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And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,

Still we went coupled, and inseparable.

Duke F. 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.

Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege. I cannot live out of her company.

If

Duke. F. You are a fool.-You, niece, provide yourself;

you outstay the time, upon mine honor, And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK and Lords. Cel. 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. Ros. I have more cause. Cel. Thou hast not, cousin; Pr'ythee be cheerful. Know'st thou not, the duke Hath banished me, his daughter?

Ros.

That he hath not.

Cel. No? Hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love Which teacheth me that thou and I are 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 change1 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.

1 The second folio reads charge. Malone explains it "to take your change or reverse of fortune upon yourself, without any aid or participation."

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Ros. Why, whither shall we go?

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber1 smirch my face.
The like do you; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.

Ros.

Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall.
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe 2 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 3 and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have,

That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man? Ros. 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?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state;

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal

The clownish fool out of your father's court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Cel. 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.

[Exeunt.

1 "A kind of umber," a dusky yellow-colored earth, brought from Umbria in Italy, well known to artists.

2 This was one of the old words for a cutlass, or short, crooked sword coutelas (French). It was variously spelled, courtlas, courtlax, curtlax. 3 i. e. as we now say, dashing.

ACT II.

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden.

Enter Duke senior, AMIENS, and other Lords, in the dress of Foresters.

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exíle, 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 not1 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;

2

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 every thing.

Ami. 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 S. 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.

1 Lord.

Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;

1 The old copy reads thus. Theobald proposed to read but, and has been followed by subsequent editors.

2 It was currently believed, in the time of Shakspeare, that the toad had a stone contained in its head, which was endued with singular virtues. This was called the toad-stone.

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banished you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens, and myself,
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique 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 the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.

But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle?

1 Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping in 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 alone,
Left and abandoned of his velvet friends;
'Tis right, quoth he; this misery doth part
The flux of company. Anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,

you

look

And never stays to greet him; Ay, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of 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 S. And did you leave him in this contem-
plation?

2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S.

I love to cope1 him in these sullen fits,

Show me the place;

2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt.

For then he's full of matter.

SCENE II. A Room in the Palace.

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be; some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

1 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.

2

2 Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom

so oft

Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,
Confesses, that she secretly o'erheard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company.

Duke F. 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 3
To bring again these foolish runaways.

1 i. e. to encounter him.

3

[Exeunt.

2 "The roynish clown," mangy or scurvy, from roigneux (French). The word is used by Chaucer.

3 "To quail," says Steevens, "is to faint, to sink into dejection;" but the word is here used in a different and quite obvious sense.

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