Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love.

And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,

Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway.

O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books,

And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,

That every eye which in this forest looks

Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.

Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

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. As it is a

spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more

plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in

thee, shepherd?

No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is;

and that he that wants money, means, and content is without three good

friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that

good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is

lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may

complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.

Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

No, truly.

Then thou art damned.

Nay, I hope.

Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

For not being at court? Your reason.

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 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.

Instance, briefly. Come, instance.

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 wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better

instance, I say. Come.

Besides, our hands are hard.

Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder

instance, come.

And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would

you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.

Most shallow man! Thou worm’s 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. I’ll rest.

Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in

thee, thou art raw.

Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no

man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, content

with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and

my lambs suck.

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 bell-wether and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth

to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If

thou be’st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no

shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape.

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.

_From the east to western Inde

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 face be kept in mind

But the fair of Rosalind._

I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and

sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.

Out, fool!

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 Rosalind.

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 of verses. Why do you infect yourself

with them?

Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar. Then

it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere

you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

You have said, but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.

Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.

_Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No!

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree

That shall civil sayings show.

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the streching of a span

Buckles in his sum of age;

Some, of violated vows

’Twixt the souls of friend and friend.

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.

Nature presently 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._

O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of love have you wearied

your parishioners withal, and never cried “Have patience, good people!”

How now! Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag

and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

Didst thou hear these verses?

O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them

more feet than the verses would bear.

That’s no matter. The feet might bear the verses.

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?

I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for

look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since

Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

Trow you who hath done this?

Is it a man?

And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?

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, 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 mightst pour

this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of

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! Speak sad brow and true maid.

I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.

Orlando?

Orlando.

Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he

when thou saw’st him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he?

What makes he 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.

You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first. ’Tis a word too great for

any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is

more than to answer in a catechism.

But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel? Looks

he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a

lover. But take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good

observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

It may well be called Jove’s tree when it drops forth such fruit.

Give me audience, good madam.

Proceed.

There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.

Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.

Cry “holla!” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets unseasonably. He was

furnished like a hunter.

O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.

I would sing my song without a burden. Thou bring’st me out of tune.

Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say

on.

You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?

’Tis he! Slink by, and note him.

I thank you for your company but, good faith, I had as lief have been

myself alone.

And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your

society.

God be wi’ you, let’s meet as little as we can.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks.

I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

Rosalind is your love’s name?

Yes, just.

I do not like her name.

There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

What stature is she of?

Just as high as my heart.

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with

goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?

Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have

studied your questions.

You have a nimble wit. I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you

sit down with me? And we two will rail against our mistress the world

and all our misery.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know

most faults.

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.

He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.

There I shall see mine own figure.

Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love.

I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the

knave with him.

Do you hear, forester?

Very well. What would you?

I pray you, what is’t o’clock?

You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest.

Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute

and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a

clock.

And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?

By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.

I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time

gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her

marriage and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a

se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven

year.

Who ambles time withal?

With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout;

for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives

merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean

and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious

penury. These time ambles withal.

Who doth he gallop withal?

With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can

fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Who stays it still withal?

With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and

then they perceive not how time moves.

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest,

like fringe upon a petticoat.

Are you native of this place?

As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a

dwelling.

I have been told so of many. But indeed an old religious uncle of mine

taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man, one that knew

courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read

many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be

touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their

whole sex withal.

Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge

of women?

There were none principal. They were all like one another as halfpence

are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to

match it.

I prithee recount some of them.

No. I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is

a man haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with carving

“Rosalind” on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on

brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet

that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to

have the quotidian of love upon him.

I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you tell me your remedy.

There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you. He taught me how to know a

man in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

What were his marks?

A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have

not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected,

which you have not—but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in

beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should be

ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe

untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation.

But you are no such man. You are rather point-device in your

accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it, which

I warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of

the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences.

But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees,

wherein Rosalind is so admired?

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he,

that unfortunate he.

But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark

house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so

punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers

are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Did you ever cure any so?

Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his

mistress, and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I,

being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing

and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of

tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion

truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this

colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then

forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my

suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness, which

was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook

merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me

to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall

not be one spot of love in ’t.

I would not be cured, youth.

I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day

to my cote and woo me.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.

Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and by the way you shall tell

me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

With all my heart, good youth.

Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?