15 As You Like It Act IV
ACT IV
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden
Enter Rosalind, Celia 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.
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.
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.
Enter Orlando.
ORLANDO.
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
JAQUES.
Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
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’ the shoulder, but
I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
ORLANDO.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
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 beholding to your wives for. But
he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.
ORLANDO.
Virtue is no horn-maker 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 warn 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?
ROSALIND.
Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO.
What sayest thou?
ROSALIND.
Are you not good?
ORLANDO.
I hope so.
ROSALIND.
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?
ORLANDO.
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 new-fangled 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 are 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 keyhole. 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.]
SCENE II. Another part of the Forest
Enter Jaques and Lords, like
foresters.
JAQUES.
Which is he that killed the deer?
FIRST LORD.
Sir, it was I.
JAQUES.
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.
SONG
SECOND LORD.
[Sings.]
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.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Rosalind and
Celia.
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.
Enter Silvius.
Look who comes here.
SILVIUS.
My errand is to you, fair youth.
My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.
[Giving a letter.]
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 freestone-coloured hand. I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands.
She has a huswife’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.
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.—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.
[Exit Silvius.]
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 inquire 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
Within an hour, and pacing through the forest,
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 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 it 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—
In 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.
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?
[Exeunt.]