All language subtitles for As.You.Like.It.WEB-DL.720p.1XBET

Subtitles by explosiveskull

Salutation and
greeting to you all.

Let me have audience
for a word or two.

What's the new news
at the new court?

That is, the old Duke is
banished by his younger brother,

the new Duke,

and three or four loving
lords have put themselves

into voluntary exile with him.

They say he is already
in the Forest of Arden

and a many merry men with him

and there they live like the
old Robin Hood of England.

They say many young gentlemen
flock to him every day

and fleet the time carelessly,

as they did in the golden world.

Rosalind, the Duke's daughter,
be banished with her father.

Oh no.

For the Duke's daughter,
her cousin so loves her,

being ever from their
cradles bred together,

that she would have
followed her exile

or died to stay behind her.

And thereby hangs a tale.

I pray thee, Rosalind,
sweet my cuz, be merry.

Dear Celia, I show more
mirth than I am mistress of,

and would you yet
I were merrier?

Unless you could teach me
to forget a banished father,

you must not learn me

how to remember any
extraordinary pleasure.

Herein I see
thou lovest me not

with the full
weight I love thee.

If my uncle, thy banished
father had banished thy uncle,

the Duke my father, so thou
hadst been s'til with me,

I could have taught my love
to take thy father for mine.

So wouldst thou, if the
truth of thy love to me

were so righteously
tempered as mine is to thee.

Well, I will forget the
condition of my estate

to rejoice in yours.

You know my father
hath no child but I,

nor none is like to have;
and truly, when he dies,

thou shalt be his heir,

for what he hath taken away
from thy father perforce,

I will render thee
again in affection.

By mine honor I will, and
when I break that oath,

let me turn monster.

Therefore my sweet Rose,
my dear Rose, be merry.

From henceforth I will,
cuz, and devise sports.

What think you of
falling in love?

Marry, I prithee do,
to make sport withal;

but love no man in good earnest,

nor no further in sport neither

than with safety of a pure blush

thou mayest in honor
come off again.

As I remember, Adam,
it was upon this fashion

bequeathed me by will but
poor a thousand crowns,

and, as thou sayest,
charged my brother,

on his blessing,
to breed me well.

And there begins my sadness.

He keeps me rustically at home.

Bars me the place of a brother,
and, as much as in him lies,

mines my gentility
with my education.

This is it, Adam,
that grieves me,

and the spirit of my father,
which I think is within me,

begins to mutiny
against this servitude.

I will no longer endure it,

though yet I know no wise
remedy how to avoid it.

Now, sir, what make you here?

Nothing.

I am not taught
to make anything.

What mar you then, sir?

Marry, sir, I am helping you
to mar that which God made.

Know you where you are.

O sir, very well.

Know you before whom, sir?

I know you are
my eldest brother,

and in the gentle condition of
blood you should so know me.

I have as much of my
father in me as you,

albeit I confess
your coming before me

is nearer to his reverence.

What, boy!

Come, come, elder brother,
you are too young in this.

Wilt thou lay
hands on me, villain?

I am no villain.

I am the youngest son
of Sir Rowland de Boys.

He was my father, and
he is thrice a villain

that says such a
father begot villains.

Wert thou not my brother,

I would not take this
hand from thy throat

'til this other had pulled
out thy tongue for saying so.

Thou hast railed on thyself.

Sweet masters, be patient.

For your father's
remembrance, be at accord.

Let me go, I say.

I will not 'til I please.

You shall hear me.

My father charged you in his
will to give me good education.

You have trained
me like a peasant,

obscuring and hiding from me
all gentleman-like qualities.

I will no longer endure it.

Therefore allow me such exercises
as may become a gentleman,

or give me the poor allottery

my father left me by testament.

With that I will
go buy my fortunes.

And what wilt thou do?

Beg, when that is spent?

You shall have some
part of your will.

I pray you, leave me.

I will no further offend you
than becomes me for my good.

Get you with him, you old dog.

Is "old dog" my reward?

Most true, I have lost
my teeth in your service.

God be with my old master.

He would not have
spoke such a word.

Is it even so?

Begin you to grow upon me?

I will physic your rankness,

and yet give no
thousand crowns neither.

I am given, sir,
secretly to understand

that your younger brother
Orlando hath a disposition

to come in disguised
against me to try a fall.

He is resolute;
full of ambition,

an envious emulator of
every man's good parts,

a secret and
villainous contriver

against me, his natural brother.

Therefore use thy discretion.

I had as lief he didst
break his neck as his finger.

he will practice
against thee by poison,

entrap thee by some
treacherous device

and never leave thee 'til
he hath ta'en thy life

by some indirect means or other.

For, I assure thee, and
almost with tears I speak it,

there is not one so young and
so villainous this day living.

I speak but brotherly of him,

but should I anatomize
him to thee as he is,

I must blush and weep, and
thou must look pale and wonder.

I will give him his payment.

If ever he go alone again,

I'll never wrestle
for prize more.

Bonjour, Monsieurs Le Beau.

What's the news?

Fair princess,
you have lost much...

good sport.

Sport?

Of what color?

What color, madam?

How shall we answer you?

As wit and fortune will.

Or as the destinies decrees.

Well said.

That was laid on with a trowel.

Nay, if I keep not my rank.

Thou losest thy old smell.

You amaze us, ladies.

We would have told
you of good wrestling.

Which you have
lost the sight of.

And if it please
your ladyships...

You may see the end for
the best is yet to do.

Shall we see this
wrestling, cousin?

Alas, he is too young.

Yet he looks successfully.

How now, daughter?

Are you crept hither
to watch the wrestling?

Ay, my liege, so
please you give us leave.

You will take little
delight in it, I can tell you.

Come, where is
this young gallant

that is so desirous to
lie with his Mother Earth?

You mean to mock me after,

you should not have
mocked me before.

I am more proud to
be Sir Rowland's son.

And I would not
change that calling

to be adopted heir to Frederick.

Gentle cousin, let us go
thank him and encourage him.

My father's rough and
envious disposition

sticks me at heart.

What is thy name, young man?

Orlando, the youngest
son of Sir Rowland de Boys.

My father loved Sir
Rowland as his soul,

and all the world was
of my father's mind.

Sir, you have well deserved.

If you do keep your
promises in love but justly,

as you have exceeded
all promise,

your mistress shall be happy.

Gentleman, wear this for me.

One out of suits with fortune,

that could give more but
that her hand lacks means.

Sir, you have wrestled well

and overthrown more
than your enemies.

Will you go, cuz?

Have with you.

Fare ye well.

What passion hangs these
weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her,
yet she urged conference.

O poor Orlando!

Thou art overthrown.

Or Charles or something
weaker masters thee.

Good sir, we do in
friendship counsel you

to leave this place.

The Duke is humorous.

What he is indeed
more suits you

to conceive than we to speak of.

I thank you, sirs.

I rest much bounden to you.

Fare you well.

Thus must I from the
smoke into the smother,

from tyrant Duke unto
a tyrant brother.

But heavenly Rosalind!

Why, cousin!

Why, Rosalind!

Cupid have mercy, not a word?

But is all this for your father?

No, some of it is
for my child's father.

Come, come, wrestle
with thy affections.

O, they take the part of a
better wrestler than myself.

Is it possible on such
a sudden you should fall

into so strong a liking with
old Sir Rowland's youngest son?

The Duke my father
loved his father dearly.

Doth it therefore ensue

that you should
love his son dearly?

By this kind of chase
I should hate him,

for my father hated
his father dearly.

Yet I hate not Orlando.

No, faith, hate
him not, for my sake.

Look, here comes the Duke.

With his eyes full of anger.

Mistress, dispatch you

with your safest haste and
get you from our court.

Me, uncle?

You, cousin.

Within these 10 days if
that thou beest found

so near our public court
as 20 miles thou...

I do beseech your grace,

let me the knowledge of
my fault bear with me.

Thou art thy
father's daughter.

There's enough.

So was I when your
Highness took his dukedom.

So was I when your
Highness banished him.

Never so much as
an athought unborn

did I offend your highness.

Thus do all traitors.

If their purgation
did consist in words,

they are as innocent
as grace itself.

Let it suffice thee

that I trust thee not.

If she be a
traitor, why, so am I?

Firm and
irrevocable is my doom

which I have passed upon her.

She is banished.

Pronounce that sentence
then on me, my liege.

I cannot live out
of her company.

You are a fool.

You, niece, provide yourself.

If you outstay the time,

upon mine honor and in
the greatness of my word.

O my poor Rosalind,
whither wilt thou go?

Wilt thou change fathers?

I will give thee mine.

I charge thee, be not thou
more grieved than I am.

I have more cause.

Thou hast not, cousin.

I prithee, be cheerful.

Know'st thou not the Duke hath
banished me, his daughter?

That he hath not.

No, hath not?

Rosalind lacks then the
love which teacheth thee

that thou and I am one.

Shall we be sundered?

Shall we part, sweet girl?

No, let my father
seek another heir.

Therefore devise with
me how we may fly,

whither to go, and
what to bear with us,

and do not seek to bear
your griefs yourself

and leave me out.

For, by this heaven,
now at our sorrows pale,

say what thou canst,
I'll go along with thee.

Why, whither shall we go?

To seek my uncle in
the Forest of Arden.

Alas, what danger
will it be to us,

maids as we are, to
travel forth so far?

Beauty provoketh thieves
sooner than gold.

I'll put myself in
poor and mean attire,

and with a kind of
umber smirch my face.

The like do you.

So shall we pass along
and never stir assailants.

Were it not better,

because that I am
more than common tall,

that I did suit me
all points like a man?

What shall I call thee
when thou art a man?

I'll have no worse a
name than Jove's own page,

and therefore look
you call me Ganymede.

But what will you be called?

Something that hath a
reference to my state:

no longer Celia, but Aliena.

But, cousin,
what if we assayed

to steal master Touchstone
out of your father's court?

Would he not be a
comfort to our travel?

He'll go along o'er
the wide world with me.

Leave me alone to woo him.

Let's away and get our jewels
and our wealth together.

Now go we in content to
liberty and not to banishment.

O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.

Now, my co-mates
and brothers in exile,

hath not old custom
made this life

more sweet than that
of painted pomp?

Are not these woods
more free from peril

than the envious court?

Sweet are the uses of adversity.

And this our life
exempt from public haunt

finds tongues in trees,
books in the running brooks,

sermons in stones and
good in everything.

I would not change it.

Happy is your grace, that can
translate the stubbornness

of fortune into so quiet
and so sweet a style.

Come, shall we go
and kill us venison?

Who's there?

Who's there?

O, my gentle master,
O my sweet master,

O you memory of old Sir Rowland!

Why, what make you here?

Come not within these doors.

This is no place, this
house is but a butchery.

With a base and
boisterous sword

enforce a thievish living
on the common road.

This I must do, or
know not what to do.

But do not so.

I have 500 crowns,

the thrifty hire I
saved under your father,

which I did store to
be my foster nurse

when service should in
my old limbs lie lame.

Here is the gold.

All this I give you.

Let me be your servant.

Let me go with you.

O good old man,
how well in thee

appears the constant service
of the antique world.

But come thy ways;
we'll go along together,

and ere we have thy
youthful wages spent,

we'll light upon some
settled low content.

Master, go on, and I will
follow thee to the last gasp,

with truth and loyalty.

Can it be possible
that no man saw them?

It cannot be.

Some villains of my court

are of consent and
sufferance in this.

I cannot hear of
any that did see her.

My lord, I 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 I believe
wherever they are gone

that youth is surely
in their company.

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.

That is the way to
make her scorn you s'til.

O Corin, that thou
knew'st how I do love her!

I partly guessed, for
I have loved ere now.

But if thy love were
ever like to mine

as sure I think did
never man love so

how many actions most ridiculous

hast thou been drawn
to by thy fantasy?

Into a thousand
that I have forgotten.

O, thou didst then
ne'er love so heartily.

If thou remembr'est
not the slightest folly

that ever love did make thee
run into, thou hast not loved.

Or if thou hast not broke
from company abruptly,

as my passion now makes
me, thou hast not loved.

Alas, poor shepherd,
searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure
found mine own.

We that are true lovers
run into strange capers.

But as all is mortal in nature,

so is all nature in
love mortal in folly.

Good even to you, friend.

And to you, gentle
sir, and to you all.

I prithee, shepherd,
if that love or gold

can in this desert
place buy entertainment,

bring us where we may
rest ourselves and feed.

Here's a young maid with
travel much oppressed.

And faints for succor.

My master is of
churlish disposition

and little recks to
find the way to heaven

by doing deeds of hospitality.

Besides, his cote, his
flocks, and bounds of feed

are now on sale, and
at our sheepcote now,

by reason of his absence,

there is nothing that
you will feed on.

But what is, come see,

and in my voice most
welcome shall you be.

♪ Under the greenwood tree
who loves to lie with me ♪

♪ And turn his merry note
unto the sweet bird's throat ♪

♪ Come hither, come
hither, come hither ♪

♪ Here shall he see no enemy ♪

♪ But winter and rough weather ♪

More, more, I prithee, more.

It will make you
melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

I thank it.

I can suck melancholy out of
a song as a weasel sucks eggs.

More, I prithee, more.

My voice is ragged.

I know I cannot please you.

I do not desire
you to please me.

I do desire you to sing.

Come, more; another stanzo.

Call you 'em stanzos?

What you will,
Monsieur Jaques.

Nay, I care not
for their names.

They owe me nothing.

Will you sing?

More at your request
than to please myself.

Well then, if ever I thank
any man, I'll thank you.

♪ Who doth ambition shun and
loves to live in the sun ♪

♪ Seeking the food he eats and
pleased with what he gets ♪

♪ Come hither, come
hither, come hither ♪

♪ Here shall he see no enemy ♪

♪ But winter and rough weather ♪

I'll give you a
verse to this note

that I made yesterday in
despite of my invention.

Thus it goes.

♪ If it do come to pass
that any man turn ass ♪

♪ Leaving his wealth and ease ♪

♪ A stubborn will to please ♪

♪ Here shall he see
gross fools as he ♪

♪ An if he will come to me ♪

What's that?

'Tis a Greek invocation
to call fools into a circle.

I pray thee, if it
stand with honesty,

buy thou the cottage,
pasture, and the flock,

and thou shalt have
to pay for it of us.

And we will mend thy wages.

I like this place, and willingly
could waste my time in it.

Assuredly the
thing is to be sold.

If you like upon
report the soil,

the profit, and
this kind of life,

I will your very
faithful feeder be

and buy it with your
gold right suddenly.

Not see him since?

Sir, sir, that cannot be.

But look to it, find out thy
brother, wheresoe'er he is.

Bring him, or turn thou no more

to seek a living
in our territory.

Dear master, I
can go no further.

O, I die for food.

Here lie I down and
measure out my grave.

Farewell, kind master.

Why, how now, Adam?

No greater heart in thee?

If this uncouth forest
yield any thing savage,

I will either be food for it
or bring it for food to thee.

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 will give thee leave to die:

but if thou diest before I come,

thou art a mocker of my labor.

Thou lookest cheerly, and
I'll be with thee quickly.

Thou shalt not die
for lack of a dinner,

if there live any
thing in this desert.

Give me leave
to speak my mind,

and I will through and through

cleanse the foul body
of this infected world,

if they will patiently
receive my medicine.

Fie on thee!

I can tell what thou wouldst do.

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

Most mischievous foul
sin in chiding sin,

for thou thyself hast
been a libertine.

But who comes here?

Forbear,
and eat no more.

Art thou thus boldened,
man, by thy distress,

or else a rude despiser
of good manners,

that in civility thou
seem'st so empty?

You touched my vein at first.

The thorny point
of bare distress

hath ta'en from me the
show of smooth civility.

He dies that touches
any of this fruit

'til I and my
affairs are answered.

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

What would you have?

Your gentleness shall force

more than your force
move us to gentleness.

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

Sit down and feed, and
welcome to our table.

Speak you so gently?

Pardon me, I pray you.

And therefore sit
you down in gentleness,

and take upon command
what help we have

that to your wanting
may be ministered.

Then but forbear your
food a little while,

as 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

limped in pure love.

'Til he be first sufficed,
oppressed with two weak evils,

age and hunger, I
will not touch a bit.

Go find him out,

and we will nothing
waste 'til you return.

I thank you; and be blessed
for your good comfort.

Thou seest we are
not all alone unhappy.

This wide and universal theater

presents more woeful pageants

than the scene
wherein we play in.

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.

And then the whining schoolboy,

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 honor,

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 lined,

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 slippered pantaloon

with spectacles on
nose and pouch on side,

his youthful hose, well saved,

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.

Welcome.

Set down your venerable
burden, and let him feed.

I thank
you most for him.

So had you need.

I scarce can speak to
thank you for myself.

DUKE, SR.: Give us some
music, and good Amiens, sing.

♪ 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 ♪

♪ Though thy breath be rude ♪

♪ Breath be rude ♪

♪ Heigh ho, sing heigh-ho
unto the green holly ♪

♪ Most friendship is feigning,
most loving mere folly ♪

♪ Then, heigh ho, the holly ♪

♪ This life is most jolly ♪

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

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.

And how like you this country
life, Master Touchstone?

Truly, shepherd, in respect
of itself, it is a good life;

but in respect that it is a
country 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 is it a spare life, look
you, it fits my humor 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.

Why, if thou
never wast at court,

thou never sawest good manners.

Those that are good
manners at the court

are as ridiculous in the country

as the behavior of the country

is most mockable at the court.

God help thee shallow
man, thou art raw.

Sir, I am a true laborer.

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.

From the east to western
Ind, no jewel is like Rosalind.

Here comes young
Master Ganymede,

my new mistress's brother.

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.

Out, fool.

For a taste: If a
hart do lack a hind

let him seek out
Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lined

so must slender 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.

Peace.

Here comes my sister reading.

Therefore heaven
nature charged

that one body should be filled

with all graces wide-enlarged.

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.

Didst thou hear these verses?

O yes, I heard them all.

For look here what I
found on a palm tree.

Trow you who hath done this?

Is it a man?

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

Change you color?

Nay, but who is it?

Is it possible?

Nay, I prithee now with
most petitionary vehemence,

tell me who it is.

O wonderful, wonderful,
and most wonderful wonderful,

and yet again wonderful, and
after that out of all whooping!

I prithee take the
cork out of thy mouth,

that I may drink thy tidings.

So you may put a
man in your belly.

What manner of man?

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.

In faith, cuz, '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 aye 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.

'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-favoredly.

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 have a nimble wit.

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.

By my troth, I was out

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 Senor Love.

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 diverse
paces with diverse persons.

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 cony 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.

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 offenses

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

'til 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.

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.

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 color;

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 humor of love

to a living humor 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?

And how, Audrey?

Am I the man yet?

Doth my simple
features content you?

Your features,
Lord warrant us!

What features?

I am here with thee, as
the most capricious poet,

honest Ovid, was
among the Goths.

When a man's verses
cannot be understood,

nor a man's good wit seconded
with the forward child,

understanding, it
strikes a man more dead

than a great reckoning
in a little room.

Truly, I would the gods
had made thee poetical.

I do not know
what poetical is.

Is it honest in deed and word?

Is it a true thing?

No, truly, for
the truest poetry

is the most feigning;

and lovers are given to poetry,

and what they swear
in poetry may be said

as lovers they do feign.

Do you wish, then,

that the gods had
made me poetical?

I do, truly, for thou
swear'st to me thou art honest.

Now, if thou wert a poet,

I might have some
hope thou didst feign.

Would you not have me honest?

No, truly, unless
thou wert hardfavored;

for honesty coupled to beauty

is to have honey
a sauce to sugar.

Well, I am not fair,

and therefore I pray
the gods make me honest.

Truly, and to cast away
honesty upon a foul slut

were to put good meat
into an unclean dish.

I am not a slut, though
I thank the gods I am foul.

Well, praised be the
gods for thy foulness;

sluttishness may come hereafter.

But be it as it may be,

I will marry thee.

Is there none here
to give the woman?

Will you be married, motley?

As the ox hath his bow,
sir, the horse his curb,

and the falcon her bells,
so man hath his desires;

and as pigeons bill, so
wedlock would be nibbling.

And will you, being
a man of your breeding,

be married under a
bush like a beggar?

Get you to church,
and have a good priest

that can tell you
what marriage is.

It will be a good
excuse for me hereafter

to leave my wife.

Go thou with me, and
let me counsel thee.

Come, sweet Audrey.

We must be married, or
we must live in bawdry.

Never talk to me.

I will weep.

Do, I prithee, but
yet have the grace

to consider that tears
do not become a man.

But have I not cause to weep?

As good cause as
one would desire.

Therefore weep.

His very hair is of
the dissembling color.

And his kissing is
as full of sanctity

as the touch of holy bread.

The very ice of
chastity is in them.

But why did he say he
would come this morning,

and comes not?

Nay, certainly, there
is no truth in him.

Do you think so?

Yes.

I think he is not a pickpurse
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.

Not true in love?

Yes, when he is in,
but I think he is not in.

You have heard him
swear downright he was.

Was is not is.

Besides, the oath of a lover

is no stronger than
the word of a tapster.

He attends here in the forest
on the Duke your father.

What talk we of fathers

when there is such
a man as Orlando?

Who comes here?

Mistress and master,
you have oft inquired

after the shepherd that
complained of love.

Well, and what of him?

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.

O come, let us remove.

The sight of lovers
feedeth those in love.

Bring us to this sight,

and you shall say I'll prove
a busy actor in their play.

Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me.

Say that you love me not,
but say not so in bitterness.

Will you sterner be

than he that dies and
lives by bloody drops?

I would not be
thy executioner.

I fly thee, for I
would not injure thee.

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.

But 'til that time
come not thou near me:

and when that time comes,
afflict me with thy mocks,

pity me not, as 'til that
time I shall not pity thee.

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 look you 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.

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-favored children.

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.

Sweet youth, I pray you,
chide a year together.

I had rather hear you
chide than this man woo.

He's fall'n in love
with your foulness.

Why look you so upon me?

For no ill will I bear you.

I pray you, do not
fall in love with me,

for I am falser than
vows made in wine.

Besides, I like you not.

Will you go, sister?

Shepherd, ply her hard.

Shepherdess, look on him
better, and be not proud.

Though all the world could see,

none could be so
abused in sight as he.

Dead shepherd, now I
find thy saw of might:

Who ever loved that
loved not at first sight?

Sweet Phoebe.

What sayst thou, Silvius?

Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

Why, I am sorry for
thee, gentle 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.

Thou hast my love.

Is not that neighborly?

I would have you.

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.

Loose now and then
a scattered smile

and that I'll live upon.

Know'st thou the youth
that spoke to me erewhile?

Not very well, but
I have met him oft,

and he hath bought the
cottage and the grounds

that the old carlot
once was master of.

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 offense

his eye did heal it up.

There was a pretty
redness in his lip,

a little riper
and more lusty red

than that mixed in his cheek.

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 I have more cause to
hate him than to love him.

I'll write to him a
very taunting letter,

and thou shalt bear it.

Wilt thou, Silvius?

Phoebe, with all my heart.

I'll write it straight.

The matter is in my
head and in my heart.

I will be bitter with
him and passing short.

Why, how now, Orlando, where
have you been all this while?

You a lover?

And you serve me
such another trick,

never come in my sight more.

My fair Rosalind, I come
within an hour of my promise.

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 heart-whole.

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Nay, an you be so tardy,
come no more in my sight.

I had as lief be
wooed of a snail.

A snail?

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.

What's that?

Why, horns.

Virtue is no hornmaker,
and my Rosalind is virtuous.

And I am your Rosalind.

It pleases him to call you so,

but he hath a Rosalind of
a better leer than you.

Come, woo me, woo me,

for now I am in a holiday humor

and like enough to consent.

What would you say to me now,

an I were your
very, very Rosalind?

I would kiss before I spoke.

Nay, you were
better speak first,

and if you were gravel=led
for lack of matter,

you might take occasion to kiss.

What if the kiss be denied?

Then she puts you to entreaty,

and there begins new matter.

Who could be out, being
before his beloved mistress?

Marry, that should you
if I were your mistress,

or I should think my
honesty ranker than my wit.

What, of my suit?

Not out of your apparel,
and yet out of your suit.

Am not I your Rosalind?

I take some joy to say you are

because I would
be talking of her.

Well, in her person
I say I will not have you.

Then, in mine
own person I die.

No, faith, die by attorney.

Men have died from time to
time, and worms have eaten them,

but not for love.

I would not have my right
Rosalind of this mind,

for I protest, her
frown might kill me.

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.

Then
love me, Rosalind.

Yes, faith, will I,

Fridays and Saturdays and all.

Wilt thou have me?

Ay, and 20 such.

What sayest thou?

Are you not good?

I hope so.

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?

Pray thee marry us.

I cannot say the words.

You must begin
will you, Orlando.

Go to.

Will you, Orlando, have
to wife this Rosalind?

I will.

Ay, but when?

Why now, as fast
as she can marry us.

Then you must say I take
thee, Rosalind, for wife.

I take thee,
Rosalind, for wife.

I might ask you
for your commission,

but I do take thee,
Orlando, for my husband.

But will
my Rosalind do so?

By my life, she
will do as I do.

These two hours,
Rosalind, I will leave thee.

Alas, dear love, I
cannot lack thee two hours.

I must attend
the duke at dinner.

By two o'clock I will
be with thee again.

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?

Ay, sweet Rosalind.

By my troth, and
in good earnest,

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.

With no less religion

than if thou wert
indeed my Rosalind.

So, adieu.

Well, time is the old justice

that examines all such
offenders, and let time try.

Adieu.

Is it not past two o'clock?

And here much Orlando.

I warrant you, with pure
love and troubled brain

he hath ta'en his bow and arrows
and is gone forth to sleep.

My errand is to
you, fair youth.

My gentle Phoebe did
bid me give you this.

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.

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?

'Tis a boisterous
and a cruel style.

Will you hear the letter?

So please you, for
I never heard it yet,

yet heard too much
of Phoebe's cruelty.

Mark how the tyrant writes.

"Art thou god to
shepherd turned,

"that a maiden's
heart hath burned?

"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?"

Did you ever hear such railing?

Call you this railing?

Alas, poor shepherd.

Do you pity him?

No, he deserves no pity.

Wilt thou love such a woman?

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.

Good morrow, fair ones.

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 favor,

"and bestows himself
like a ripe sister;

"the woman low and
browner than her brother."

Orlando doth commend
him to you both,

and to that youth he
calls his Rosalind

he sends this bloody napkin.

Are you he?

I am.

What must we understand by this?

Some of my shame,
if you will know of me

what man I am, and how, and why,

and where this
handkercher was stained.

I pray you, tell it.

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.

Now, sir, what make you here?

It was his brother,
his elder brother.

A most wicked Sir Oliver.

O, I have heard
him speak of that same brother,

and he did render him

the most unnatural
that lived amongst men.

And
well he might so do

for well I know
he was unnatural.

Are you his brother?

Was't you that did so
oft contrive to kill him?

'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.

For
the bloody napkin?

The gilded snake had
torn some flesh away,

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.

Why, how now,
Ganymede, sweet Ganymede.

Many will swoon when
they do look on blood.

There is more in it.

Cousin Ganymede.

Look, he recovers.

I pray you, will you
take him by the arm?

Be of good cheer, youth.

You a man?

You lack a man's heart.

I do so, I confess it.

Ah, sirrah, a body would think
this was wellcounterfeited.

I pray you, tell your brother
how well I counterfeited.

Heigh-ho.

This was not counterfeit.

There is too great
testimony in your complexion

that it was a
passion of earnest.

Counterfeit, I assure you.

Well then, take a good heart
and counterfeit to be a man.

So I do; but i' faith,

I should have been
a woman by right.

We shall find a time, Audrey.

Patience, gentle Audrey.

But, Audrey, there is a youth

here in the forest
lays claim to you.

Ay, I know who 'tis.

He hath no interest
in me in the world.

Here's the man you mean.

It is meat and drink
to me to see a clown.

By my troth, we that have good
wits have much to answer for.

We shall be flouting.

We cannot hold.

Good ev'n, Audrey.

God gi' good ev'n, William.

And good ev'n to you, sir.

Good ev'n, gentle friend.

Cover thy head, cover thy head.

Nay, prithee, be covered.

How old are you, friend?

Five and 20 sir.

A ripe age.

Is thy name William?

William, sir.

A fair name.

Wast born in th' forest here?

Ay, sir, I thank
God.

"Thank God."

Good answer.

Art rich?

'Faith, sir, so-so.

"So-so" is good, very
good, very excellent good.

And yet it is not:
it is but so-so.

Art thou wise?

Ay, sir, I have a
pretty wit.

Why, thou sayest well.

I do now remember a saying:

The fool doth think he is wise,

but the wise man knows
himself to be a fool.

You do love this maid?

I do, sir.

Art thou learned?

No, sir.

- Then learn this of
me: to have, is to have.

For it is a figure in
rhetoric that drink,

being poured out of
a cup into a glass,

by filling the one
doth empty the other.

For all your writers do
consent that ipse is he.

Now, you are not
ipse, for I am he.

Which he, sir?

He, sir, that must
marry this woman.

Therefore, you clown, abandon
which is in the vulgar leave

the society which in
the boorish is company

of this female which
in the common is woman;

which together is, abandon
the society of this female,

or, clown, thou perishest;

or, to thy better
understanding, diest;

or, to wit, I kill thee,

make thee away, translate
thy life into death,

thy liberty into bondage.

I will deal in poison with thee,

or in bastinado, or in steel.

I will bandy with
thee in faction.

I will overrun thee with policy.

I will kill thee 150 ways.

Therefore tremble and depart.

Do, good William.

God rest you merry, sir.

Is't possible that on
so little acquaintance

you should like her?

That but seeing you
should love her?

And loving woo?

And, wooing, she should grant?

And will you persever
to enjoy her?

Neither call the
giddiness of it in question,

the poverty of her,
the small acquaintance,

my sudden wooing, nor
her sudden consenting,

but say with me I love Aliena;

say with her that she loves me;

consent with both that
we may enjoy each other.

It shall be to your good,
for my father's house

and all the revenue that
was old Sir Rowland's

will I estate upon you,

and here live and
die a shepherd.

Let your wedding be tomorrow.

Thither will I invite the Duke

and all's contented followers.

Go you and prepare Aliena,

for, look you, here
comes my Rosalind.

God save you, brother.

And you, fair sister.

O my dear Orlando,
how it grieves me

to see thee wear thy
heart in a scarf.

It is my arm.

I thought thy heart
had been wounded.

Wounded it is, with
the eyes of a lady.

Did your brother tell
you how I counterfeited

to swoon when he showed
me your handkercher?

Ay, and greater
wonders than that.

Nay, 'tis true.

There was never
any thing so sudden

but the fight of two rams
and Caesar's thrasonical brag

of "I came, saw, and overcame."

For your brother and
my sister no sooner met

but they looked, no sooner
looked but they loved,

no sooner loved but they sighed,

no sooner sighed but they
asked one another the reason,

no sooner knew the reason
but they sought the remedy.

They are in the very wrath of
love, and they will together.

Clubs cannot part them.

They shall be
married tomorrow.

But O, how bitter a thing
it is to look into happiness

through another man's eyes.

By so much the more
shall I tomorrow

be at the height
of heart-heaviness

by how much I shall
think my brother happy

in having what he wishes for.

Why then, tomorrow I cannot
serve your turn for Rosalind?

I can live no
longer by thinking.

I will weary you then no
longer with idle talking.

Know of me then, for now
I speak to some purpose,

that I know you are a
gentleman of good conceit.

If you do love Rosalind
so near the heart

as your gesture cries it out,

when your brother marries
Aliena shall you marry her.

I know into what straits
of fortune she is driven,

and it is not impossible to me,

if it appear not
inconvenient to you,

to set her before your eyes
tomorrow, human as she is.

Speak'st thou
in sober meanings?

By my life I do.

Therefore, put you in your
best array, bid your friends;

for if you will be married
tomorrow, you shall,

and to Rosalind, if you will.

Look, here comes a lover of
mine and a lover of hers.

Youth, you have done
me much ungentleness

to show the letter
that I writ to you.

I care not if I have.

It is my study to seem
despiteful and ungentle to you.

You are there followed
by a faithful shepherd.

Look upon him, love
him; he worships you.

Good shepherd, tell this
youth what 'tis to love.

It is to be all made
of sighs and tears,

and so am I for Phoebe.

And I for Ganymede.

And I for Rosalind.

And I for no woman.

It is to be all made
of faith and service,

and so am I for Phoebe.

And I for Ganymede.

And I for Rosalind.

And I for no woman.

It is to be all
made of fantasy,

all made of passion
and all made of wishes,

all adoration, duty,
and observance,

all humbleness, all
patience and impatience,

all purity, all trial
and all obedience.

And so am I for Phoebe.

And so am I for Ganymede.

And so
am I for Rosalind.

And so
am I for no woman.

If this be so, why
blame you me to love you?

If this be so, why
blame you me to love you?

If this be so, why
blame you me to love you?

Why
do you speak too,

why blame you me to love you?

To her that is not
here, nor doth not hear.

Pray you, no more of this.

'Tis like the howling of
Irish wolves against the moon.

I will help you, if I can.

I would love you, if I could.

Tomorrow meet me all together.

I will marry you, if
ever I marry woman,

and I'll be married tomorrow.

I will satisfy you,
if ever I satisfy man,

and you shall be
married tomorrow.

I will content you, if what
pleases you contents you,

and you shall be
married tomorrow.

As you love Rosalind, meet.

As you love Phoebe, meet.

And as I love no
woman, I'll meet.

So fare you well.

I have left you commands.

I'll not fail, if I live.

Nor I.

Nor I.

It is 10:00 o'clock.

Tomorrow will I be married.

Thus may we see
how the world wags.

'Tis but an hour ago
since it was nine,

and after one hour
more 'twill be 11.

And so, from hour to
hour, we ripe and ripe,

and then, from hour to
hour, we rot and rot.

♪ It was a lover and his
lass, with a hey, and a ho ♪

♪ And a hey-nonny-no, that
life was but a flower ♪

♪ And therefore take the present
time, with a hey, and a ho ♪

♪ And a hey-nonny-no, for love
is crowned with the prime ♪

♪ In springtime ♪

♪ The only pretty ring
time, when birds do sing ♪

♪ Hey ding a ding ♪

♪ Sweet lovers love the spring ♪

♪ The only pretty ring
time, when birds do sing ♪

♪ Hey ding a ding ♪

♪ Sweet lovers love the spring ♪

Here comes a pair a pair
of very strange beasts,

in which all tongues
are called fools.

Good my lord, this is the
motleyminded gentleman

I have so often
met in the forest.

He hath been a
courtier, he swears.

If any man doubt that, let
him put me to my purgation.

I've trod a measure.

I have flattered a lady.

I have been politic with my
friend, smooth with mine enemy.

I have undone three tailors.

I have had four quarrels, and
I like to have fought one.

And how
was that ta'en up?

Faith, we met,

and found the quarrel was
upon the seventh cause.

Upon a lie seven times removed.

Bear your body more
seeming, Audrey.

As thus, sir.

I did dislike the cut of a
certain courtier's beard.

He sent me word if I said
his beard was not cut well,

he was in the mind that it was.

This is called the
retort courteous.

If I sent him word again
it was not well cut,

he would send me word he cut
it to please himself.

This is called the quip modest.

If again it was not well
cut, he disabled my judgment.

This is called the
reply churlish.

If again it was not well cut,

he would answer
I spake not true.

This is called the
reproof valiant.

If again it was not well
cut, he would say I lie.

This is called the
countercheck quarrelsome,

and so to the lie circumstantial
and the lie direct.

And how oft did you say
his beard was not well cut?

I durst go no further
than the lie circumstantial,

nor he durst not give
me the lie direct;

and so we measured
swords and parted.

Is not this a rare
fellow, my lord?

He's as good at
anything and yet a fool.

He uses his folly
like a stalkinghorse,

and under the
presentation of that

he shoots his wit.

Then is there mirth in heaven

when Earthly things made
even atone together.

Good Duke, receive thy daughter.

Hymen from heaven brought
her, yea, brought her hither,

that thou mightst join
her hand with his,

whose heart within his bosom is.

To you I give
myself, for I am yours.

To you I give myself,
for I am yours.

If there be truth in
sight, you are my daughter.

If there be truth in
sight, you are my Rosalind.

If sight and shape be true,
why then, my love adieu.

I'll have no father,
if you be not he.

I'll have no husband,
if you be not he.

Nor ne'er wed woman,
if you be not she.

'Tis I must make conclusion
of these most strange events.

Here's eight that must take
hands to join in Hymen's bands,

if truth holds true contents.

So is the bargain.

You and you no
cross shall part.

You and you

are heart in heart.

You to his love must accord

or have a woman to your lord.

You and you are sure together

as the winter to foul weather.

Let me have audience
for a word or two.

I bring these tidings
to this fair assembly.

Frederick Duke, hearing
how that every day men

of great worth resorted
to this forest,

addressed a mighty power
purposely to take his brother here

and put him to the sword.

And to the skirts of
this wild wood he came,

where, meeting with
an old religious man,

after some question with him,

was converted both from his
enterprise and from the world

his crown bequeathing
to his banished brother.

This to be true, I
do engage my life.

First, in this forest,

let us do those ends
that here were well begun

and well begot, and, after,

every of this happy number
that have endured shrewd days

and nights with us

shall share the good of
our returned fortune.

Meantime, forget this
new-fall'n dignity,

and fall into our
rustic revelry.

Play, music.

And you, brides and
bridegrooms all,

with measure heaped in
joy, to thy measures fall.

Sir, by your patience:
if I heard you rightly,

the Duke hath put
on a religious life

and thrown into neglect
the pompous court.

He hath.

To him will I.

DUKE, SR.:
Stay, Jaques, stay.

Your former honor I bequeath.

Your patience and your
virtue well deserves it.

To your pleasures.

I am for other than
for dancing measures.

We will begin these rites,

as we do trust they'll
end, in true delights.

My way is to conjure you.

And I'll begin with the women.

I charge you, O women, for
the love you bear to men,

to like as much of this
play as please you.

And I charge you, O men, for
the love you bear to women,

as I perceive by your simpering,

none of you hates them,

that between you and the
women the play may please.

If I were a woman

I would kiss as many of you
as had beards that pleased me,

complexions that liked me,
and breaths that I defied not.

And I am sure as many
as have good beards,

or good faces, or sweet breaths

will for my kind offer, when I
make curtsy, bid me farewell.

Let's cut.

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