William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (307 page)
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Authors: William Shakespeare
Tags: #Drama, #Literary Criticism, #Shakespeare
BOOK: William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition
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CELIA Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.
ROSALIND But have I not cause to weep?
CELIA As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
ROSALIND His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
CELIA Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.
ROSALIND I’faith, his hair is of a good colour.
CELIA An excellent colour. Your chestnut was ever the only colour.
ROSALIND And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
CELIA He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously. The very ice of chastity is in them.
ROSALIND But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
CELIA Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
ROSALIND Do you think so?
CELIA Yes. I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.
ROSALIND Not true in love?
CELIA Yes, when he is in. But I think he is not in.
ROSALIND You have heard him swear downright he was.
CELIA ‘Was’ is not ‘is’. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster. They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.
ROSALIND I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as he, so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando?
CELIA O that’s a brave man. He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover, as a puny tilter that spurs his horse but on one side breaks his staff, like a noble goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts, and folly guides. Who comes here?
Enter Corin
CORIN
Mistress and master, you have oft enquired
After the shepherd that complained of love
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
After the shepherd that complained of love
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
CELIA Well, and what of him?
CORIN
If you will see a pageant truly played
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.
ROSALIND (
to Celia
) O come, let us remove.
to Celia
) O come, let us remove.
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
(
To Corin
) Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.
(
To Corin
) Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.
E
xeunt
3.5xeunt
Enter Silvius and Phoebe
SILVIUS
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe.
Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart th’accustomed sight of death makes
hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart th’accustomed sight of death makes
hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, and Corin, and stand aside
PHOEBE (
to Silvius
)
to Silvius
)
I would not be thy executioner.
I fly thee for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell‘st me there is murder in mine eye.
’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable
That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
Now counterfeit to swoon, why now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it. Lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.
I fly thee for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell‘st me there is murder in mine eye.
’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable
That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
Now counterfeit to swoon, why now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it. Lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor I am sure there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.
SILVIUS O dear Phoebe,
If ever—as that ever may be near—
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love’s keen arrows make.
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love’s keen arrows make.
PHOEBE But till that time
Come not thou near me. And when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
ROSALIND (
coming forward
)
coming forward
)
And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no
beauty—
As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed—
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work.—‘Od’s my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes, too.
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it.
’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
(To Silvius) You, foolish shepherd, wherefore do you
follow her
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman. ‘Tis such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favoured children.
’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her,
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
(To Phoebe) But, mistress, know yourself; down on
your knees
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love;
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can. You are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.—
So, take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no
beauty—
As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed—
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work.—‘Od’s my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes, too.
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it.
’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
(To Silvius) You, foolish shepherd, wherefore do you
follow her
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman. ‘Tis such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favoured children.
’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her,
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
(To Phoebe) But, mistress, know yourself; down on
your knees
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love;
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can. You are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.—
So, take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
PHOEBE
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together.
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND (to Phoebe) He’s fallen in love with your foulness, (to Silvius) and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. (To Phoebe) Why look you so upon me?
PHOEBE
For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND
I pray you do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
’Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by.
(
To Celia
) Will you go, sister? (
To Silvius
) Shepherd,
ply her hard.—
Come, sister. (To Phoebe) Shepherdess, look on him
better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.—
Come, to our flock.
Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
’Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by.
(
To Celia
) Will you go, sister? (
To Silvius
) Shepherd,
ply her hard.—
Come, sister. (To Phoebe) Shepherdess, look on him
better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.—
Come, to our flock.
Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin
PHOEBE (
aside
)
aside
)
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’
‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’
SILVIUS
Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS
Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined.
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermined.
PHOEBE
Thou hast my love, is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS
I would have you.
PHOEBE Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love.
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I’ll employ thee, too.
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
And yet it is not that I bear thee love.
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I’ll employ thee, too.
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
SILVIUS
So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
PHOEBE
Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
SILVIUS
Not very well, but I have met him oft,
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
That the old Carlot once was master of.
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
That the old Carlot once was master of.
PHOEBE
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
‘Tis but a peevish boy. Yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? Yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—
But sure he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him.
He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall.
His leg is but so-so; and yet ’tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty-red
Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the
difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not. And yet
Have I more cause to hate him than to love him,
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black,
And now I am remembered, scorned at me.
I marvel why I answered not again.
But that’s all one. Omittance is no quittance.
I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
‘Tis but a peevish boy. Yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? Yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth—not very pretty—
But sure he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him.
He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall.
His leg is but so-so; and yet ’tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty-red
Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the
difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not. And yet
Have I more cause to hate him than to love him,
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black,
And now I am remembered, scorned at me.
I marvel why I answered not again.
But that’s all one. Omittance is no quittance.
I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS
Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE I’ll write it straight.
The matter’s in my head and in my heart.
I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt
4.1I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius. Exeunt
Enter Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena, 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. 9
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.
Enter Orlando
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!
ORLANDO Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind.
JAQUES Nay then, God b’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.
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’th’ shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.
ORLANDO Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 47
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?
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