As You Like It - Orlando

Start of the Play

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? 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.

ADAM: Yonder comes my master, your brother.

Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.

OLIVER: Now, sir, what make you here?

Nothing. I am not taught to make anything.

OLIVER: What mar you then, sir?

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 naught awhile.

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?

O, sir, very well: here in your orchard.

OLIVER: Know you before whom, sir?

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.

OLIVER: What, boy!

Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.

Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

I am no villain. I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. He was my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains.

ADAM: Sweet masters, be patient. For your father’s remembrance, be at accord.

You shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education. You have trained me like a peasant, 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.

I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.

LE BEAU: Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you.

I attend them with all respect and duty.

ROSALIND: Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?

No, fair princess. He is the general challenger. I come but in as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.

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.

I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts, 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.

CHARLES: Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth?

Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.

CHARLES: No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.

You mean to mock me after, you should not have mocked me before. But come your ways.

DUKE FREDERICK: No more, no more.

Yes, I beseech your Grace. I am not yet well breathed.

DUKE FREDERICK: Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?

Orlando, my liege, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.

CELIA: Ay.—Fare you well, fair gentleman.

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: Have with you. Fare you well.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference. O poor Orlando! Thou art overthrown.

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.

I thank you, madam, and pray you tell me this: which of the two was daughter of the duke that was here at the wrestling?

...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.

I rest much bounden to you. Fare you well.

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother, from tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother. But heavenly Rosalind!

Start of Act 2 Scene 3

Who's there?

ADAM: ...And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Know you not, master to some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies?

Why, what's the matter?

ADAM: ...hath heard your praises, and this night he means to burn the lodging where you use to lie, and you within it. I overheard him and his practices. This is no place, this house is but a butchery. Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

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

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

What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food, or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce a thievish living on the common road?

...All this I give you. Let me be your servant. I'll do the service of a younger man in all your business and necessities.

O good old man, how well in thee appears the constant service of the antique world, Thou art not for the fashion of these times, where none will sweat but for promotion. 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.

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

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 food for 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 labor. Well said. Thou look's 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 dinner if there live anything in this dessert. Cheerly, good Adam.

Most mischievous foul sin; all th' embossèd sores and headed evils that thou with license of free foot hast caught wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. But who comes here?

Forbear, and eat no more.

Why, I have eat none yet.

Nor shalt not til necessity be served.

Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress, or else a rude despiser of good manners, that in civility thou seem'st so empty?

You touched my vain at first. The thorny point of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show of smooth civility, yet I am inland bred and know some nurture. But forbear, I say. He dies that touches any of this fruit till I and my affairs are answerèd.

What would you have? Your gentleness shall force more than your force move us to gentleness.

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

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

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 if ever you have looked on better days, and know what 'Tis to pity and be pitied, let gentleness my strong enforcement be.

True it is 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.

Then but forbear your food a little while there is a poor old man who after me hath many a weary step limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed, I will not touch a bit.

Go find him out, and we will nothing waste till you return

I thank you.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,

And let him feed.

I thank you most for him.

Start of Act 3 Scene 2

Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love. And thou, thrice-crownèd queen of night, survey with thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, thy huntress' name that my full life doth away. 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.

I thank you for your company, but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your society.

God be wi' you. Let's meet as little as we can.

I do desire we may be better strangers

I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks.

I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favoredly

Rosalind is your love's name?

Yes, just.

I do not like her name.

There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

What stature is she of?

Just as high as my heart.

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives and conned them out of rings?

Not so. But I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.

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.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.

He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.

There I shall see mine own figure.

Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

I'll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love.

I'm glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

I will speak to him like a saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?

Very well. What would you?

I pray you, what is't o' clock?

You should ask me what time o' day. There's no clock in the forest.

Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and groaning ever hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock.

And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?

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.

I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

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.

Who ambles time withal?

With a priest that lacks 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.

Who doth he gallop withal?

With a thief to the gallows, for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Who stays it still withal?

With Lawyers in the vacation, for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

With this shepardess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon petticoat.

Are you native of this place?

As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

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 offenses as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

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.

I prithee recount some of them.

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.

I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you tell me your remedy.

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.

What were his marks?

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 accouterments, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

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?

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

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.

Did you ever cure any so?

...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 live in't.

I would not be cured, youth.

I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cote and woo me.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.

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?

With all my heart, good youth.

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.

Good day and happiness, dear 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. 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.

My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

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 heart-whole.

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

Of a snail?

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.

What's that?

Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.

Virtue is no hornmaker, and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind?

I would kiss before I spoke.

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 warn us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

How if the kiss be denied?

Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

Marry, that should you if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

What, of my suit?

Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am I not your Rosalind?

I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.

Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.

Then, in mine own person I die.

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. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest for frown might kill me.

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.

Then love me, Rosalind.

Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.

And wilt thou have me?

Ay, and twenty such.

What sayest thou?

Are you not good?

I hope so.

Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? —Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us. —Give me your hand, Orlando. —What do you say, sister?

Pray thee marry us.

Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

I will.

Ay, but when?

Why now, as fast as she can marry us.

Then you must say "I take thee, Rosalind, for wife."

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

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.

So do all thoughts. They are winged.

Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.

Forever and a day.

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 the rain, more newfangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

But will my Rosalind do so?

By my life, she will do as I do.

O, but she is wise.

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 keyhole. Stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say "Wit, whither wilt?"

Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbor's bed

Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbor's bed

And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall 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.

For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.

I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o'clock I will be with thee again.