved my brother in my life.
DUKE FREDERICK	More villain thou. (To Lords) 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano il Duca Federico, Signori e Oliviero
DUCA FEDERICO	Non l’avete più visto? Signore, signore, non può essere. Ma se non fossi per la parte migliore fatto di clemenza, non cercherei un oggetto assente della mia vendetta, essendo presente tu. Ma badaci: trova tuo fratello ovunque egli sia. Cercalo con la candela. Portalo, morto o vivo,
(didascalia)	entro quest’anno, o non tornare mai più
DUCA FEDERICO	a cercarti da vivere nel nostro territorio. Le tue terre, e tutto ciò che chiami tuo e degno di sequestro, lo sequestriamo nelle nostre mani finché tu non possa discolparti, per bocca di tuo fratello, di ciò che pensiamo contro di te.
OLIVIERO	Oh, se vostra altezza conoscesse il mio cuore in questo! Non ho mai amato mio fratello in vita mia.
DUCA FEDERICO	Tanto più scellerato tu. (Ai Signori) Bene, cacciatelo fuori dalla porta, e i miei ufficiali di tale natura facciano stima e sequestro della sua casa e delle sue terre. Fate questo speditamente, e mandatelo via.
(didascalia)	Escono separatamente

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	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 witnessed everywhere. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. Exit
(didascalia)	Enter Corin and Touchstone the clown
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 naught. 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 damned.
CORIN	Nay, I hope.
TOUCHSTONE	Truly thou art damned, 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 sawest good manners. If thou never sawest 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 they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.
TOUCHSTONE	Most shallow, man. Thou worms’ meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed, learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.
CORIN	You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.
TOUCHSTONE	Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man. God make incision in thee, thou art raw.
CORIN	Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness; glad of other men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.
TOUCHSTONE	That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst scape.
CORIN	Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede
ROSALIND	(reads) ‘From the east to western Ind No jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth being mounted on the wind Through all the world bears Rosalind. All the pictures fairest lined Are but black to Rosalind. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind.’
TOUCHSTONE	I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping-hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.
ROSALIND	Out, fool.
TOUCHSTONE	For a taste: If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalind. If the cat will after kind, So, be sure, will Rosalind. Wintered garments must be lined, So must slender Rosalind. They that reap must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with Rosalind. ‘Sweetest nut hath sourest rind’, Such a nut is Rosalind. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself with them?
ROSALIND	Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.
TOUCHSTONE	Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
ROSALIND	I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar; then it will be the earliest fruit i’th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere you be half-ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.
TOUCHSTONE	You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.
(didascalia)	Enter Celia, as Aliena, with a writing
ROSALIND	Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.
CELIA	(reads) ‘Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No. Tongues I’ll hang on every tree, That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the stretching of a span Buckles in his sum of age. Some of violated vows ’Twixt the souls of friend and friend. But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence end, Will I ‘Rosalinda’ write, Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven nature charged That one body should be filled With all graces wide-enlarged. Nature presently distilled Helen’s cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra’s majesty, Atalanta’s better part, Sad Lucretia’s modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devised Of many faces, eyes, and hearts To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have And I to live and die her slave.’
ROSALIND	O most gentle Jupiter! What tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried ‘Have patience, good people.’
CELIA	How now, back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.
TOUCHSTONE	Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. Exit with Corin
CELIA	Didst thou hear these verses?
ROSALIND	O yes, I heard them all, and more, too, for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
CELIA	That’s no matter; the feet might bear the verses.
ROSALIND	Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
CELIA	But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?
ROSALIND	I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree; (showing Celia the verses) I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
CELIA	Trow you who hath done this?
ROSALIND	Is it a man?
CELIA	And a chain that you once wore about his neck. Change you colour?
ROSALIND	I prithee, who?
CELIA	O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet. But mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.
ROSALIND	Nay, but who is it?
CELIA	Is it possible?
ROSALIND	Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
CELIA	O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful-wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that out of all whooping!
ROSALIND	Good my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed bottle—either too much at once, or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
CELIA	So you may put a man in your belly.
ROSALIND	Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a beard?
CELIA	Nay, he hath but a little beard.
ROSALIND	Why, God will send more, if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
CELIA	It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your heart both in an instant.
ROSALIND	Nay, but the devil take mocking. Speak sad brow and true maid.
CELIA	I‘faith, coz, ’tis he.
ROSALIND	Orlando?
CELIA	Orlando.
ROSALIND	Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose! What did he when thou sawest him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.
CELIA	You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first, ’tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.
ROSALIND	But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
CELIA	It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn—
ROSALIND	It may well be called Jove’s tree when it drops forth such fruit.
CELIA	Give me audience, good madam. ROSALIND Proceed.
CELIA	There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight—
ROSALIND	Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
CELIA	Cry ‘holla’ to thy tongue, I prithee: it curvets unseasonably.—He was furnished like a hunter—
ROSALIND	O ominous—he comes to kill my heart.
CELIA	I would sing my song without a burden; thou bringest me out of tune.
ROSALIND	Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.—Sweet, say on.
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando and Jaques
CELIA	You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
ROSALIND	’Tis he. Slink by, and note him. Rosalind and Celia stand aside
JAQUES	(to Orlando) I thank you for your company, but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.
ORLANDO	And so had I. But yet for fashion’ sake, I thank you too for your society.
JAQUES	God b’wi’you; let’s meet as little as we can.
ORLANDO	I do desire we may be better strangers.
JAQUES	I pray you mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.
ORLANDO	I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.
JAQUES	Rosalind is your love’s name?
ORLANDO	Yes, just.
JAQUES	I do not like her name.
ORLANDO	There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
JAQUES	What stature is she of?
ORLANDO	Just as high as my heart.
JAQUES	You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?
ORLANDO	Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
JAQUES	You have a nimble wit; I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me, and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery?
ORLANDO	I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
JAQUES	The worst fault you have is to be in love.
ORLANDO	’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.
JAQUES	By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
ORLANDO	He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.
JAQUES	There I shall see mine own figure. ORLANDO Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
JAQUES	I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signor Love.
ORLANDO	I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. Exit Jaques
ROSALIND	(to Celia) I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him. (To Orlando) Do you hear, forester?
ORLANDO	Very well. What would you?
ROSALIND	I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
ORLANDO	You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest.
ROSALIND	Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock.
ORLANDO	And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?
ROSALIND	By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
ORLANDO	I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
ROSALIND	Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year.
ORLANDO	Who ambles time withal?
ROSALIND	With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These time ambles withal.
ORLANDO	Who doth he gallop withal? 317
ROSALIND	With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
ORLANDO	Who stays it still withal?
ROSALIND	With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.
ORLANDO	Where dwell you, pretty youth?
ROSALIND	With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
ORLANDO	Are you native of this place?
ROSALIND	As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.
ORLANDO	Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.
ROSALIND	I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.
ORLANDO	Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?
ROSALIND	There were none principal; they were all like one another as halfpence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.
ORLANDO	I prithee, recount some of them.
ROSALIND	No. I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.
ORLANDO	I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your remedy.
ROSALIND	There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you. He taught me how to know a man in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
ORLANDO	What were his marks?
ROSALIND	A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not—but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man. You are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.
ORLANDO	Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
ROSALIND	Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it, which I warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?
ORLANDO	I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
ROSALIND	But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
ORLANDO	Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
ROSALIND	Love is merely a madness, and I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
ORLANDO	Did you ever cure any so?
ROSALIND	Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me. At which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour—would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him, that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in’t.
ORLANDO	I would not be cured, youth.
ROSALIND	I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cot, and woo me.
ORLANDO	Now by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
ROSALIND	Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you. And by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
ORLANDO	With all my heart, good youth.
ROSALIND	Nay, you must call me Rosalind.—Come, sister. Will you go?
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entra Orlando con un foglio
ORLANDO	Pendi lì, verso mio, a testimonio del mio amore; e tu, tre volte incoronata regina della notte, contempla col tuo casto occhio, dalla tua pallida sfera lassù, il nome della tua cacciatrice che governa tutta la mia vita. O Rosalinda, questi alberi saranno i miei libri, e nelle loro cortecce inciderò i miei pensieri perché ogni occhio che in questa foresta guardi veda ovunque attestata la tua virtù. Corri, corri, Orlando; incidi su ogni albero la bella, la casta, l’inesprimibile lei. Esce
(didascalia)	Entrano Corino e Touchstone il buffone
CORINO	E come vi piace questa vita di pastore, mastro Touchstone?
TOUCHSTONE	In verità, pastore, in sé stessa è una buona vita; ma in quanto è vita di pastore, non vale nulla. In quanto è solitaria, mi piace assai bene; ma in quanto è appartata, è una vita assai vile. Ora, in quanto si svolge nei campi, mi piace bene; ma in quanto non è alla corte, è tediosa. In quanto è vita frugale, vedete, s’adatta bene al mio umore; ma poiché non v’è in essa abbondanza, mi va molto contro lo stomaco. Hai in te un po’ di filosofia, pastore?
CORINO	Non più che questo: so che quanto più uno s’ammala, tanto peggio sta; e che chi manca di denaro, di mezzi e di contentezza è privo di tre buoni amici; che è proprietà della pioggia il bagnare, e del fuoco il bruciare; che un buon pascolo fa pecore grasse; e che una gran causa della notte è la mancanza del sole; e che chi non ha appreso ingegno né dalla natura né dall’arte può lagnarsi della propria educazione, o viene da una parentela assai ottusa.
TOUCHSTONE	Un tale è un filosofo naturale. Sei mai stato a corte, pastore?
CORINO	No, in verità.
TOUCHSTONE	Allora sei dannato.
CORINO	No, lo spero.
TOUCHSTONE	In verità sei dannato, come un uovo mal cotto, tutto da un lato.
CORINO	Per non essere stato a corte? La vostra ragione?
TOUCHSTONE	Ma se non sei mai stato a corte, non hai mai visto le buone maniere. Se non hai mai visto le buone maniere, allora le tue maniere devono essere malvage, e la malvagità è peccato, e il peccato è dannazione. Sei in uno stato pericoloso, pastore.
CORINO	Neanche un po’, Touchstone. Quelle che sono buone maniere alla corte sono ridicole in campagna quanto il contegno della campagna è deridibile alla corte. Mi avete detto che alla corte non salutate se non baciandovi le mani. Quella cortesia sarebbe sudicia se i cortigiani fossero pastori.
TOUCHSTONE	Un esempio, in breve; su, un esempio.
CORINO	Ma noi maneggiamo di continuo le nostre pecore, e i loro velli, sapete, sono unti.
TOUCHSTONE	Ma le mani del vostro cortigiano non sudano forse? E il grasso d’un montone non è forse salubre quanto il sudore d’un uomo? Debole, debole. Un esempio migliore, dico. Su.
CORINO	Inoltre le nostre mani sono dure.
TOUCHSTONE	Tanto prima le sentiranno le vostre labbra. Debole di nuovo. Un esempio più solido. Su.
CORINO	E sono spesso impeciate dalla chirurgia delle nostre pecore; e vorreste che baciassimo la pece? Le mani del cortigiano sono profumate di zibetto.
TOUCHSTONE	Debolissimo, uomo. Tu, cibo da vermi rispetto a un buon pezzo di carne davvero, impara dai saggi e pondera: lo zibetto è di più bassa nascita della pece, essendo il sudicissimo flusso d’un gatto. Correggi l’esempio, pastore.
CORINO	Avete un ingegno troppo cortigiano per me. Mi arrendo.
TOUCHSTONE	Vuoi arrenderti dannato? Dio t’aiuti, uomo debole. Dio ti pratichi un’incisione, ché sei crudo.
CORINO	Signore, io sono un vero lavoratore. Guadagno ciò che mangio, mi procuro ciò che indosso; non porto odio a nessuno, non invidio la felicità di nessuno; lieto del bene altrui, contento del mio male; e il massimo del mio orgoglio è vedere le mie pecore pascolare e i miei agnelli poppare.
TOUCHSTONE	Questo è un altro semplice peccato in te: mettere insieme le pecore e i montoni, e cercare di guadagnarti da vivere con l’accoppiamento del bestiame; farti mezzano d’un montone col campanello, e tradire un’agnella d’un anno con un vecchio montone becco dalla testa storta, contro ogni ragionevole partito. Se non sarai dannato per questo, il diavolo stesso non vorrà pastori. Non vedo altrimenti come tu possa scampare.
CORINO	Ecco che viene il giovane mastro Ganimede, il fratello della mia nuova padrona.
(didascalia)	Entra Rosalinda come Ganimede
ROSALINDA	(legge) ‘Dall’oriente alle Indie occidentali nessuna gemma è come Rosalinda. Il suo pregio, montato sul vento, per tutto il mondo porta Rosalinda. Tutte le pitture dai più bei contorni non sono che buie presso Rosalinda. Nessun volto sia tenuto a mente se non la beltà di Rosalinda.’
TOUCHSTONE	Vi rimo così per otto anni di fila, eccettuati i pranzi, le cene e le ore del sonno. È proprio l’andatura in fila delle lattaie che vanno al mercato.
ROSALINDA	Va’ via, buffone.
TOUCHSTONE	Per un assaggio: Se a un cervo manca la cerva, vada a cercarsi Rosalinda. Se la gatta va dietro alla sua specie, così, sta’ certo, farà Rosalinda. Le vesti d’inverno vanno foderate, e così la sottile Rosalinda. Chi miete deve legare i covoni, poi al carro con Rosalinda. ‘La noce più dolce ha la scorza più amara’, tal noce è Rosalinda. Chi la rosa più dolce vorrà trovare troverà la spina dell’amore, e Rosalinda. Questo è proprio il falso galoppo dei versi. Perché ve ne infettate?
ROSALINDA	Taci, ottuso buffone, li ho trovati su un albero.
TOUCHSTONE	In verità, l’albero dà cattivi frutti.
ROSALINDA	Lo innesterò con te, e poi lo innesterò con un nespolo; allora darà il frutto più precoce del paese, ché tu sarai marcio prima d’essere mezzo maturo, e questa è appunto la virtù della nespola.
TOUCHSTONE	Avete detto; ma se saggiamente o no, lo giudichi la foresta.
(didascalia)	Entra Celia, come Aliena, con uno scritto
ROSALINDA	Zitto, ecco viene mia sorella, che legge. Fatti da parte.
CELIA	(legge) ‘Perché questo dovrebbe essere un deserto? Perché è spopolato? No. Lingue appenderò a ogni albero, che mostreranno civili sentenze. Alcune, come breve la vita dell’uomo percorra il suo errante pellegrinaggio, e come la misura d’una spanna racchiuda la somma dei suoi anni. Altre, di voti violati fra l’anima d’un amico e quella dell’altro. Ma sui rami più belli, o alla fine d’ogni sentenza, scriverò io ‘Rosalinda’, insegnando a tutti quelli che leggono la quintessenza d’ogni spirito che il cielo volesse mostrare in piccolo. Perciò il cielo ingiunse alla natura che un solo corpo fosse ricolmo di tutte le grazie largamente diffuse. La Natura all’istante distillò la guancia d’Elena, ma non il suo cuore, la maestà di Cleopatra, la parte migliore di Atalanta, la modestia della mesta Lucrezia. Così Rosalinda, di molte parti, da celeste sinodo fu ideata perché da molti volti, occhi e cuori avesse i tratti più cari e pregiati. Il cielo volle ch’ella avesse questi doni e ch’io vivessi e morissi suo schiavo.’
ROSALINDA	O gentilissimo Giove! Con quale tediosa omelia d’amore avete affaticato i vostri parrocchiani, senza mai gridare ‘Abbiate pazienza, buona gente.’
CELIA	Come, indietro, amici. Pastore, allontanati un poco. Va’ con lui, tu.
TOUCHSTONE	Vieni, pastore, facciamo una ritirata onorevole, se non con armi e bagagli, almeno con bisaccia e bisaccerie. Esce con Corino
CELIA	Hai udito questi versi?
ROSALINDA	Oh sì, li ho uditi tutti, e anche di più, ché alcuni di essi avevano più piedi di quanti i versi ne potessero portare.
CELIA	Non importa; i piedi potevano portare i versi.
ROSALINDA	Sì, ma i piedi erano zoppi, e non potevano reggersi da soli senza il verso, e perciò stavano zoppicando dentro il verso.
CELIA	Ma hai udito senza meravigliarti che il tuo nome sia appeso e inciso su questi alberi?
ROSALINDA	Ero già al settimo dei nove giorni di meraviglia prima che tu venissi; ché guarda qua che cosa ho trovato su una palma; (mostrando a Celia i versi) non fui mai tanto ridotta in rima dal tempo di Pitagora, quando ero un ratto irlandese, cosa che a stento posso ricordare.
CELIA	Indovini chi l’ha fatto?
ROSALINDA	È un uomo?
CELIA	E con al collo una catena che tu una volta portavi. Cambi colore?
ROSALINDA	Ti prego, chi?
CELIA	O Signore, Signore, è dura cosa per gli amici incontrarsi. Ma le montagne possono essere smosse dai terremoti, e così scontrarsi.
ROSALINDA	Ma insomma, chi è?
CELIA	È possibile?
ROSALINDA	Su, ti prego ora con la più supplice veemenza, dimmi chi è.
CELIA	Oh, mirabile, mirabile, e mirabilissimo-mirabile, e ancora una volta mirabile, e dopo di ciò da non potersi gridare abbastanza!
ROSALINDA	Per il mio colorito! Credi tu che, benché io sia bardata da uomo, io abbia farsetto e brache anche nell’indole? Un pollice di più d’indugio è un Mare del Sud da scoprire. Ti prego, dimmi presto chi è, e parla in fretta. Vorrei che tu potessi balbettare, così da versare quest’uomo nascosto fuori dalla tua bocca come il vino esce da una bottiglia dal collo stretto—o troppo in una volta, o niente affatto. Ti prego, togli il turacciolo dalla tua bocca, ch’io possa bere le tue novelle.
CELIA	Così potresti metterti un uomo in corpo.
ROSALINDA	È di fattura divina? Che sorta d’uomo? La sua testa merita un cappello? O il suo mento una barba?
CELIA	Anzi, ha soltanto un po’ di barba.
ROSALINDA	Ebbene, Dio gliene manderà dell’altra, se l’uomo sarà riconoscente. Lascerò che la sua barba cresca, purché tu non ritardi a me la conoscenza del suo mento.
CELIA	È il giovane Orlando, che in un istante fece lo sgambetto ai talloni del lottatore e al tuo cuore insieme.
ROSALINDA	No, il diavolo si porti le beffe. Parla con fronte seria e da fanciulla sincera.
CELIA	In fede mia, cugina, è lui.
ROSALINDA	Orlando?
CELIA	Orlando.
ROSALINDA	Ahimè, che giorno, che ne farò del mio farsetto e delle mie brache! Che faceva quando l’hai visto? Che ha detto? Che aspetto aveva? Con che veste andava? Che fa qui? Ha chiesto di me? Dove alloggia? Come s’è congedato da te? E quando lo rivedrai? Rispondimi in una parola.
CELIA	Devi prima prestarmi la bocca di Gargantua: è una parola troppo grande per qualsiasi bocca della misura di quest’età. Dire sì e no a tutti questi particolari è più che rispondere a un catechismo.
ROSALINDA	Ma sa egli che io sono in questa foresta, e in abito d’uomo? Ha l’aria fresca come il giorno in cui lottò?
CELIA	È facile contare gli atomi quanto risolvere le domande d’un innamorato; ma assaggia il modo in cui l’ho trovato, e gustalo con buona attenzione. L’ho trovato sotto un albero, come una ghianda caduta—
ROSALINDA	Può ben chiamarsi albero di Giove, quando lascia cadere tal frutto.
CELIA	Datemi ascolto, buona madama. ROSALINDA Prosegui.
CELIA	Là giaceva, disteso come un cavaliere ferito—
ROSALINDA	Benché sia pietà vedere tale spettacolo, esso s’addice bene al terreno.
CELIA	Grida ‘olà’ alla tua lingua, ti prego: fa capriole fuor di stagione.—Era equipaggiato da cacciatore—
ROSALINDA	Oh, presagio funesto—viene a uccidere il mio cuore.
CELIA	Vorrei cantare la mia canzone senza ritornello; tu mi fai stonare.
ROSALINDA	Non sai che sono donna? Quando penso, devo parlare.—Dolce mia, continua.
(didascalia)	Entrano Orlando e Jaques
CELIA	Mi fai perdere il filo. Piano, non viene forse qui?
ROSALINDA	È lui. Sgusciamo via e osserviamolo. Rosalinda e Celia si tirano in disparte
JAQUES	(a Orlando) Vi ringrazio della vostra compagnia, ma, in buona fede, sarei stato altrettanto volentieri da solo.
ORLANDO	E anch’io. Ma pure, per convenienza, ringrazio anch’io voi della vostra società.
JAQUES	Dio sia con voi; incontriamoci il meno possibile.
ORLANDO	Desidero che si diventi estranei migliori.
JAQUES	Vi prego, non guastate altri alberi scrivendo canzoni d’amore nelle loro cortecce.
ORLANDO	Vi prego, non guastate altri miei versi leggendoli male.
JAQUES	Rosalinda è il nome del vostro amore?
ORLANDO	Sì, appunto.
JAQUES	Non mi piace il suo nome.
ORLANDO	Non si pensava a farvi piacere quando fu battezzata.
JAQUES	Di che statura è?
ORLANDO	Alta giusto quanto il mio cuore.
JAQUES	Siete pieno di grazioselle risposte. Non avete forse frequentato mogli d’orefici, e imparate a memoria dagli anelli?
ORLANDO	Niente affatto; ma vi rispondo proprio in stile da arazzo dipinto, donde voi avete studiato le vostre domande.
JAQUES	Avete un ingegno agile; credo sia fatto dei talloni d’Atalanta. Volete sedervi con me, e noi due inveiremo contro la nostra padrona, il mondo, e contro tutta la nostra miseria?
ORLANDO	Non rimprovererò creatura vivente al mondo se non me stesso, di cui conosco più difetti.
JAQUES	Il vostro peggior difetto è d’essere innamorato.
ORLANDO	È un difetto che non cambierei con la vostra virtù migliore. Sono stanco di voi.
JAQUES	In fede mia, cercavo uno sciocco quando ho trovato voi.
ORLANDO	È annegato nel ruscello. Guardateci dentro, e lo vedrete.
JAQUES	Là vedrò la mia propria figura. ORLANDO Che io ritengo essere o uno sciocco o uno zero.
JAQUES	Non m’attarderò più con voi. Addio, buon Signor Amore.
ORLANDO	Sono lieto della vostra partenza. Adieu, buon Monsieur Malinconia. Esce Jaques
ROSALINDA	(a Celia) Gli parlerò come un lacchè sfacciato, e sotto quell’abito gli farò il furfante. (A Orlando) Udite, forestale?
ORLANDO	Assai bene. Che volete?
ROSALINDA	Vi prego, che ora fa l’orologio?
ORLANDO	Dovreste chiedermi che ora del giorno è. Non c’è orologio nella foresta.
ROSALINDA	Allora non c’è vero innamorato nella foresta, ché altrimenti un sospiro a ogni minuto e un gemito a ogni ora segnalerebbero il piede pigro del tempo tanto bene quanto un orologio.
ORLANDO	E perché non il piede veloce del tempo? Non sarebbe stato altrettanto proprio?
ROSALINDA	Niente affatto, signore. Il tempo viaggia a diverse andature con diverse persone. Vi dirò con chi il tempo va d’ambio, con chi il tempo trotta, con chi il tempo galoppa, e con chi sta fermo.
ORLANDO	Ti prego, con chi trotta?
ROSALINDA	Per la Vergine, trotta duramente con una giovane fanciulla fra il contratto del suo matrimonio e il giorno in cui è celebrato. Se l’intervallo è appena d’una settimana, il passo del tempo è così duro che par lungo sette anni.
ORLANDO	Con chi va d’ambio il tempo?
ROSALINDA	Con un prete che non sa il latino, e con un ricco che non ha la gotta; ché l’uno dorme facilmente perché non può studiare, e l’altro vive allegramente perché non sente dolore, mancando al primo il peso d’una magra e consumante dottrina, e non conoscendo il secondo alcun peso di grave e tediosa povertà. Con questi il tempo va d’ambio.
ORLANDO	Con chi galoppa? 317
ROSALINDA	Con un ladro verso la forca; ché per quanto vada col passo più lieve che piede possa posare, gli pare d’arrivarci troppo presto.
ORLANDO	Con chi sta fermo?
ROSALINDA	Con gli avvocati in vacanza; ché essi dormono fra una sessione e l’altra, e allora non s’accorgono di come il tempo si muova.
ORLANDO	Dove abitate, grazioso giovane?
ROSALINDA	Con questa pastorella, mia sorella, qui ai margini della foresta, come una frangia su una sottana.
ORLANDO	Siete nativo di questo luogo?
ROSALINDA	Come il coniglio, che vedete abitare dov’è nato.
ORLANDO	Il vostro accento è alquanto più fine di quanto potreste acquistarne in una dimora così remota.
ROSALINDA	Molti me l’hanno detto; ma in verità fu un mio vecchio zio religioso a insegnarmi a parlare, il quale in gioventù era uomo dell’interno; uno che conosceva troppo bene la vita di corte, ché là s’innamorò d’amore. L’ho udito far molte prediche contro di esso, e ringrazio Dio di non essere donna, per non essere toccato da tutti quei vertiginosi difetti di cui egli in generale accusava tutto il loro sesso.
ORLANDO	Ricordate qualcuno dei principali mali che egli imputava alle donne?
ROSALINDA	Non ve n’erano di principali; erano tutti simili l’uno all’altro come mezzi soldi, e ogni difetto pareva mostruoso finché non veniva il difetto compagno a fargli riscontro.
ORLANDO	Ti prego, raccontamene qualcuno.
ROSALINDA	No. Non sprecherò la mia medicina se non su chi è malato. C’è un uomo che infesta la foresta e maltratta le nostre giovani piante incidendo Rosalinda sulle loro cortecce; appende odi ai biancospini ed elegie ai rovi; e tutto, per giunta, per deificare il nome di Rosalinda. Se potessi incontrare quel mercante di fantasie, gli darei qualche buon consiglio, ché sembra avere addosso la febbre quotidiana dell’amore.
ORLANDO	Sono io colui che è così scosso dall’amore. Vi prego, ditemi il vostro rimedio.
ROSALINDA	Non c’è su di voi nessuno dei segni di mio zio. Egli m’insegnò a riconoscere un uomo innamorato, e in quella gabbia di giunchi son certo che voi non siete prigioniero.
ORLANDO	Quali erano i suoi segni?
ROSALINDA	Una guancia scarna, che voi non avete; un occhio livido e infossato, che voi non avete; uno spirito scontroso, che voi non avete; una barba trascurata, che voi non avete—ma di questo vi perdono, ché in fatto di barba il vostro avere è la rendita d’un fratello minore. Poi le vostre calze dovrebbero essere senza giarrettiere, il berretto senza nastro, la manica sbottonata, la scarpa slacciata, e ogni cosa in voi dimostrare una trasandata desolazione. Ma voi non siete tale uomo. Siete piuttosto tutto in ordine nei vostri ornamenti, come uno che ami sé stesso più che sembrare l’innamorato di qualcun altro.
ORLANDO	Bel giovane, vorrei poterti far credere che amo.
ROSALINDA	Farlo credere a me? Potreste altrettanto presto farlo credere a colei che amate, la quale, ve lo garantisco, è più incline a credervi che a confessare di credervi. Questo è uno dei punti in cui le donne smentiscono di continuo la loro coscienza. Ma in tutta verità, siete voi colui che appende i versi agli alberi, in cui Rosalinda è così ammirata?
ORLANDO	Ti giuro, giovane, per la bianca mano di Rosalinda, che io son quello, quello sventurato.
ROSALINDA	Ma siete tanto innamorato quanto dicono le vostre rime?
ORLANDO	Né rima né ragione possono esprimere quanto.
ROSALINDA	L’amore non è che una follia, e vi dico che merita bene una casa buia e la frusta quanto i pazzi; e la ragione per cui non è così punito e curato è che la pazzia è tanto comune che anche i frustatori sono innamorati. Eppure io professo di curarla col consiglio.
ORLANDO	Ne avete mai curato qualcuno così?
ROSALINDA	Sì, uno; e in questo modo. Doveva immaginarmi il suo amore, la sua signora; e io lo mettevo ogni giorno a corteggiarmi. E in quel momento io, essendo un giovane lunatico, mi affliggevo, ero effeminata, mutevole, struggente e compiacente, superba, fantastica, scimmiesca, superficiale, incostante, piena di lacrime, piena di sorrisi; per ogni passione qualcosa, e per nessuna passione veramente nulla, ché i ragazzi e le donne sono per lo più bestiame di questo colore—ora lo gradivo, ora lo detestavo; poi lo accoglievo, poi lo ripudiavo; ora piangevo per lui, poi gli sputavo addosso, sicché spinsi il mio pretendente dal suo pazzo umore d’amore a un vivo umore di follia, che fu di rinunciare all’intera corrente del mondo e vivere in un cantuccio del tutto monastico. E così lo guarii, e in questo modo m’impegno a lavarvi il fegato netto come il cuore d’una pecora sana, sicché non vi resti una macchia d’amore.
ORLANDO	Non vorrei essere guarito, giovane.
ROSALINDA	Vi guarirei se solo mi chiamaste Rosalinda e veniste ogni giorno alla mia capanna a corteggiarmi.
ORLANDO	Ora, per la fede del mio amore, lo farò. Ditemi dov’è.
ROSALINDA	Venite con me, e ve la mostrerò. E per la via mi direte dove abitate nella foresta. Volete venire?
ORLANDO	Con tutto il cuore, buon giovane.
ROSALINDA	No, dovete chiamarmi Rosalinda.—Vieni, sorella. Volete venire?
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown and Audrey, followed by Jaques
TOUCHSTONE	Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey, am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
AUDREY	Your features, Lord warrant us—what features?
TOUCHSTONE	I am here with thee and thy goats as the most capricious poet honest Ovid was among the Goths.
JAQUES	(aside) O knowledge ill-inhabited; worse than Jove in a thatched house.
TOUCHSTONE	When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
AUDREY	I do not know what ‘poetical’ is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?
TOUCHSTONE	No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry it may be said, as lovers, they do feign.
AUDREY	Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?
TOUCHTONE	I do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou art honest. Now if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.
AUDREY	Would you not have me honest?
TOUCHSTONE	No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
JAQUES	(aside) A material fool.
AUDREY	Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.
TOUCHSTONE	Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.
AUDREY	I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
TOUCHSTONE	Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness. Sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.
JAQUES	(aside) I would fain see this meeting.
AUDREY	Well, the gods give us joy.
TOUCHSTONE	Amen.—A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage. As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said many a man knows no end of his goods. Right: many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife, ‘tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor. And by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want.
(didascalia)	Enter Sir Oliver Martext
TOUCHSTONE	Here comes Sir Oliver.—Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT	Is there none here to give the woman?
TOUCHSTONE	I will not take her on gift of any man.
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT	Truly she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.
JAQUES	(coming forward) Proceed, proceed. I’ll give her.
TOUCHSTONE	Good even, good Monsieur What-ye-call’t. How do you, sir? You are very well met. God’ield you for your last company. I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Jaques removes his hat Nay, pray be covered.
JAQUES	Will you be married, motley?
TOUCHSTONE	As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.
JAQUES	And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is. This fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, warp.
TOUCHSTONE	I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another, for he is not like to marry me well, and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.
JAQUES	Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
TOUCHSTONE	Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not O, sweet Oliver, O, brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee but
(didascalia)	Wind away,
TOUCHSTONE	Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee.
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT	(aside) ‘Tis no matter. Ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Touchstone il buffone e Audrey, seguiti da Jaques
TOUCHSTONE	Vieni svelta, buona Audrey. Andrò a raccogliere le tue capre, Audrey. E allora, Audrey, sono io ancora l’uomo che fa per te? Ti contentano le mie semplici fattezze?
AUDREY	Le vostre fattezze, il Signore ci protegga—quali fattezze?
TOUCHSTONE	Io sono qui con te e con le tue capre come il più capriccioso dei poeti, l’onesto Ovidio, era fra i Goti.
JAQUES	(a parte) O sapere mal alloggiato; peggio di Giove in una casa di paglia.
TOUCHSTONE	Quando i versi d’un uomo non possono essere intesi, né il buon ingegno d’un uomo è assecondato da quel precoce fanciullo ch’è l’intelletto, ciò abbatte un uomo più d’un conto salato in una stanzetta. In verità, vorrei che gli dèi t’avessero fatta poetica.
AUDREY	Non so che cosa sia ‘poetica’. È onesto nei fatti e nelle parole? È cosa vera?
TOUCHSTONE	No, in verità; ché la poesia più vera è quella che più finge, e gli amanti sono dediti alla poesia; e ciò che giurano in poesia si può dire che, in quanto amanti, lo fingono.
AUDREY	Desiderate dunque che gli dèi m’avessero fatta poetica?
TOUCHTONE	Sì, in verità; ché tu mi giuri d’essere onesta. Ora, se tu fossi poetessa, potrei avere qualche speranza che tu fingessi.
AUDREY	Non mi vorreste onesta?
TOUCHSTONE	No, in verità, a meno che tu non fossi brutta; ché l’onestà accoppiata alla bellezza è come avere il miele per salsa dello zucchero.
JAQUES	(a parte) Uno sciocco di sostanza.
AUDREY	Bene, io non sono bella, e perciò prego gli dèi di farmi onesta.
TOUCHSTONE	In verità, e sprecare l’onestà su una sudicia sciattona sarebbe come mettere buona carne in un piatto immondo.
AUDREY	Non sono una sciattona, benché ringrazi gli dèi d’essere brutta.
TOUCHSTONE	Bene, siano lodati gli dèi per la tua bruttezza. La sciatteria potrà venire più tardi. Ma sia come sia, io ti sposerò; e a tal fine sono stato da Sir Oliviero Martext, il vicario del villaggio vicino, che m’ha promesso d’incontrarmi in questo luogo della foresta, e d’accoppiarci.
JAQUES	(a parte) Vedrei volentieri quest’incontro.
AUDREY	Bene, gli dèi ci diano gioia.
TOUCHSTONE	Amen.—Un uomo potrebbe, se avesse cuore pauroso, vacillare in questo tentativo; ché qui non abbiamo tempio se non il bosco, né assemblea se non bestie cornute. Ma che importa? Coraggio. Per quanto odiose, le corna sono necessarie. Si dice che più d’un uomo non conosca la fine dei suoi beni. Giusto: più d’un uomo ha buone corna e non ne conosce la fine. Bene, quella è la dote della moglie, non è roba guadagnata da lui. Corna? Proprio così. Solo gli uomini poveri, soli? No, no; il più nobile cervo le ha grandi quanto il cervo da nulla. È dunque beato l’uomo scapolo? No. Come una città cinta di mura vale più d’un villaggio, così la fronte d’un uomo ammogliato è più onorevole della nuda fronte d’un celibe. E quanto più la difesa vale più della mancanza d’ogni arte, tanto più un corno è più prezioso del non averne.
(didascalia)	Entra Sir Oliviero Martext
TOUCHSTONE	Ecco che viene Sir Oliviero.—Sir Oliviero Martext, siate il ben trovato. Volete sbrigarci qui sotto quest’albero, o dobbiamo venire con voi alla vostra cappella?
SIR OLIVIERO MARTEXT	Non c’è nessuno qui a consegnare la donna?
TOUCHSTONE	Non la prenderò in dono da nessun uomo.
SIR OLIVIERO MARTEXT	In verità dev’essere consegnata, o il matrimonio non è legittimo.
JAQUES	(facendosi avanti) Procedete, procedete. La consegnerò io.
TOUCHSTONE	Buona sera, buon Monsieur Come-vi-chiamate. Come state, signore? Siate il ben trovato. Dio vi renda merito della vostra compagnia dell’altra volta. Sono molto lieto di vedervi. Una bagattella per le mani, qui, signore. Jaques si toglie il cappello No, vi prego, restate coperto.
JAQUES	Vuoi sposarti, buffone variopinto?
TOUCHSTONE	Come il bue ha il suo giogo, signore, il cavallo il suo morso, e il falco i suoi sonagli, così l’uomo ha i suoi desideri; e come i colombi si beccano, così il matrimonio vorrebbe sbocconcellare.
JAQUES	E vuoi tu, essendo uomo della tua educazione, sposarti sotto un cespuglio, come un mendicante? Va’ in chiesa, e prendi un buon prete che sappia dirti che cosa sia il matrimonio. Costui non farà che unirvi come si uniscono i pannelli di legno; poi uno di voi risulterà un’asse ristretta e, come legno verde, si torcerà, si torcerà.
TOUCHSTONE	Non sono d’altro parere se non che è meglio per me essere sposato da lui che da un altro, ché non è probabile che mi sposi bene, e, non essendo ben sposato, sarà per me in seguito una buona scusa per lasciare mia moglie.
JAQUES	Vieni con me, e lascia che ti consigli.
TOUCHSTONE	Vieni, dolce Audrey. Dobbiamo sposarci, o dobbiamo vivere nel concubinato. Addio, buon mastro Oliviero. Non O, dolce Oliviero, O, prode Oliviero, non lasciarmi dietro di te ma
(didascalia)	Va’ via,
TOUCHSTONE	Vattene, dico, non verrò a nozze con te.
SIR OLIVIERO MARTEXT	(a parte) Non importa. Nessuno di questi furfanti stravaganti mi caccerà con le beffe dal mio ufficio. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede and Celia as Aliena
ROSALIND	Never talk to me. I will weep.
CELIA	Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.
ROSALIND	But have I not cause to weep?
CELIA	As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
ROSALIND	His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
CELIA	Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.
ROSALIND	I’faith, his hair is of a good colour.
CELIA	An excellent colour. Your chestnut was ever the only colour.
ROSALIND	And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
CELIA	He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously. The very ice of chastity is in them.
ROSALIND	But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
CELIA	Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
ROSALIND	Do you think so?
CELIA	Yes. I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.
ROSALIND	Not true in love?
CELIA	Yes, when he is in. But I think he is not in.
ROSALIND	You have heard him swear downright he was.
CELIA	‘Was’ is not ‘is’. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster. They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.
ROSALIND	I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as he, so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando?
CELIA	O that’s a brave man. He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover, as a puny tilter that spurs his horse but on one side breaks his staff, like a noble goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts, and folly guides. Who comes here?
(didascalia)	Enter Corin
CORIN	Mistress and master, you have oft enquired After the shepherd that complained of love Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress.
CELIA	Well, and what of him?
CORIN	If you will see a pageant truly played Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it.
ROSALIND	(to Celia) O come, let us remove. The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. (To Corin) Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Rosalinda come Ganimede e Celia come Aliena
ROSALINDA	Non parlarmi. Voglio piangere.
CELIA	Piangi pure, ti prego, ma abbi almeno la grazia di considerare che le lacrime non s’addicono a un uomo.
ROSALINDA	Ma non ho forse motivo di piangere?
CELIA	Motivo buono quanto si possa desiderare; dunque piangi.
ROSALINDA	I suoi capelli stessi sono del colore del tradimento.
CELIA	Un po’ più bruni di quelli di Giuda. Per la Vergine, i suoi baci sono figli legittimi di Giuda.
ROSALINDA	In fede mia, i suoi capelli sono d’un bel colore.
CELIA	Colore eccellente. Il castano fu sempre l’unico colore.
ROSALINDA	E il suo baciare è pieno di santità come il tocco del pane benedetto.
CELIA	Ha comprato un paio di labbra smesse da Diana. Una monaca della confraternita dell’inverno non bacia più religiosamente. Vi è in esse il ghiaccio stesso della castità.
ROSALINDA	Ma perché giurò che sarebbe venuto stamattina, e non viene?
CELIA	No, certamente, non c’è verità in lui.
ROSALINDA	Lo credi?
CELIA	Sì. Non credo che sia un tagliaborse né un ladro di cavalli; ma quanto alla sua sincerità in amore, lo credo cavo come una coppa coperta o come una noce mangiata dal verme.
ROSALINDA	Non sincero in amore?
CELIA	Sì, quando ci è dentro. Ma credo che non ci sia dentro.
ROSALINDA	L’hai udito giurare senza mezzi termini che c’era.
CELIA	‘Era’ non è ‘è’. Inoltre, il giuramento d’un innamorato non è più forte della parola d’un oste. Entrambi confermano conti falsi. Egli è qui nella foresta al servizio del Duca vostro padre.
ROSALINDA	Ho incontrato il Duca ieri, e ho avuto con lui molte domande. Mi chiese di quale parentela fossi. Gli risposi: d’una buona quanto la sua; ed egli rise e mi lasciò andare. Ma che parliamo di padri, quando c’è un uomo come Orlando?
CELIA	Oh, quello è un uomo bravo. Scrive bravi versi, dice brave parole, giura bravi giuramenti e li rompe bravamente, tutto di traverso, attraverso il cuore della sua innamorata, come un gracile giostratore che, spronando il cavallo da un lato solo, spezza la lancia come una nobile oca. Ma tutto è bravo dove la giovinezza cavalca e la follia guida. Chi viene qui?
(didascalia)	Entra Corino
CORINO	Padrona e padrone, avete spesso chiesto di quel pastore che si lamentava d’amore e che vedeste sedere accanto a me sull’erba, lodando la superba e sdegnosa pastorella ch’era la sua signora.
CELIA	Bene, e che c’è di lui?
CORINO	Se volete vedere una scena recitata al vivo fra il pallido colorito del vero amore e il rosso ardore dello scherno e del superbo sdegno, venite un poco di qui, e io vi condurrò, se vorrete osservarla.
ROSALINDA	(a Celia) Oh vieni, andiamocene. La vista degli amanti nutre chi è in amore. (A Corino) Conducici a questo spettacolo, e vedrai ch’io mi mostrerò attore indaffarato nella loro commedia.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Silvius and Phoebe
SILVIUS	Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe. Say that you love me not, but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th’accustomed sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and Corin, and stand aside
PHOEBE	(to Silvius) I would not be thy executioner. I fly thee for I would not injure thee. Thou tell‘st me there is murder in mine eye. ’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers. Now I do frown on thee with all my heart, And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee. Now counterfeit to swoon, why now fall down; Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee. Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains Some scar of it. Lean upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not; Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes That can do hurt.
SILVIUS	O dear Phoebe, If ever—as that ever may be near— You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love’s keen arrows make.
PHOEBE	But till that time Come not thou near me. And when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not, As till that time I shall not pity thee.
ROSALIND	(coming forward) And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty— As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed— Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature’s sale-work.—‘Od’s my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes, too. No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it. ’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. (To Silvius) You, foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. ‘Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favoured children. ’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her, And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. (To Phoebe) But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love; For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can. You are not for all markets. Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.— So, take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
PHOEBE	Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together. I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND	(to Phoebe) He’s fallen in love with your foulness, (to Silvius) and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. (To Phoebe) Why look you so upon me?
PHOEBE	For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND	I pray you do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine. Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, ’Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by. (To Celia) Will you go, sister? (To Silvius) Shepherd, ply her hard.— Come, sister. (To Phoebe) Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud. Though all the world could see, None could be so abused in sight as he.— Come, to our flock. Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin
PHOEBE	(aside) Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might: ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’
SILVIUS	Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE	Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS	Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE	Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS	Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined.
PHOEBE	Thou hast my love, is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS	I would have you.
PHOEBE	Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee; And yet it is not that I bear thee love. But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure; and I’ll employ thee, too. But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
SILVIUS	So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
PHOEBE	Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
SILVIUS	Not very well, but I have met him oft, And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old Carlot once was master of.
PHOEBE	Think not I love him, though I ask for him. ‘Tis but a peevish boy. Yet he talks well. But what care I for words? Yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth—not very pretty— But sure he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him. He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall. His leg is but so-so; and yet ’tis well. There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty-red Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not. And yet Have I more cause to hate him than to love him, For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black, And now I am remembered, scorned at me. I marvel why I answered not again. But that’s all one. Omittance is no quittance. I’ll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS	Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE	I’ll write it straight. The matter’s in my head and in my heart. I will be bitter with him, and passing short. Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Silvio e Phoebe
SILVIO	Dolce Phoebe, non schernirmi, non farlo, Phoebe. Di’ pure che non mi ami, ma non dirlo con amarezza. Il comune boia, il cui cuore l’usata vista della morte fa duro, non cala la scure sul collo piegato senza prima chiedere perdono. Vorrai essere più dura di colui che vive e muore di gocce di sangue?
(didascalia)	Entrano Rosalinda come Ganimede, Celia come Aliena, e Corino, e si mettono in disparte
PHOEBE	(a Silvio) Non vorrei essere il tuo boia. Ti fuggo perché non vorrei ferirti. Tu mi dici che c’è un assassinio nel mio occhio. È bello, certo, e molto probabile che gli occhi, che sono le cose più fragili e più molli, che chiudono le loro porte codarde davanti a un granello, debbano esser detti tiranni, macellai, assassini. Ora ti guardo torvo con tutto il cuore, e se i miei occhi possono ferire, che ti uccidano adesso. Ora fingi di svenire, su, cadi a terra; o se non lo puoi, oh, vergogna, vergogna, non mentire dicendo che i miei occhi sono assassini. Ora mostrami la ferita che il mio occhio t’ha fatto. Graffiati appena con uno spillo, e ne resta qualche cicatrice. Appòggiati a un giunco, e il segno e l’impronta ricevuta la tua palma li serba per qualche istante. Ma ora i miei occhi, che ho scagliato contro di te, non ti feriscono; né, ne sono certa, v’è forza negli occhi che possa far male.
SILVIO	O cara Phoebe, se mai—e quel mai può esser vicino— tu incontrerai in qualche fresca guancia il potere del desiderio, allora conoscerai le ferite invisibili che fanno le acute frecce d’amore.
PHOEBE	Ma fino a quel tempo non t’accostare a me. E quando quel tempo verrà, affliggimi coi tuoi scherni, non aver pietà di me, come fino a quel tempo io non avrò pietà di te.
ROSALINDA	(facendosi avanti) E perché, di grazia? Chi mai sarebbe vostra madre, che così insultate ed esultate, tutto in una volta, sopra il misero? E che, se non avete bellezza— ché, in fede mia, non vedo in voi più di quanto basti per andare a letto al buio senza candela— dovete perciò essere superba e spietata? Ma che significa questo? Perché mi guardate? Non vedo in voi più di quanto sia nell’ordinaria mercanzia della natura.—Per la mia povera vita, credo che voglia irretire anche i miei occhi. No, in fede mia, superba signora, non lo sperate. Non sono le vostre ciglia d’inchiostro, i vostri capelli di seta nera, le vostre pupille di giaietto, né la vostra guancia di crema, che possano domare il mio spirito ad adorarvi. (A Silvio) Voi, sciocco pastore, perché la seguite come nebbioso austro, soffiando vento e pioggia? Voi siete mille volte uomo più bello di quanto ella sia donna. Sono gli sciocchi come voi che riempiono il mondo di figli malfatti. Non è il suo specchio, ma voi, che la lusinga, e da voi ella vede sé stessa più bella di quanto ogni suo lineamento possa mostrarle. (A Phoebe) Ma voi, signora, conoscete voi stessa; in ginocchio, e ringraziate il cielo, digiunando, per l’amore d’un uomo dabbene; ché devo dirvelo da amico, all’orecchio: vendete quando potete. Non siete merce per tutti i mercati. Chiedete pietà a quest’uomo, amatelo, accettate la sua offerta; brutto è bruttissimo chi, brutto, si fa beffardo.— Dunque, prenditela, pastore. Statevi bene.
PHOEBE	Dolce giovane, ti prego, sgridami un anno intero. Preferisco udire te sgridare che quest’uomo corteggiare.
ROSALINDA	(a Phoebe) Si è innamorato della vostra bruttezza, (a Silvio) ed ella s’innamorerà della mia collera. Se è così, appena ella ti risponderà con occhiate accigliate, io la condirò di parole amare. (A Phoebe) Perché mi guardate così?
PHOEBE	Per nessuna malevolenza ch’io vi porti.
ROSALINDA	Vi prego, non v’innamorate di me, ché sono più falso dei voti fatti nel vino. Inoltre, voi non mi piacete. Se volete sapere la mia casa, è presso quel ciuffo d’ulivi, qui vicino. (A Celia) Vuoi venire, sorella? (A Silvio) Pastore, incalzala forte.— Vieni, sorella. (A Phoebe) Pastorella, guardalo meglio, e non essere superba. Se anche tutto il mondo vedesse, nessuno potrebbe essere ingannato negli occhi quanto lui.— Venite, al nostro gregge. Escono Rosalinda, Celia e Corino
PHOEBE	(a parte) Pastore morto, ora trovo vera la tua massima possente: ‘Chi mai amò, che non amasse a prima vista?’
SILVIO	Dolce Phoebe—
PHOEBE	Eh, che dici, Silvio?
SILVIO	Dolce Phoebe, abbi pietà di me.
PHOEBE	Ma io mi dolgo per te, gentile Silvio.
SILVIO	Dovunque sia dolore, vi sarebbe sollievo. Se voi vi dolete della mia pena d’amore, dando amore, il vostro dolore e la mia pena sarebbero entrambi estinti.
PHOEBE	Tu hai il mio amore: non è questo da buon vicino?
SILVIO	Vorrei avere voi.
PHOEBE	Ma questo sarebbe cupidigia. Silvio, vi fu un tempo in cui ti odiavo; e tuttavia non è che io ti porti amore. Ma poiché sai parlare d’amore così bene, la tua compagnia, che prima m’era molesta, la sopporterò; e ti adopererò anche. Ma non aspettarti altra ricompensa che la tua stessa gioia d’essere adoperato.
SILVIO	Così santo e così perfetto è il mio amore, e io sono in tale povertà di grazia, che stimerò raccolto abbondantissimo spigolare le spighe cadute dietro l’uomo che miete la messe principale. Lasciate cadere di tanto in tanto un sorriso sparso, e di quello vivrò.
PHOEBE	Conosci tu il giovane che mi parlò poc’anzi?
SILVIO	Non molto bene, ma l’ho incontrato spesso, e ha comprato la casetta e i poderi di cui il vecchio Carlot fu un tempo padrone.
PHOEBE	Non credere ch’io l’ami, benché chieda di lui. Non è che un ragazzo bisbetico. Eppure parla bene. Ma che m’importa delle parole? Eppure le parole fanno bene quando chi le dice piace a chi le ascolta. È un bel giovane—non tanto bello— ma certo è superbo; eppure il suo orgoglio gli s’addice. Sarà un bell’uomo. La cosa migliore in lui è il suo colorito; e più presto di quanto la sua lingua offendesse, il suo occhio risanava l’offesa. Non è molto alto; eppure per i suoi anni è alto. La sua gamba è così così; eppure va bene. C’era un bel rosso sul suo labbro, un poco più maturo e d’un rosso più vivo di quello mescolato alla sua guancia. Era proprio la differenza fra il rosso costante e il damasco screziato. Vi son donne, Silvio, che se l’avessero osservato a parte a parte come feci io, sarebbero andate vicine a innamorarsi di lui; ma per parte mia, io non l’amo, né l’odio. E tuttavia ho più motivo d’odiarlo che d’amarlo, ché, che aveva egli da rimproverarmi? Disse che i miei occhi erano neri, e neri i miei capelli, e ora che me ne ricordo, mi schernì. Mi stupisco di non avergli risposto. Ma è lo stesso. L’omissione non è quietanza. Gli scriverò una lettera molto beffarda, e tu la porterai. Vuoi, Silvio?
SILVIO	Phoebe, con tutto il cuore.
PHOEBE	La scriverò subito. La materia è nella mia testa e nel mio cuore. Sarò aspra con lui, e oltremodo breve. Vieni con me, Silvio. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and Jaques
JAQUES	I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
ROSALIND	They say you are a melancholy fellow.
JAQUES	I am so. I do love it better than laughing.
ROSALIND	Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
JAQUES	Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
ROSALIND	Why then, ’tis good to be a post. 9
JAQUES	I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the musician‘s, which is fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the soldier‘s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the lady‘s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
ROSALIND	A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
JAQUES	Yes, I have gained my experience.
(didascalia)	Enter Orlando
ROSALIND	And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too!
ORLANDO	Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind.
JAQUES	Nay then, God b’wi’you an you talk in blank verse.
(didascalia)	ROSALIND Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. Exit Jaques Why, how now, Orlando? Where have you been all this while? You a lover? An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
ORLANDO	My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
ROSALIND.	Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’th’ shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.
ORLANDO	Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 47
ROSALIND	Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO	Of a snail?
ROSALIND	Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.
ORLANDO	What’s that?
ROSALIND	Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.
ORLANDO	Virtue is no hornmaker, and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND	And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA	It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
ROSALIND	Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now an I were your very, very Rosalind?
ORLANDO	I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND	Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking—God warr’nt us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
ORLANDO	How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND	Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO	Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND	Marry, that should you if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO	What, of my suit?
ROSALIND	Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
ORLANDO	I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND	Well, in her person I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO	Then in mine own person I die.
ROSALIND	No, faith; die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun if it had not been for a hot midsummer night, for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
ORLANDO	I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her frown might kill me.
ROSALIND	By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.
ORLANDO	Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND	Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO	And wilt thou have me? no
ROSALIND	Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO	What sayst thou?
ROSALIND	Are you not good?
ORLANDO	I hope so.
ROSALIND	Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? (To Celia) Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?
ORLANDO	(to Celia) Pray thee, marry us.
CELIA	I cannot say the words.
ROSALIND	You must begin, ‘Will you, Orlando’—
CELIA	Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
ORLANDO	I Will.
ROSALIND	Ay, but when?
ORLANDO	Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
ROSALIND	Then you must say, ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.’
ORLANDO	I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
ROSALIND	I might ask you for your commission; but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest; and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.
ORLANDO	So do all thoughts; they are winged.
ROSALIND	Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her?
ORLANDO	For ever and a day.
ROSALIND	Say a day without the ever. No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more newfangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.
ORLANDO	But will my Rosalind do so?
ROSALIND	By my life, she will do as I do.
ORLANDO	O, but she is wise.
ROSALIND	Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement. Shut that, and ‘twill out at the key-hole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
ORLANDO	A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say ‘Wit, whither wilt?’
ROSALIND	Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.
ORLANDO	And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
ROSALIND	Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
ORLANDO	For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
ROSALIND	Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
ORLANDO	I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee again.
ROSALIND	Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won me. ‘Tis but one cast away, and so, come, death! Two o’clock is your hour?
ORLANDO	Ay, sweet Rosalind.
ROSALIND	By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
ORLANDO	With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.
ROSALIND	Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders; and let Time try. Adieu. Exit Orlando
CELIA	You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate. We must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
ROSALIND	O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love. But it cannot be sounded. My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
CELIA	Or rather bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.
ROSALIND	No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses everyone’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
CELIA	And I’ll sleep. Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Rosalinda come Ganimede, Celia come Aliena, e Jaques
JAQUES	Ti prego, bel giovane, lascia che faccia miglior conoscenza con te.
ROSALINDA	Dicono che siate un tipo malinconico.
JAQUES	Lo sono. L’amo più del ridere.
ROSALINDA	Quelli che sono all’estremo dell’uno o dell’altro sono tipi abominevoli, e si espongono a ogni censura corrente peggio degli ubriachi.
JAQUES	Ma è bene essere tristi e non dir nulla.
ROSALINDA	E allora è bene essere un palo. 9
JAQUES	Io non ho la malinconia dello studioso, che è emulazione, né quella del musicista, che è fantastica, né quella del cortigiano, che è superba, né quella del soldato, che è ambiziosa, né quella del legista, che è politica, né quella della dama, che è schizzinosa, né quella dell’innamorato, che è tutte queste; ma è una malinconia tutta mia, composta di molti semplici, estratta da molti oggetti, e in verità la svariata contemplazione dei miei viaggi, nella quale il mio frequente ruminare m’avvolge in una tristezza assai capricciosa.
ROSALINDA	Un viaggiatore! In fede mia, avete gran ragione d’essere triste. Temo che abbiate venduto le vostre terre per vedere quelle altrui. E allora aver visto molto e non aver nulla è aver occhi ricchi e mani povere.
JAQUES	Sì, ho guadagnato la mia esperienza.
(didascalia)	Entra Orlando
ROSALINDA	E la vostra esperienza vi fa triste. Preferirei avere uno sciocco che mi rallegrasse, piuttosto che l’esperienza a farmi triste—e per giunta viaggiare per averla!
ORLANDO	Buon giorno e felicità, cara Rosalinda.
JAQUES	Ah, allora, Dio sia con voi, se parlate in versi sciolti.
(didascalia)	ROSALINDA Addio, Monsieur Viaggiatore. Badate di parlare bleso, e di portare abiti stravaganti; screditate tutti i beni del vostro paese; siate fuor d’amore con la vostra nascita, e quasi rimproverate Dio d’avervi fatto quel volto che avete, o a stento crederò che abbiate navigato in gondola. Esce Jaques Ebbene, come va, Orlando? Dove siete stato tutto questo tempo? Voi un innamorato? Se mi fate un altro simile scherzo, non venite più al mio cospetto.
ORLANDO	Mia bella Rosalinda, vengo entro un’ora dalla mia promessa.
ROSALINDA.	Rompere d’un’ora una promessa in amore! Chi divide un minuto in mille parti e rompe anche solo una parte della millesima parte d’un minuto negli affari d’amore, di lui si può dire che Cupido gli ha battuto la mano sulla spalla, ma garantisco che ha il cuore intatto.
ORLANDO	Perdonami, cara Rosalinda. 47
ROSALINDA	No, se siete così tardo, non venite più al mio cospetto. Preferirei essere corteggiata da una lumaca.
ORLANDO	Da una lumaca?
ROSALINDA	Sì, da una lumaca; ché, sebbene venga adagio, si porta la casa sul capo—una dote migliore, credo, di quella che voi fate a una donna. Inoltre, si porta appresso il suo destino.
ORLANDO	E cioè?
ROSALINDA	Ma le corna, che quelli come voi son ben contenti d’avere in debito dalle mogli. Egli invece viene armato della sua sorte, e previene la calunnia sulla moglie.
ORLANDO	La virtù non fa corna, e la mia Rosalinda è virtuosa.
ROSALINDA	E io sono la vostra Rosalinda.
CELIA	Gli piace chiamarvi così; ma egli ha una Rosalinda di miglior aspetto che voi.
ROSALINDA	Su, corteggiatemi, corteggiatemi, ché ora sono in umore di festa, e assai probabilmente acconsentirò. Che mi direste ora, se io fossi la vostra vera, verissima Rosalinda?
ORLANDO	Bacerei prima di parlare.
ROSALINDA	No, fareste meglio a parlare prima, e quando foste arenato per mancanza di materia potreste prendere occasione di baciare. I bravissimi oratori, quando restano a corto, sputano; e per gli amanti, mancando—Dio ce ne guardi—materia, il ripiego più pulito è baciare.
ORLANDO	E se il bacio è negato?
ROSALINDA	Allora ella vi costringe a supplicare, e lì comincia nuova materia.
ORLANDO	Chi potrebbe restare a corto, stando davanti alla sua amata signora?
ROSALINDA	Per la Vergine, dovreste restarci voi, se io fossi la vostra signora, o dovrei credere la mia onestà più rigogliosa del mio ingegno.
ORLANDO	Come, fuori della mia domanda?
ROSALINDA	Non fuori dei vostri panni, eppure fuori della vostra domanda. Non sono io la vostra Rosalinda?
ORLANDO	Provo qualche gioia a dire che lo siete, perché vorrei parlare di lei.
ROSALINDA	Bene, nella sua persona vi dico che non vi voglio.
ORLANDO	Allora nella mia propria persona muoio.
ROSALINDA	No, in fede mia; morite per procura. Il povero mondo ha quasi seimila anni, e in tutto questo tempo non vi fu mai uomo che morisse nella propria persona, videlicet, per causa d’amore. A Troilo furono fracassate le cervella con una clava greca, eppure fece quanto poté per morire prima, ed è uno dei modelli d’amore. Leandro sarebbe vissuto molti begli anni, anche se Ero si fosse fatta monaca, se non fosse stato per una calda notte di mezza estate; ché, buon giovane, egli uscì soltanto a lavarsi nell’Ellesponto e, colto dal crampo, annegò; e gli sciocchi cronisti di quell’età stabilirono che fu Ero di Sesto. Ma queste son tutte menzogne. Gli uomini son morti di tempo in tempo, e i vermi li hanno mangiati, ma non per amore.
ORLANDO	Non vorrei che la mia vera Rosalinda fosse di questo parere, ché protesto che il suo cipiglio potrebbe uccidermi.
ROSALINDA	Per questa mano, non ucciderebbe una mosca. Ma venite, ora sarò la vostra Rosalinda in disposizione più arrendevole; e chiedetemi ciò che volete, ve lo concederò.
ORLANDO	Allora amami, Rosalinda.
ROSALINDA	Sì, in fede mia, lo farò, venerdì e sabato e tutto il resto.
ORLANDO	E mi vorrai? no
ROSALINDA	Sì, e venti come voi.
ORLANDO	Che dici?
ROSALINDA	Non siete buono?
ORLANDO	Lo spero.
ROSALINDA	E allora, si può forse desiderare troppo di una cosa buona? (A Celia) Vieni, sorella, tu sarai il prete e ci sposerai.—Datemi la mano, Orlando.—Che dici, sorella?
ORLANDO	(a Celia) Ti prego, sposaci.
CELIA	Non so dire le parole.
ROSALINDA	Devi cominciare: ‘Volete voi, Orlando’—
CELIA	Andiamo. Volete voi, Orlando, prendere in moglie questa Rosalinda?
ORLANDO	Lo voglio.
ROSALINDA	Sì, ma quando?
ORLANDO	Ma ora, appena ella può sposarci.
ROSALINDA	Allora dovete dire: ‘Prendo te, Rosalinda, per moglie.’
ORLANDO	Prendo te, Rosalinda, per moglie.
ROSALINDA	Potrei chiedervi la vostra licenza; ma io prendo te, Orlando, per mio marito. Ecco una ragazza che va innanzi al prete; e certo il pensiero d’una donna corre innanzi ai suoi atti.
ORLANDO	Così fanno tutti i pensieri; hanno le ali.
ROSALINDA	Ora ditemi: quanto a lungo la vorrete, dopo che l’avrete posseduta?
ORLANDO	Per sempre e un giorno.
ROSALINDA	Dite un giorno senza il sempre. No, no, Orlando; gli uomini sono aprile quando corteggiano, dicembre quando si sposano. Le fanciulle sono maggio finché son fanciulle, ma il cielo cambia quando son mogli. Sarò più gelosa di te di quanto un colombo di Barberia lo sia della sua colomba, più clamorosa d’un pappagallo contro la pioggia, più capricciosa d’una scimmia, più volubile nei miei desideri d’un bertuccio. Piangerò per nulla, come Diana nella fontana, e lo farò quando tu sarai disposto all’allegria. Riderò come una iena, e ciò quando tu sarai incline al sonno.
ORLANDO	Ma la mia Rosalinda farà così?
ROSALINDA	Sulla mia vita, farà come faccio io.
ORLANDO	Oh, ma ella è saggia.
ROSALINDA	Altrimenti non avrebbe l’ingegno di far questo. Quanto più saggia, tanto più bizzarra. Sbarrate le porte all’ingegno d’una donna, e uscirà dalla finestra. Chiudete quella, e uscirà dal buco della serratura. Turate anche quello, e volerà col fumo su per il camino.
ORLANDO	Un uomo che avesse una moglie con tale ingegno potrebbe dire: ‘Ingegno, dove vai?’
ROSALINDA	No, potreste serbare quel rimprovero fino a quando incontraste l’ingegno di vostra moglie in cammino verso il letto del vostro vicino.
ORLANDO	E quale ingegno potrebbe avere l’ingegno di scusare ciò?
ROSALINDA	Per la Vergine, dire ch’ella veniva a cercarvi là. Non la coglierete mai senza la sua risposta, a meno che non la cogliate senza la lingua. Oh, quella donna che non sa fare della propria colpa l’occasione del marito, non allatti mai da sé il suo figlio, ché lo alleverebbe come uno sciocco.
ORLANDO	Per queste due ore, Rosalinda, ti lascerò.
ROSALINDA	Ahimè, caro amore, non posso fare a meno di te per due ore.
ORLANDO	Devo assistere il Duca a pranzo. Per le due dell’orologio sarò di nuovo con te.
ROSALINDA	Sì, andate pure per la vostra strada, andate pure. Sapevo che cosa sareste risultato; i miei amici me l’avevano detto, e io non pensavo di meno. Quella vostra lingua lusinghiera mi conquistò. Non è che una in più gettata via, e dunque, vieni, morte! Le due dell’orologio sono la vostra ora?
ORLANDO	Sì, dolce Rosalinda.
ROSALINDA	Sulla mia parola, e sul serio, e Dio mi corregga, e per tutti i graziosi giuramenti che non sono pericolosi, se rompete un solo iota della vostra promessa o venite un minuto dopo la vostra ora, vi terrò per il più patetico mancator di promesse, e il più vuoto innamorato, e il più indegno di colei che chiamate Rosalinda che si possa scegliere nella grossa schiera degli infedeli. Perciò guardatevi dalla mia censura, e mantenete la promessa.
ORLANDO	Con non minore religione che se tu fossi davvero la mia Rosalinda. E dunque, addio.
ROSALINDA	Bene, il Tempo è il vecchio giudice che esamina tutti codesti trasgressori; e lasciamo che il Tempo giudichi. Addio. Esce Orlando
CELIA	Avete semplicemente maltrattato il nostro sesso nelle vostre ciance d’amore. Bisogna tirarvi il farsetto e le calze sopra la testa, e mostrare al mondo che cosa l’uccello ha fatto al proprio nido.
ROSALINDA	Oh cugina, cugina, cugina, mia bella cuginetta, se tu sapessi quante braccia in profondità io sia in amore. Ma non si può scandagliare. Il mio affetto ha un fondo ignoto, come la Baia del Portogallo.
CELIA	O piuttosto è senza fondo, ché tanto in fretta quanto vi versate dentro l’affetto, tanto se ne scorre via.
ROSALINDA	No, quel maledetto bastardo di Venere, generato dal pensiero, concepito dalla bile e nato dalla follia, quel cieco ragazzaccio che inganna gli occhi di tutti perché i suoi sono spenti, sia lui giudice di quanto profondamente io sia in amore. Ti dirò, Aliena, non posso stare fuori dalla vista d’Orlando. Andrò a cercare un’ombra e sospirerò finché egli venga.
CELIA	E io dormirò. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Jaques and Lords dressed as foresters JAQUES Which is he that killed the deer? FIRST LORD Sir, it was I.
JAQUES	(to the others) Let’s present him to the Duke like a Roman conqueror. And it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?
SECOND LORD	Yes, sir.
JAQUES	Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
LORDS	(sing) What shall he have that killed the deer? His leather skin and horns to wear. Then sing him home; the rest shall bear This burden. Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; It was a crest ere thou wast born. Thy father’s father wore it, And thy father bore it. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Jaques e Signori vestiti da guardaboschi JAQUES Chi è colui che ha ucciso il cervo? PRIMO SIGNORE Signore, fui io.
JAQUES	(agli altri) Presentiamolo al Duca come un conquistatore romano. E starebbe bene mettergli le corna del cervo sul capo, per ramo di vittoria. Non avete una canzone, guardaboschi, a questo scopo?
SECONDO SIGNORE	Sì, signore.
JAQUES	Cantatela. Non importa come sia intonata, purché faccia rumore abbastanza.
SIGNORI	(cantano) Che avrà colui che uccise il cervo? La sua pelle di cuoio e le corna da portare. Poi cantatelo verso casa; gli altri porteranno questo ritornello. Non aver vergogna di portare il corno; fu cimiero prima che tu nascessi. Il padre di tuo padre lo portò, e tuo padre lo recò. Il corno, il corno, il corno gagliardo non è cosa da deridere per scherno.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede and Celia as Aliena
ROSALIND	How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? And here much Orlando.
CELIA	I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep.
(didascalia)	Enter Silvius
CELIA	Look who comes here.
SILVIUS	(to Rosalind) My errand is to you, fair youth. My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this. He offers Rosalind a letter, which she takes and reads 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. Phoebe did write it.
ROSALIND	Come, come, you are a fool, And turned into the extremity of love. I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand, A free-stone coloured hand. I verily did think That her old gloves were on; but ’twas her hands. She has a housewife’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 Phoebe’s cruelty.
ROSALIND	She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes: (reads) ‘Art thou god to shepherd turned, That a maiden’s heart hath burned?’ Can a woman rail thus?
SILVIUS	Call you this railing?
ROSALIND	(reads) ‘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. (To Silvius) 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.
(didascalia)	Exit Silvius
(didascalia)	Enter Oliver
OLIVER	Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheepcote fenced 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 enquire for?
CELIA	It is no boast, being asked, 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 stained.
CELIA	I pray you tell it.
OLIVER	When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again
(didascalia)	Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
OLIVER	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 old oak, whose boughs were mossed 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 wreathed itself, Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached The opening of his mouth. But suddenly Seeing Orlando, it unlinked 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 catlike 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 lived 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 sucked and hungry lioness?
OLIVER	Twice did he turn his back, and purposed 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 awaked.
CELIA	Are you his brother?
ROSALIND	Was’t 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 bathed— As how I came into that desert place— I’ 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 stripped 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 recovered 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, Dyed 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. (To Oliver) 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, sirrah, 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?
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Rosalinda come Ganimede e Celia come Aliena
ROSALINDA	Che ne dite ora? Non son forse passate le due dell’orologio? E qui, altro che Orlando.
CELIA	Ve lo garantisco: con puro amore e cervello turbato ha preso l’arco e le frecce ed è uscito a dormire.
(didascalia)	Entra Silvio
CELIA	Guardate chi viene.
SILVIO	(a Rosalinda) Il mio messaggio è per voi, bel giovane. La mia gentile Phoebe mi disse di darvi questo. Porge a Rosalinda una lettera, ch’ella prende e legge Non ne conosco il contenuto, ma per quanto arguisco dalla fronte severa e dal gesto stizzoso ch’ella usò mentre lo scriveva, ha un tenore adirato. Perdonatemi; io non sono che un messaggero innocente.
ROSALINDA	La pazienza stessa trasalirebbe a questa lettera, e farebbe la spavalda. Sopportare questo è sopportare tutto. Dice ch’io non son bello, che mi mancano le maniere; mi chiama superbo, e che non potrebbe amarmi fosse l’uomo raro come la Fenice. Per la mia volontà, il suo amore non è la lepre ch’io caccio. Perché mi scrive così? Bene, pastore, bene, questa è una lettera di vostra invenzione.
SILVIO	No, protesto; non conosco il contenuto. Phoebe la scrisse.
ROSALINDA	Via, via, siete uno sciocco, e volto all’estremo dell’amore. Ho visto la sua mano. Ha una mano di cuoio, una mano color pietra arenaria. Credetti davvero ch’ella avesse su i suoi vecchi guanti; ma erano le sue mani. Ha una mano da massaia—ma questo non importa. Dico che non fu lei a inventare questa lettera. È invenzione d’un uomo, e mano sua.
SILVIO	Certo, è sua.
ROSALINDA	Ma è uno stile burrascoso e crudele, uno stile da sfidanti. Ma come, ella mi sfida, come Turco a Cristiano! Il gentile cervello di donna non poteva stillare invenzione così rozzamente gigantesca, parole così etiopi, più nere nel loro effetto che nel loro aspetto. Volete udire la lettera?
SILVIO	Se vi piace, ché non l’ho ancora udita, eppure ho udito troppo della crudeltà di Phoebe.
ROSALINDA	Ella mi fa la Phoebe. Notate come scrive la tiranna: (legge) ‘Sei tu dio mutato in pastore, che il cuore d’una fanciulla hai arso?’ Può una donna inveire così?
SILVIO	Chiamate questo inveire?
ROSALINDA	(legge) ‘Ma, deposta la tua divinità, muovi guerra al cuore d’una donna?’ Avete mai udito tale inveire? ‘Mentre l’occhio d’uomo mi corteggiava non poteva farmi alcuna vendetta.’— Volendo dire ch’io sono una bestia. ‘Se lo scherno dei vostri occhi lucenti ha potere di destare tale amore nei miei, ahimè, in me quale strano effetto opererebbero con mite sguardo? Mentre mi sgridavate io amavo; che potrebbero dunque le vostre preghiere? Colui che ti porta questo amore poco conosce questo amore in me, e per suo mezzo suggella il tuo animo: se la tua giovinezza e la tua indole vorranno accettare la fedele offerta di me, e di tutto ciò che posso dare, oppure per lui nega il mio amore, e allora studierò come morire.’
SILVIO	Chiamate questo sgridare?
CELIA	Ahimè, povero pastore.
ROSALINDA	Avete pietà di lui? No, non merita pietà. (A Silvio) Vuoi tu amare una donna simile? Come, fare di te uno strumento, e sonarti sopra false arie?—non è da sopportare. Bene, va’ per la tua strada da lei—ché vedo che l’amore t’ha fatto una serpe mansueta—e dille questo: che se ella mi ama, le ordino di amare te. Se non vorrà, non l’avrò mai, a meno che tu non interceda per lei. Se sei un vero innamorato, via, e non una parola; ché qui viene altra gente.
(didascalia)	Esce Silvio
(didascalia)	Entra Oliviero
OLIVIERO	Buon giorno, belle creature. Di grazia, se lo sapete, dove, nei dintorni di questa foresta, sorge un ovile cinto d’ulivi?
CELIA	A occidente di questo luogo, giù nel vicino fondovalle. La fila di vimini presso il ruscello mormorante, lasciata alla vostra destra, vi conduce al luogo. Ma a quest’ora la casa si custodisce da sé. Non c’è nessuno dentro.
OLIVIERO	Se un occhio può giovarsi d’una lingua, allora dovrei riconoscervi dalla descrizione. Tali vesti, e tali anni. ‘Il ragazzo è bello, di femminile aspetto, e si porta come una sorella matura. La donna è piccola e più bruna del fratello.’ Non siete voi i padroni della casa di cui chiedevo?
CELIA	Non è vanto, essendone richiesti, dire che lo siamo.
OLIVIERO	Orlando si raccomanda a voi due, e a quel giovane ch’egli chiama la sua Rosalinda manda questo fazzoletto insanguinato. Siete voi?
ROSALINDA	Sono io. Che dobbiamo intendere da questo?
OLIVIERO	Qualcosa della mia vergogna, se vorrete sapere da me che uomo io sia, e come, e perché, e dove questo fazzoletto fu macchiato.
CELIA	Vi prego, ditelo.
OLIVIERO	Quando l’ultima volta il giovane Orlando si separò da voi, lasciò promessa di tornare di nuovo
(didascalia)	entro un’ora, e, camminando per la foresta,
OLIVIERO	masticando il cibo di dolce e amara fantasia, ecco che avvenne. Gettò l’occhio da un lato, e notate quale oggetto gli si presentò. Sotto una vecchia quercia, i cui rami eran muscosi d’età e l’alta cima calva di secca antichità, un uomo misero, cencioso, tutto irsuto di capelli, giaceva dormendo supino. Intorno al suo collo una serpe verde e dorata s’era attorcigliata, che col capo, agile nelle minacce, s’accostava all’apertura della sua bocca. Ma d’improvviso, vedendo Orlando, si sciolse, e con lubrici giri serpentini scivolò via in un cespuglio, all’ombra del quale una leonessa, con le mammelle tutte prosciugate, stava acquattata, il capo a terra, in agguato felino che l’uomo addormentato si movesse. Ché è la regale disposizione di quella belva non predare nulla che sembri morto. Visto ciò, Orlando s’accostò all’uomo e trovò ch’era suo fratello, il suo fratello maggiore.
CELIA	Oh, l’ho udito parlare di quello stesso fratello, e lo dipingeva come il più snaturato che vivesse fra gli uomini.
OLIVIERO	E ben poteva farlo, ché bene so ch’egli era snaturato.
ROSALINDA	Ma torniamo a Orlando. Lo lasciò egli là, cibo alla leonessa prosciugata e affamata?
OLIVIERO	Due volte volse le spalle, e così si propose. Ma la bontà, sempre più nobile della vendetta, e la natura, più forte della sua giusta occasione, gli fecero dar battaglia alla leonessa, che cadde presto davanti a lui; nel qual tumulto dal misero sonno mi destai.
CELIA	Siete voi suo fratello?
ROSALINDA	Foste voi colui ch’egli salvò?
CELIA	Foste voi che tante volte tramaste d’ucciderlo?
OLIVIERO	Fui io, ma non sono io. Non mi vergogno di dirvi ciò che fui, poiché la mia conversione ha sapore così dolce, essendo io la cosa che sono.
ROSALINDA	Ma quanto al fazzoletto insanguinato?
OLIVIERO	Or ora. Quando, dal primo all’ultimo, fra noi due le lacrime ebbero benignamente bagnato i nostri racconti— come io giunsi in quel luogo deserto— in breve, egli mi condusse al gentile Duca, che mi diede vesti fresche e accoglienza, affidandomi all’amore di mio fratello, il quale mi condusse subito alla sua caverna, là si spogliò, e qui, sul braccio, la leonessa gli aveva strappato via un po’ di carne, che per tutto questo tempo aveva sanguinato. E allora svenne, e svenendo gridò il nome di Rosalinda. In breve, lo feci rinvenire, gli fasciai la ferita, e dopo poco spazio, essendo forte di cuore, mi mandò qua, straniero come sono, a raccontare questa storia, perché voi scusaste la sua promessa infranta, e a dare questo fazzoletto, tinto del suo sangue, al giovane pastore ch’egli per gioco chiama la sua Rosalinda. Rosalinda sviene
CELIA	Ebbene, che c’è, Ganimede, dolce Ganimede!
OLIVIERO	Molti svengono quando guardano il sangue.
CELIA	C’è dell’altro. Cugino Ganimede!
OLIVIERO	Guardate, si riprende.
ROSALINDA	Vorrei essere a casa.
CELIA	Vi condurremo là. (A Oliviero) Vi prego, volete prenderlo per il braccio?
OLIVIERO	Fatevi coraggio, giovane. Voi un uomo? Vi manca il cuore d’un uomo.
ROSALINDA	È vero, lo confesso. Ah, messere, un corpo penserebbe che questo fosse ben simulato. Vi prego, dite a vostro fratello quanto bene ho simulato. Ohimè!
OLIVIERO	Questa non fu simulazione. C’è troppo gran testimonianza nel vostro colorito che fu una passione sincera.
ROSALINDA	Simulazione, ve l’assicuro.
OLIVIERO	Bene allora, fatevi buon cuore, e simulate d’essere un uomo.
ROSALINDA	Così faccio; ma, in fede mia, avrei dovuto essere una donna di diritto.
CELIA	Venite, vi fate sempre più pallido. Vi prego, avviatevi verso casa. Buon signore, venite con noi.
OLIVIERO	Lo farò, ché devo riportare risposta su come voi scusiate mio fratello, Rosalinda.
ROSALINDA	Escogiterò qualcosa. Ma vi prego, raccomandategli la mia simulazione. Volete andare?
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown 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.
(didascalia)	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 ev’n, Audrey.
AUDREY	God ye good ev’n, William.
WILLIAM	(to Touchstone) 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 a 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 femate—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, I 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.
(didascalia)	Exit
(didascalia)	Enter Corin
CORIN	Our master and mistress seeks you. Come, away, away.
TOUCHSTONE	Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. (To Corin) I attend, I attend.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Touchstone il buffone e Audrey
TOUCHSTONE	Troveremo un tempo, Audrey. Pazienza, gentile Audrey.
AUDREY	In fede mia, il prete era abbastanza buono, checché dicesse quel vecchio signore.
TOUCHSTONE	Un pessimo Sir Oliviero, Audrey, un vilissimo Martext. Ma, Audrey, c’è qui nella foresta un giovane che accampa diritti su di te.
AUDREY	Sì, so chi è. Non ha alcun interesse su di me al mondo. Ecco che viene l’uomo di cui dite.
(didascalia)	Entra William
TOUCHSTONE	È cibo e bevanda per me vedere un villano. Sulla mia parola, noi che abbiamo buon ingegno abbiamo molto di cui rispondere. Non potremo che beffare; non sappiamo trattenerci.
WILLIAM	Buona sera, Audrey.
AUDREY	Dio vi dia la buona sera, William.
WILLIAM	(a Touchstone) E buona sera a voi, signore.
TOUCHSTONE	Buona sera, gentile amico. Copriti il capo, copriti il capo. Su, ti prego, sta’ coperto. Quanti anni avete, amico?
WILLIAM	Venticinque, signore.
TOUCHSTONE	Un’età matura. Ti chiami William?
WILLIAM	William, signore.
TOUCHSTONE	Un bel nome. Sei nato qui nella foresta?
WILLIAM	Sì, signore, ringrazio Dio.
TOUCHSTONE	Ringrazio Dio—buona risposta. Sei ricco?
WILLIAM	In fede mia, signore, così così.
TOUCHSTONE	Così così è buono, molto buono, eccellentemente buono. Eppure non lo è, non è che così così. Sei tu saggio?
WILLIAM	Sì, signore, ho un bell’ingegno.
TOUCHSTONE	Ma tu dici bene. Ora mi ricordo d’un detto: ‘Lo sciocco crede d’esser saggio, ma il saggio sa d’essere uno sciocco.’ Il filosofo pagano, quando aveva desiderio di mangiare un acino d’uva, apriva le labbra quando se lo metteva in bocca, volendo con ciò significare che l’uva è fatta per esser mangiata, e le labbra per aprirsi. Voi amate questa fanciulla?
WILLIAM	Sì, signore.
TOUCHSTONE	Dammi la mano. Sei tu dotto?
WILLIAM	No, signore.
TOUCHSTONE	Allora impara questo da me: avere è avere. Ché è figura di retorica che la bevanda, versata da una coppa in un bicchiere, riempiendo l’una vuoti l’altro. Ché tutti i vostri scrittori consentono che ipse è lui. Ora voi non siete ipse, ché lui sono io.
WILLIAM	Quale lui, signore?
TOUCHSTONE	Lui, signore, che deve sposare questa donna. Perciò, villano, abbandona—che in volgare è lascia—la società—che nel rustico è compagnia—di questa femmina—che nel comune è donna; il che tutto insieme fa: abbandona la società di questa femmina, o, villano, tu perisci; o, per tua miglior comprensione, muori; ossia, io t’uccido, ti faccio fuori, traduco la tua vita in morte, la tua libertà in servitù. Tratterò con te di veleno, o di bastonate, o d’acciaio. Ti verrò addosso con le fazioni, ti travolgerò con la politica. Ti ucciderò in centocinquanta modi. Perciò trema, e vattene.
AUDREY	Fallo, buon William.
WILLIAM	Dio vi conservi allegro, signore.
(didascalia)	Esce
(didascalia)	Entra Corino
CORINO	Il nostro padrone e la nostra padrona vi cercano. Venite, via, via.
TOUCHSTONE	Trotta, Audrey, trotta, Audrey. (A Corino) Vengo, vengo.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	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 persevere 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede
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 handkerchief?
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 a 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	Speakest 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Silvius and Phoebe
ROSALIND	Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
PHOEBE	(to Rosalind) 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	(to Silvius) 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 obedience, 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 satisfy 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Orlando e Oliviero
ORLANDO	È possibile che, con così poca conoscenza, ella ti piaccia? Che, appena vedutala, tu l’ami? E, amandola, la corteggi? E, corteggiandola, ella consenta? E persevererai nel goderla?
OLIVIERO	Non mettere in questione né la vertigine della cosa, né la sua povertà, né la scarsa conoscenza, né il mio subitaneo corteggiare, né il suo subitaneo consentire; ma di’ con me: ‘Io amo Aliena’; di’ con lei ch’ella mi ama; consenti con entrambi che possiamo goderci l’un l’altra. Sarà a tuo bene, ché la casa di mio padre e tutta la rendita che fu del vecchio Sir Rowland le assegnerò a te, e qui vivrò e morrò pastore.
(didascalia)	Entra Rosalinda come Ganimede
ORLANDO	Hai il mio consenso. Sian le tue nozze domani. Là inviterò il Duca e tutto il suo contento seguito. Va’ tu, e prepara Aliena; ché, guarda, qui viene la mia Rosalinda.
ROSALINDA	Dio vi salvi, fratello.
OLIVIERO	E voi, bella sorella. Esce
ROSALINDA	Oh, mio caro Orlando, come mi duole vederti portare il cuore in una sciarpa.
ORLANDO	È il mio braccio.
ROSALINDA	Credevo che il tuo cuore fosse stato ferito dagli artigli d’un leone.
ORLANDO	Ferito lo è, ma dagli occhi d’una dama.
ROSALINDA	Vi ha detto vostro fratello come simulai di svenire quando mi mostrò il vostro fazzoletto?
ORLANDO	Sì, e meraviglie ancor maggiori di quella.
ROSALINDA	Oh, so dove volete arrivare. Sì, è vero. Non vi fu mai nulla di così subitaneo, se non lo scontro di due arieti, e il trasonico vanto di Cesare: ‘Venni, vidi, vinsi’; ché vostro fratello e mia sorella non s’erano appena incontrati che si guardarono; non s’erano appena guardati che s’amarono; non s’erano appena amati che sospirarono; non avevano appena sospirato che l’un l’altro se ne chiesero la ragione; non avevano appena saputo la ragione che cercarono il rimedio; e con questi gradini hanno fatto una scala al matrimonio, che saliranno incontinenti, o altrimenti saranno incontinenti prima del matrimonio. Sono proprio nella furia dell’amore, e vogliono stare insieme. Neppure i bastoni li separerebbero.
ORLANDO	Si sposeranno domani, e inviterò il Duca alle nozze. Ma oh, che amara cosa è guardare nella felicità con gli occhi d’un altro. Tanto più domani sarò al colmo della pesantezza di cuore, quanto più penserò mio fratello felice d’avere ciò che desidera.
ROSALINDA	Come, dunque, domani non potrò più servirvi da Rosalinda?
ORLANDO	Non posso più vivere di pensieri.
ROSALINDA	Non vi stancherò allora più a lungo con vane chiacchiere. Sappiate dunque da me—ché ora parlo a qualche scopo—ch’io so che siete un gentiluomo di buon intendimento. Non dico questo perché abbiate buona opinione del mio sapere, tanto quanto dico di sapere che lo siete; né mi adopero per una stima maggiore di quanta possa in qualche piccola misura trarre da voi una fiducia utile a voi stesso, e non a farmi onore. Credete dunque, se vi piace, ch’io posso fare cose strane. Fin da quando avevo tre anni ho conversato con un mago, profondissimo nella sua arte, e tuttavia non dannabile. Se voi amate Rosalinda così da presso al cuore come il vostro contegno lo grida, quando vostro fratello sposerà Aliena voi sposerete lei. So in quali strettezze di fortuna ella sia sospinta, e non m’è impossibile, se non vi appare sconveniente, di porla domani davanti ai vostri occhi, umana com’è, e senza alcun pericolo.
ORLANDO	Parli tu con sobrio intento?
ROSALINDA	Sulla mia vita, sì, ed essa m’è cara, benché dica d’essere un mago. Perciò mettetevi la vostra veste migliore, invitate i vostri amici: ché, se volete essere sposato domani, lo sarete; e a Rosalinda, se vorrete.
(didascalia)	Entrano Silvio e Phoebe
ROSALINDA	Guardate, ecco che viene un’innamorata di me e un innamorato di lei.
PHOEBE	(a Rosalinda) Giovane, mi avete usato molta scortesia a mostrare la lettera ch’io vi scrissi.
ROSALINDA	Non m’importa se l’ho fatto. È mio studio parervi dispettoso e scortese. Là dietro vi segue un fedele pastore. Guardatelo; amatelo. Egli vi adora.
PHOEBE	(a Silvio) Buon pastore, di’ a questo giovane che cosa sia amare.
SILVIO	È essere fatto tutto di sospiri e di lacrime, e tale io sono per Phoebe.
PHOEBE	E io per Ganimede.
ORLANDO	E io per Rosalinda.
ROSALINDA	E io per nessuna donna.
SILVIO	È essere fatto tutto di fede e di servizio, e tale io sono per Phoebe.
PHOEBE	E io per Ganimede.
ORLANDO	E io per Rosalinda.
ROSALINDA	E io per nessuna donna.
SILVIO	È essere fatto tutto di fantasia, tutto di passione, e tutto di desideri, tutto adorazione, dovere e ossequio, tutto umiltà, tutto pazienza e impazienza, tutto purezza, tutto prova, tutto obbedienza, e tale io sono per Phoebe.
PHOEBE	E tale io sono per Ganimede.
ORLANDO	E tale io sono per Rosalinda.
ROSALINDA	E tale io sono per nessuna donna.
PHOEBE	(a Rosalinda) Se è così, perché mi rimproverate d’amarvi?
SILVIO	(a Phoebe) Se è così, perché mi rimproverate d’amarvi?
ORLANDO	Se è così, perché mi rimproverate d’amarvi?
ROSALINDA	Perché lo dite anche voi: ‘Perché mi rimproverate d’amarvi?’
ORLANDO	A colei che non è qui né mi ode.
ROSALINDA	Vi prego, basta con questo; è come l’ululare dei lupi d’Irlanda contro la luna. (A Silvio) Vi aiuterò, se potrò. (A Phoebe) Vi amerei, se potessi.—Domani trovatevi tutti insieme con me. (A Phoebe) Sposerò voi, se mai sposerò donna, e mi sposerò domani. (A Orlando) Soddisferò voi, se mai soddisferò uomo, e voi vi sposerete domani. (A Silvio) Contenterò voi, se ciò che vi piace vi contenta, e voi vi sposerete domani. (A Orlando) Come amate Rosalinda, trovatevi qui. (A Silvio) Come amate Phoebe, trovatevi qui. E come io non amo nessuna donna, mi troverò qui. E dunque statevi bene. Vi ho lasciato i miei ordini.
SILVIO	Non mancherò, se vivrò.
PHOEBE	Né io.
ORLANDO	Né io.
(didascalia)	Escono separatamente

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown 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. Here come two of the banished Duke’s pages.
(didascalia)	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’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.
BOTH PAGES	(sing) It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no, That o’er the green cornfield did pass In 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-nonny-no, These pretty country folks would lie, In 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-nonny-no, How that a life was but a flower, In 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-nonny-no, For love is crowned with the prime, In 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 untunable.
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 b’wi’you, and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey.
(didascalia)	Exeunt
TOUCHSTONE	severally

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Touchstone il buffone e Audrey
TOUCHSTONE	Domani è il giorno gioioso, Audrey; domani ci sposeremo.
AUDREY	Lo desidero con tutto il cuore; e spero che non sia desiderio disonesto desiderare d’essere una donna del mondo. Ecco che vengono due paggi del Duca bandito.
(didascalia)	Entrano due Paggi
PRIMO PAGGIO	Ben trovato, onesto gentiluomo.
TOUCHSTONE	Sulla mia parola, ben trovati. Venite, sedete, sedete, e una canzone.
SECONDO PAGGIO	Siamo ai vostri ordini. Sedete in mezzo.
PRIMO PAGGIO	Ci buttiamo dentro di slancio, senza raschiare la gola, o sputare, o dire che siamo rauchi, che sono i soli prologhi a una cattiva voce?
SECONDO PAGGIO	In fede mia, in fede mia, e tutt’e due sullo stesso tono, come due zingari su un cavallo.
I DUE PAGGI	(cantano) C’erano un innamorato e la sua ragazza, con un hey, e un ho, e un hey-nonny-no, che passavano pel verde campo di grano nel tempo di primavera, il solo bel tempo degli anelli, quando gli uccelli cantano, hey ding-a-ding ding, i dolci amanti amano la primavera. Fra i solchi del campo di segale, con un hey, e un ho, e un hey-nonny-no, quei bei villani si sdraiavano, nel tempo di primavera, il solo bel tempo degli anelli, quando gli uccelli cantano, hey ding-a-ding ding, i dolci amanti amano la primavera. Questo canto intonarono in quell’ora, con un hey, e un ho, e un hey-nonny-no, che la vita non era che un fiore, nel tempo di primavera, il solo bel tempo degli anelli, quando gli uccelli cantano, hey ding-a-ding ding, i dolci amanti amano la primavera. E perciò cogliete il tempo presente, con un hey, e un ho, e un hey-nonny-no, ché l’amore è coronato dalla primizia, nel tempo di primavera, il solo bel tempo degli anelli, quando gli uccelli cantano, hey ding-a-ding ding, i dolci amanti amano la primavera.
TOUCHSTONE	Davvero, giovani gentiluomini, benché non ci fosse gran sostanza nella cantilena, tuttavia la nota era assai stonata.
PRIMO PAGGIO	V’ingannate, signore: tenemmo il tempo, non perdemmo il nostro tempo.
TOUCHSTONE	Sulla mia parola, sì: lo conto solo tempo perduto, udire una canzone così sciocca. Dio sia con voi, e Dio v’accomodi le voci. Vieni, Audrey.
(didascalia)	Escono
TOUCHSTONE	separatamente

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia as Aliena
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.
(didascalia)	Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, with Silvius and
ORLANDO	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.
(didascalia)	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.
(didascalia)	Enter Touchstone the clown 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	(to the Duke) 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’ield 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	(to the Duke) 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.
(didascalia)	Still music Enter Hymen with Rosalind and Celia as themselves
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 the Duke) 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 the Duke) 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 Oliver and Celia) You and you are heart in heart. (To Phoebe) 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.
(didascalia)	Song
HYMEN	Wedding is great Juno’s crown, O blessèd 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	(to Celia) 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Jaques de Bois, the second brother
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, 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 brothers’ 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-fallen 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. (To Jaques de Bois) 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 learned. (To the Duke) 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’ll so begin these rites As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.
(didascalia)	They dance; then exeunt all but Rosalind
DUKE SENIOR	Epilogue
ROSALIND	(to the audience) 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.
(didascalia)	Exit
SEVERAL	references from 1589 onwards witness the existence of a play about Hamlet, but Francis Meres did not attribute a play with this title to Shakespeare in 1598. The first clear reference to Shakespeare’s play is its entry in the Stationers’ Register on 26 July 1602 as The Revenge of Hamlet Prince [of] Denmark, when it was said to have been ‘lately acted by the Lord Chamberlain his servants’. It survives in three versions; their relationship is a matter of dispute on which views about when Shakespeare wrote his play, and in what form, depend. In 1603 appeared an inferior text apparently assembled from actors’ memories; it has only about 2,200 lines. In the following year, as if to put the record straight, James Roberts (to whom the play had been entered in 1602) published it as ‘newly imprinted and enlarged to almost as much again as it was, according to the true and perfect copy’. At about 3,800 lines, this is the longest version. The 1623 Folio offers a still different text, some 230 lines shorter than the 1604 version, differing verbally from that at many points, and including about 70 additional lines. It is our belief that Shakespeare wrote Hamlet about 1600, and revised it later; that the 1604 edition was printed from his original papers; that the Folio represents the revised version; and that the 1603 edition represents a very imperfect report of an abridged version of the revision. So our text is based on the Folio; passages present in the 1604 quarto but absent from the Folio are printed as Additional Passages because we believe that, however fine they may be in themselves, Shakespeare decided that the play as a whole would be better without them. The plot of Hamlet originates in a Scandinavian folk-tale told in the twelfth-century Danish History written in Latin by the Danish Saxo Grammaticus. François de Belleforest retold it in the fifth volume (1570) of his Histoires Tragiques, not translated into English until 1608. Saxo, through Belleforest, provided the basic story of a Prince of Denmark committed to revenge his father’s murder by his own brother (Claudius) who has married the dead man’s widow (Gertrude). As in Shakespeare, Hamlet pretends to be mad, kills his uncle’s counsellor (Polonius) while he is eavesdropping, rebukes his mother, is sent to England under the escort of two retainers (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) who bear orders that he be put to death on arrival, finds the letter containing the orders and alters it so that it is the retainers who are executed, returns to Denmark, and kills the King. Belleforest’s story differs at some points from Shakespeare’s, and Shakespeare elaborates it, adding, for example, the Ghost of Hamlet’s father, the coming of the actors to Elsinore, the performance of the play through which Hamlet tests his uncle’s guilt, Ophelia’s madness and death, Laertes’ plot to revenge his father’s death, the grave-digger, Ophelia’s funeral, and the characters of Osric and Fortinbras. How much he owed to the lost Hamlet play we cannot tell; what is certain is that Shakespeare used his mastery of a wide range of diverse styles in both verse and prose, and his genius for dramatic effect, to create from these and other sources the most complex, varied, and exciting drama that had ever been seen on the English stage. Its popularity was instant and enduring. The play has had a profound influence on Western culture, and Shakespeare’s Hamlet has himself entered the world of myth.
THE PERSONS OF THE	PLAY

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano il Duca Seniore, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliviero e Celia come Aliena
DUCA SENIORE	Credi tu, Orlando, che il ragazzo possa fare tutto ciò che ha promesso?
ORLANDO	Talvolta ci credo, e talvolta no, come chi teme ciò che spera, e sa di temere.
(didascalia)	Entra Rosalinda come Ganimede, con Silvio e
ORLANDO	Phoebe
ROSALINDA	Pazienza ancora una volta, mentre si ribadisce il nostro patto. (Al Duca) Voi dite che, se conduco qui la vostra Rosalinda, la donerete a Orlando qui presente?
DUCA SENIORE	Lo farei, avessi regni da darle in dote.
ROSALINDA	(a Orlando) E voi dite che l’avrete, quando io la conduca?
ORLANDO	Lo vorrei, fossi re di tutti i regni.
ROSALINDA	(a Phoebe) Voi dite che mi sposerete, se io sarò consenziente?
PHOEBE	Lo farò, dovessi morire l’ora dopo.
ROSALINDA	Ma se rifiutate di sposare me, vi darete a questo fedelissimo pastore?
PHOEBE	Tale è il patto.
ROSALINDA	(a Silvio) Voi dite che avrete Phoebe, se ella vorrà.
SILVIO	Anche se averla e la morte fossero una cosa sola.
ROSALINDA	Ho promesso d’appianare tutta questa faccenda. Mantenete voi la parola, o Duca, di dare vostra figlia. Voi la vostra, Orlando, di ricevere sua figlia. Mantenete la parola, Phoebe, che sposerete me, o, rifiutando me, di sposare questo pastore. Mantenete la parola, Silvio, che la sposerete se ella rifiuta me; e di qui io vado a render pari tutti questi dubbi.
(didascalia)	Escono Rosalinda e Celia
DUCA SENIORE	Ricordo in questo ragazzo pastore certi vivaci tratti del volto di mia figlia.
ORLANDO	Mio signore, la prima volta ch’io lo vidi, mi parve fosse un fratello di vostra figlia. Ma, mio buon signore, questo ragazzo è nato nella foresta, ed è stato istruito nei rudimenti di molti studi arditi da suo zio, ch’egli dice essere un gran mago nascosto nel cerchio di questa foresta.
(didascalia)	Entrano Touchstone il buffone e Audrey
JAQUES	Certo s’avvicina un altro diluvio, e queste coppie vengono all’arca. Ecco che viene un paio di bestie assai strane, che in tutte le lingue si chiamano sciocchi.
TOUCHSTONE	Salute e saluti a tutti voi.
JAQUES	(al Duca) Mio buon signore, dategli il benvenuto. Questo è il gentiluomo dalla mente variopinta che ho così spesso incontrato nella foresta. È stato cortigiano, giura lui.
TOUCHSTONE	Se qualcuno ne dubita, mi metta alla prova. Ho ballato una danza, ho adulato una dama, sono stato politico con l’amico, blando col nemico, ho rovinato tre sarti, ho avuto quattro liti, e per poco non ne combattevo una.
JAQUES	E come fu appianata?
TOUCHSTONE	In fede mia, c’incontrammo, e trovammo che la lite verteva sulla settima causa.
JAQUES	Come, settima causa?—Mio buon signore, gradite costui.
DUCA SENIORE	Mi piace molto bene.
TOUCHSTONE	Dio ve ne renda merito, signore; desidero altrettanto da voi. Mi caccio qui, signore, fra gli altri copulativi di campagna, a giurare e a spergiurare, secondo che il matrimonio lega e il sangue rompe. Una povera vergine, signore, una cosa brutta, signore, ma mia. Un mio povero umore, signore, di prendere ciò che nessun altro vuole. La ricca onestà abita come un avaro, signore, in una povera casa, come la vostra perla nella vostra ostrica immonda.
DUCA SENIORE	In fede mia, è assai svelto e sentenzioso.
TOUCHSTONE	Secondo il dardo dello sciocco, signore, e simili dolci malattie.
JAQUES	Ma quanto alla settima causa. Come trovaste la lite sulla settima causa?
TOUCHSTONE	Sopra una menzogna rimossa sette volte.—Porta il corpo con più decoro, Audrey.—Così, signore: a me dispiacque il taglio della barba d’un certo cortigiano. Mi mandò a dire che, se io dicevo che la sua barba non era tagliata bene, egli era d’avviso che lo fosse. Questo si chiama il Rimando Cortese. Se io gli rimandavo a dire che non era tagliata bene, egli mi mandava a dire che la tagliava per piacere a sé. Questo si chiama la Frecciata Modesta. Se di nuovo non era tagliata bene, egli squalificava il mio giudizio. Questo si chiama la Replica Villana. Se di nuovo non era tagliata bene, egli rispondeva che io non dicevo il vero. Questo si chiama il Rimprovero Valoroso. Se di nuovo non era tagliata bene, egli diceva ch’io mentivo. Questo si chiama il Contraccolpo Litigioso. E così alla Menzogna Circostanziata, e alla Menzogna Diretta.
JAQUES	E quante volte diceste che la sua barba non era tagliata bene?
TOUCHSTONE	Non osai andare oltre la Menzogna Circostanziata, né egli osò darmi la Menzogna Diretta; e così misurammo le spade, e ci separammo.
JAQUES	Sapete voi ora nominare in ordine i gradi della menzogna?
TOUCHSTONE	Oh signore, noi litighiamo a stampa, secondo il libro, come voi avete libri di buone maniere. Vi nominerò i gradi. Il primo, il Rimando Cortese; il secondo, la Frecciata Modesta; il terzo, la Replica Villana; il quarto, il Rimprovero Valoroso; il quinto, il Contraccolpo Litigioso; il sesto, la Menzogna con Circostanza; il settimo, la Menzogna Diretta. Tutti questi potete evitarli, tranne la Menzogna Diretta; e potete evitare anche quella, con un ‘se’. Ho conosciuto casi in cui sette giudici non poterono appianare una lite; ma quando le parti stesse s’incontrarono, uno di loro pensò soltanto a un ‘se’, come ‘Se voi diceste così, allora io dissi così’, e si strinsero la mano e giurarono fratellanza. Il vostro ‘se’ è il solo paciere; molta virtù nel ‘se’.
JAQUES	(al Duca) Non è costui un tipo raro, mio signore? È bravo in ogni cosa, e tuttavia è uno sciocco.
DUCA SENIORE	Usa la sua follia come un cavallo da posta, e sotto la copertura di quello scocca il suo ingegno.
(didascalia)	Musica sommessa Entra Imene con Rosalinda e Celia in veste di sé stesse
IMENE	Allora v’è letizia in cielo quando le cose terrene, fatte pari, si riconciliano insieme. Buon Duca, ricevi tua figlia; Imene dal cielo la portò, sì, la portò qui, perché tu potessi unire la sua mano con quella di colui il cui cuore è dentro il suo petto.
ROSALINDA	(al Duca) A voi mi dono, ché sono vostra. (A Orlando) A voi mi dono, ché sono vostra.
DUCA SENIORE	Se v’è verità nella vista, tu sei mia figlia.
ORLANDO	Se v’è verità nella vista, voi siete la mia Rosalinda.
PHOEBE	Se vista e figura son vere, ebbene, addio, amore mio!
ROSALINDA	(al Duca) Non avrò padre, se non siete voi. (A Orlando) Non avrò marito, se non siete voi, (A Phoebe) né mai sposerò donna, se non siete voi.
IMENE	Pace, olà, io vieto la confusione. Sono io che devo dar conclusione a questi eventi stranissimi. Eccone otto che devon prendersi per mano per unirsi nei vincoli d’Imene, se la verità tien fede al suo contenuto. (A Orlando e Rosalinda) Voi e voi nessuna croce separerà. (A Oliviero e Celia) Voi e voi siete cuore con cuore. (A Phoebe) Voi dovete accordarvi al suo amore, o avere una donna per signore. (A Touchstone e Audrey) Voi e voi state uniti di certo come l’inverno al cattivo tempo.— Mentre cantiamo un inno nuziale, nutritevi di domande, perché la ragione scemi lo stupore di come così ci siamo incontrati, e queste cose han fine.
(didascalia)	Canzone
IMENE	Le nozze son la corona della gran Giunone, o benedetto vincolo di mensa e di letto. È Imene che popola ogni città. Sia dunque onorato l’alto connubio. Onore, alto onore e fama a Imene, dio d’ogni città.
DUCA SENIORE	(a Celia) O mia cara nipote, benvenuta tu sei per me, proprio come figlia; benvenuta in non minor grado.
PHOEBE	(a Silvio.) Non rimangerò la mia parola. Ora tu sei mio, la tua fede congiunge a te il mio affetto.
(didascalia)	Entra Jaques de Bois, il secondo fratello
JAQUES DE BOIS	Datemi udienza per una parola o due. Io sono il secondo figlio del vecchio Sir Rowland, e reco queste novelle a questa bella assemblea. Il Duca Federico, udendo come ogni giorno uomini di gran valore accorressero a questa foresta, raccolse una potente forza, ch’era in marcia, sotto il suo comando, apposta per prendere suo fratello qui presente, e passarlo a fil di spada. E ai margini di questo bosco selvaggio egli venne dove, incontrando un vecchio religioso, dopo qualche colloquio con lui fu convertito e dalla sua impresa e dal mondo, lasciando la sua corona al fratello bandito, e restituendo tutte le loro terre a coloro che con lui erano esiliati. Che questo sia vero ne impegno la mia vita.
DUCA SENIORE	Benvenuto, giovane. Tu offri un bel dono alle nozze dei tuoi fratelli: all’uno le sue terre trattenute, e all’altro una terra intera e vasta, un potente ducato. Prima, in questa foresta, compiamo quei fini che qui furono ben cominciati e ben generati. E dopo, ciascuno di questo felice numero che ha sopportato con noi giorni e notti aspri dividerà il bene della nostra fortuna ritornata secondo la misura del suo stato. Frattanto, dimenticate questa dignità appena caduta e abbandonatevi al nostro rustico tripudio. Suonate, musici, e voi tutte spose e voi tutti sposi, con misura colma di gioia entrate nelle misure della danza.
JAQUES	Signore, con vostra pazienza. (A Jaques de Bois) Se v’ho udito bene, il Duca ha preso vita religiosa e ha gettato nell’abbandono la pomposa corte.
JAQUES DE BOIS	L’ha fatto.
JAQUES	A lui andrò. Da questi convertiti c’è molta materia da udire e da imparare. (Al Duca) Voi al vostro antico onore io lascio; la vostra pazienza e la vostra virtù ben lo meritano. (A Orlando) Voi a un amore che la vostra vera fede merita; (A Oliviero) Voi alla vostra terra, e all’amore, e a grandi alleanze; (A Silvio) Voi a un lungo e ben meritato letto; (A Touchstone) E voi ai litigi, ché il tuo amoroso viaggio è vettovagliato solo per due mesi.—Dunque, ai vostri piaceri; io son fatto per altro che per misure di danza.
DUCA SENIORE	Restate, Jaques, restate.
JAQUES	Io non per veder passatempi. Ciò che volete resterò a saperlo nella vostra caverna abbandonata. Esce
DUCA SENIORE	Procedete, procedete. Cominceremo questi riti come confidiamo ch’essi finiranno, in veri diletti.
(didascalia)	Danzano; poi escono tutti tranne Rosalinda
DUCA SENIORE	Epilogo
ROSALINDA	(al pubblico) Non è usanza vedere la dama fare l’epilogo; ma non è più sconveniente che vedere il signore fare il prologo. Se è vero che il buon vino non ha bisogno di frasca, è vero che una buona commedia non ha bisogno d’epilogo. Eppure al buon vino si usa mettere buone frasche, e le buone commedie riescono migliori con l’aiuto di buoni epiloghi. In che caso mi trovo dunque io, che non sono un buon epilogo né posso insinuarmi presso di voi in favore d’una buona commedia! Non sono vestita da mendicante, perciò mendicare non mi s’addice. La mia via è di scongiurarvi; e comincerò dalle donne. Vi scongiuro, o donne, per l’amore che portate agli uomini, di gradire di questa commedia quanto vi piace. E vi scongiuro, o uomini, per l’amore che portate alle donne—ché m’accorgo dai vostri sorrisetti che nessuno di voi le odia—che fra voi e le donne la commedia possa piacere. Se fossi una donna, bacerei quanti di voi avessero barbe che mi piacciono, carnagioni che mi vanno a genio, e aliti che non mi ripugnano. E son certa che quanti hanno buone barbe, o bei volti, o aliti dolci, per la mia gentile offerta, quando farò la riverenza, mi diranno addio.
(didascalia)	Esce