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 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 gor'd.

1 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 banish'd 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 sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd 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 abandon'd of his velvet friends;
'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 do 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 assign'd and native dwelling place.
DukeS.And did you leave him in this eontemplation?
2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S. Show me the place!

I love to cope him in these sullen fits;

For then he's full of matter.

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
To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Before Oliver's house.
Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.
Orl. 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 bony priser 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!

Orl. 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;
Abhorit, fear it, do not enter it!

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, would'st thou have me go?
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orl.What, would'st 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 sav'd 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 lasty winter,
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

to sing. Come, more! another stanza! call you them | Here was he merry, hearing of a song. stanzas?

Ami. What you will, monsieur Jaques.

Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?

Ami. More at your request, than to please myself. Jaq. Well, then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but that they call compliment, is like the 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.

Ami. Well, I'll end the song.-Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree :- he hath been all this day to look you.

Jaq. 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!

SONG.

Duke S. 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. Enter JAQUES.

1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.
Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What! you look merrily.

Jaq. A fool, a fool!——I met a fool i'the forest,
A motley fool;—a miserable world!-
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd 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,

[All together here. Says, very wisely, It is ten o'clock:

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine;
And after an 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,

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

yesterday in despite of my invention.

Ami. And I'll sing it.

Jaq. Thus it goes:

If it to come to pass,

That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease,
A stubborn will to please,
Ducàdme, ducàdme, ducàdme!

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

And if he will come to me. Ami. What's that ducàdme?

Jaq.'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 first-born of Egypt.

That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
Aud I did laugh, sans intermission,

An hour by his dial.- O noble fool!

A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.
Duke S. What fool is this?

Jaq. 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 bisket

After a voyage,-he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms :-0, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke S. Thou shalt have one.
Jaq. It is my only suit;

Ami. And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is pre-Provided, that you weed your better judgments [Exeunt severally.

par'd.

SCENE VI.-The same.
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!

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: Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? He, that a fool doth very wisely hit, Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little! Doth very foolishly, although he smart, If this uncouth forest yield any think savage, I will ei-Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not, ther be food for it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy con- The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd ceit is nearer death, than thy powers. For my sake, be Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool. comfortable; hold death awhile at the arm's end! I Invest me in my motley; give me leave will here be with thee presently; and if I bring thee not To speak my mind, and I will through and through something to eat, I'll give thee leave to die: but if thou Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. If they will patiently receive my medicine. Well said! thou look'st cheerily and I'll be with thee Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou would'st do. quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do, but good? bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin: lack of a dinner, if there live any thing in this desert. For thou thyself hast been a libertine, Cheerly, good Adam! As sensual, as the brutish sting itself; And all the embossed sores, and headed evils, That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,

SCENE VII.-The same.

[Exeunt.

A table set out. Enter Duke senior, AMIENS, Lords, Would'st thou disgorge into the general world.

and others.

Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast;

For I can no where find him like a man.

1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;

Jaq. 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 very 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, what then? Let me see, wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why then, my taxing like a wild-goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man.-But who comes here?

Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more!

Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet.

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress;
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

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;

And then the whining school-boy, 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' eye-brow. 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 lin❜d,
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 slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

Orl. You touch'd my vein at first; the thorny point And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

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.

Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.

Duke S. What would you have? your gentleness shall force,

More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it!
Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table!
Orl. 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 look'd on better days;

If ever been, where bells have knoll'd to church;

If ever sat at any good man's feast;

If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear,
And know, what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, Iblush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it, that we have seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,
And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes
Of drops, that sacred pity hath engender'd:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And takeupon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be ministred.

Orl. 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
Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,-
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,-
I will not touch a bit.

Duke S. Go find him out,

And we will nothing waste, till you return.

Orl. I thank ye; and be bless'd for your good com

fort!

[Exit.

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants, than the scene,
Wherein we play in.

Jaq. All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

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 remember'd not.

Heigh, ho! sing heigh, ho! etc.

Duke S. If that you were the good sir Rowland's son,-
As you have whisper'd faithfully, you were;

And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd, and living in your face,-
Be truly welcome hither! I am the duke,

That lov'd 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.

А СТ III.

SCENE I.-A room in the palace.

[Exeun.

Enter DukeFREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords, and Attendants.
Duke F. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:
But were I not the better part made mercy,

Touch. 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, Isay; come.

Cor. Besides, our hands are hard.

Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow, again: a more sounderinstance, come.

Cor. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.

Touch. 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!

Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest. [Exeunt. Touch. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good man-infect yourself with them? ners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Cor. 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.

Touch. Instance, briefly; come, instance!
Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their Ros. Peace!
fells, you know, are greasy.