As You Like It by William Shakespeare (best reads .txt) 📕

company: I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.

SONG [All together here.]
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.

JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

AMIENS. And I'll sing it.

JAQUES. Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.

AMIENS. What's that "ducdame?"

JAQUES. '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.

AMIENS. And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is prepared.

[Exeunt severally.]


SCENE VI. Another part of the Forest.

[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.

ORLANDO. 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 for food to 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'll give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou look'st cheerily: 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 a dinner if there live anything in this desert. Cheerily, good Adam!

[Exeunt.]


SCENE VII. Another part of the Forest.

[A table set. Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and others.]

DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can nowhere find him like a man.

FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

DUKE SENIOR. 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.

FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach.

[Enter JAQUES.]

DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company? What! you look merrily!

JAQUES. 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, Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags; 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine; And after one 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, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep contemplative; And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial.--O noble fool! A worthy fool!--Motley's the only wear.

DUKE SENIOR. What fool is this?

JAQUES. 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 biscuit After a voyage,--he hath strange places cramm'd With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms.-O that I were a fool! I am ambitious for a motley coat.

DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one.

JAQUES. It is my only suit, Provided that you weed your better judgments 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: He that a fool doth very wisely hit Doth very foolishly, although he smart, Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not, The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd Even by the squandering glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley; give me leave To speak my mind, and I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine.

DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

JAQUES. What, for a counter, would I do but good?

DUKE SENIOR. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin; For thou thyself hast been a libertine, As sensual as the brutish sting itself; And all the embossed sores and headed evils That thou with license of free foot hast caught Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

JAQUES. 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 weary 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 metal of my speech? There then; how then? 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.]

ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more.

JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet.

ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.

JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of?

DUKE SENIOR. 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?

ORLANDO. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point 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.

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

DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.

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

DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

ORLANDO. 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 eyelids wip'd a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be: In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

DUKE SENIOR. 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 take upon command what help we have, That to your wanting may be minister'd.

ORLANDO. 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 SENIOR. Go find him out. And we will nothing waste till you return.

ORLANDO. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!

[Exit.]

DUKE SENIOR. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy; This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.

JAQUES. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; 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; 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' eyebrow. 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 And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

[Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM.]

DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden, And let him feed.

ORLANDO. I thank you most for him.

ADAM. So had you need; I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you As yet, to question you about your fortunes.-- Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

[AMIENS sings.]
SONG
I.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,