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
I am the duke That loved your father.
The residue of your fortune Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man, Thou art right welcome
as thy master is.
Support him by the arm.
Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand.
Not see him since?
Sir, sir, that cannot be.
But were I not the better part made mercy, I should not seek an absentargument
Of my revenge, thou present.
But look to it: Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is.
Bring him, dead or living, Within this twelvemonth or turn thou no more To seek a living in our territory.
Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth Of what we think against thee.
Oh, that your Highness knew my heart in this: I never loved my brother in my life.
thou.—Well, push him out of doors And let my officers of such a nature Make an extent
upon his house and lands.
Do this expediently, and turn him going.
Hang there, my verse, in witness
of my love.
And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master 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.
Hast any philosophy
in thee, shepherd?
Such a one is a natural philosopher.
Wast ever in court, shepherd?
Then thou art damned.
Nay, I hope.
Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw’st good manners; if thou never saw’st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation.
Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.
Not a whit, Touchstone.
Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous
in the country as the behavior
of the country is most mockable at the court.
You told me you salute
not at the court but you kiss your hands.
would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.
Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells, you know, are greasy.
Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat?
And is not the grease
of a mutton
as the sweat of a man?
A better instance, I say.
Besides, our hands are hard.
Your lips will feel them the sooner.
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.
You have too courtly a wit for me.
to your Worship.
Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke’s daughter, be banished with her father?
Where will the old duke live?
Wilt thou rest damned?
God help thee, shallow
God make incision in thee; thou art raw.
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 bellwether and to betray
a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated old cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable
Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.
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 fair be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind.
I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping
It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.
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.
Winter garments must be lined, So must slender
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
Why do you infect
yourself with them?
Peace, you dull fool.
I found them on a tree.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
You have said, but whether wisely
or no, let the forest judge.
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.
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.
Didst thou hear these verses?
Oh, yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore
stood lamely in the verse.
But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?
Is it a man?
And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
Change you color?
I prithee, who?
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet, but mountains may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.
Nay, but who is it?
Is it possible?
Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
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 might’st 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.
So you may put a man in your belly.
Is he of God’s making?
What manner of man?
Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard?
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
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.
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your heart both in an instant.
Nay, but the devil take mocking.
I' faith, coz, ’tis he.
What did he when thou saw’st him?
What said he?
How looked he?
Wherein went he?
What makes him 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.
But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel?
If you really are Sir Rowland’s son, as you’ve just whispered to me—and I can absolutely
see the likeness
in your face— you are truly welcome
I am the duke who loved your father.
Come to my cave and tell me the rest of your story.—Good old man, you are as welcome
here as your master is.
Give him your arm.
Give me your hand, and explain your situation to me.
You haven’t seen him since?
Sir, sir, that can’t be true.
If I weren’t a merciful
man, I’d forget about your missing
brother and punish
you in his place.
But do this: find your brother, wherever
Bring him here dead or alive within the next year, or get out off my land.
I’m seizing your lands and all that you possess until your brother gives testimony
that absolves you of any guilt.
I wish your Highness knew my true feelings in this matter: I have never in my life loved my brother.
That makes you an even bigger villain.—Well, throw him out, and have my officers seize his house and lands.
Do this immediately, and send him packing.
Hang there on this tree, you lines of poetry, and bear witness
to my love.
And you, And how are you liking
the shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?
Well, in and of itself, it is a good life, but given that it’s a shepherd’s life, it’s worthless.
In the fact that it’s solitary, I enjoy it very much; but in the sense that it’s private, it’s terrible.
Now, I’m very pleased with it being outdoors, but in its not being at the court, it is boring.
Are you any kind of philosopher
You’re a natural-born philosopher!
Were you ever at court, shepherd?
Then you are damned.
I hope not.
Well, if you were never at court, you were never exposed to good manners; if you never witnessed good manners, your manners must be wicked; wickedness is a sin, and committing sins leads to damnation.
You are in a perilous
Not at all, Touchstone.
The good manners of the court look as silly in the country as country behavior
is laughable at the court.
You told me that you don’t salute
at the court but kiss hands.
Now, if courtiers were shepherds, that kind of courtesy
would be unclean.
Give a quick example.
Why, because we’re always handling our ewes, and their fleece, as you know, is greasy.
What, don’t courtiers' hands sweat?
And isn’t a sheep’s grease
as a man’s sweat?
That’s a poor example.
A better example—come on.
Besides, our hands are hard and calloused.
Then your lips will feel them more quickly.
You are about as much of a thinker as worm’s meat is a nice steak.
Learn from the wise, and comprehend: the courtier’s perfume
is made from cat discharge—much more disgusting than tar.
Fix your example, shepherd.
Your wit is too courtly for me.
I’ll rest now.
Good morning, sir.
Can you tell me whether Rosalind, Duke Senior’s daughter, has also been banished?
Where will the old duke live?
You’re going to rest while you’re still damned?
God help you, foolish man.
Pray God does some surgery
on you: you need to be fixed.
That’s another sin arising from your ignorance: you bring ewes and rams together and make your living by their copulation.
Here comes young Mr. Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.
There is no jewel like Rosalind.
Her worth is carried on the wind And it blows throughout the world, carrying the name of Rosalind.
All the most beautiful paintings Are black when compared to Rosalind.
Don’t think of any beauty But the beauty of Rosalind.
I could rhyme like that for eight years in a row, excepting meal times and sleeping
That awful, plodding rhyme sounded like a row of dairy women stomping off to market.
Oh, stop, fool.
Let me try: If there’s a buck who needs a doe Tell him Rosalind will do.
A cat in heat will look for a mate, And Rosalind certainly will too.
Winter garments need to be filled with something, And so does skinny Rosalind.
After you harvest, you have to sheaf and bind So throw ripe Rosalind on the harvest
The sweetest nut has the sourest rind And Rosalind is that kind of nut.
The man who finds the sweetest rose Will be pricked by it, and by Rosalind.
This is exactly the false way that verses gallop
Quiet, you stupid
I found them on a tree.
Well, the tree bears rotten
All right, you’ve had your say, but we’ll let the forest judge whether or not you spoke wisely.
But on the prettiest branches Or at the end of every sentence
I’ll write “Rosalinda,” Teaching everyone
who can read that the essence
of every spirit Is contained in this one woman.
Heaven commanded Nature To fill her one body With all the graces that women contain.
Nature took Helen’s Cleopatra’s majesty, The best of Atalanta, And unhappy
So, by heaven’s decree, Rosalind Was composed
Of different faces, eyes, and hearts, so that she might have the most prized touches of all.
Heaven wanted Rosalind to have these gifts And me to live and die as her slave.
Were you listening to these verses?
Oh yes, I heard them all, and more, too.
Some of those lines had more feet than the That’s not a problem: the feet can bear Sure, but these feet were
But did you listen to all that poetry
without even wondering about what your name is doing on all these trees?
Was it a man?
And he had a chain that once belonged to you hanging
around his neck.
Are you blushing?
It’s difficult to bring two friends together, but even mountains can be moved together by earthquakes.
No, who are you talking about?
Is it possible?
No, I’m begging you now, tell me who it is.
Oh, this is wonderful, wonderful—just wonderful wonderful!
Good grief, do you think that just because I’m dressed like a man, I have a man’s patience?
Every second you delay is as long and dull as a journey to South Seas.
I’m begging you, tell me who it is quickly, and speak fast.
I wish you could just stammer
man out of your mouth like wine out of a narrow-necked bottle: either too much at once or none at all.
I’m begging you, take the cork out of your mouth so I can drink the news.
So you want to put a man in your belly.
Did God make him?
I mean, what sort of man is he?
Is he enough of a man to wear a hat and grow a beard ?
No, he has only a little beard.
God will send him some more hair, if he thanks Him.
I’ll wait till his beard grows in, if you’ll just hurry up and tell me what chin that beard is on.
It’s Orlando, who triumphed over both the wrestler and you in the same instant.
Damn you for mocking me.
Really, cousin, it’s him.
What did he do when you saw him?
What did he say?
How did he look?
Where did he go?
What brings him here?
Did he ask about me?
Where is he staying?
How did he say good-bye?
And when will you see him again?
Answer me in a word.
You’d better get me But does he know that I’m here in the forest and dressed in men’s clothing?