As You Like It

I think he must have turned into an animal, because I can’t find him anywhere looking like a man.

My lord, he just left here. He was happy here, listening to a song.

If that man, who’s made up of conflicts, becomes musical, then there must be something wrong with the universe. Go find him. Tell him I want to speak with him.

He saved me the trouble: here he comes.

Well, what’s going on, mister? What kind of life do you lead that your poor friends must beg for your company? What, you look amused.

A fool, a fool! I met a fool in the forest, wearing motley. What a miserable world! As sure as I eat to stay alive, I met a fool who was lying in the sun and complaining about his fortune. He spoke smartly, though he was a fool. “Good morning, fool,” I said. “No, sir,” he said, “don’t call me a fool until heaven has sent me my fortune.” Then he pulled a watch from his bag and, looking at it solemnly, said, “It’s ten o’clock. This way, we can see how the world moves. Only an hour ago it was nine, and in another hour it will be eleven. And so, from hour to hour we ripen, and from hour to hour we rot. And there’s a story behind that.” When I heard that motley fool moralizing on the subject of time, I began to crow like a rooster. Hearing a fool speaking so contemplatively made me laugh non-stop for an hour. Oh, noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley is the only thing to wear.

Who is this fool?

A worthy fool! He’s been a courtier and says, “If ladies are young and pretty, they always know it.” His brain is dry as a sailor’s biscuit and crammed with all sorts of strange observations, which he presents in mangled fashion. Oh, I wish I were a fool! I’m ambitious for one of those motley coats.

You shall have one.

That’s all I ask from you, as long as you promise to rid yourself of any rotten idea that I am wise. Like the wind, I must have the freedom to blast anyone I please, as fools do. And whoever is most irritated by my foolishness has to laugh the hardest. Why, sir, must he? Well, it’s as plain as the beaten path to a parish church. Any person who thinks I’m satirizing them would be stupid if they didn’t pretend not to be hurt by my joke. Otherwise, they’d be admitting I was talking about them, and the fool would expose the wise man’s foolishness with a joke that wasn’t even meant for him. Dress me up in motley. Let me speak my mind, and I’ll rid the world of its sickness—if it will only tolerate my medicine.

To hell with you! I know what you’d do.

What would I do besides good?

You would be committing a wicked sin by chiding other people for sinning, because you yourself have been a terrible sinner, as carnal in your appetites as lust itself, and all the swollen pustules of sin that you acquired in your freedom you now want to burst and shoot back into the world at large.

But if I cry out against pride in general, how can anyone say I’m accusing a particular person? Aren’t we talking about a problem as vast as the sea, that keeps flowing until all the wealth in the world is almost used up by everyone showing off? What woman in the city am I talking about when I say that the clothes on a city-woman’s unworthy back are rich enough to suit a prince? Who can say I mean just her when all her neighbors are exactly like her? And when some lowlife protests that his fancy clothes aren’t my problem, isn’t he basically admitting that I’m talking about him? Well, then. Tell me how I’ve wronged him. If I was right about him, he’s the one who’s done wrong. If he isn’t guilty of the faults I’m talking about, well then, my accusations fly by like wild geese, whom no one owns, since they don’t apply to any man. But who is this?

Stop, and eat no more.

But I haven’t eaten anything yet.

And you won’t until the needy eat.

What kind of fighting cock is this?

Are you acting so boldly from hardship or because you despise good manners? Why do you seem so lacking in civility?

You were right the first time. My piercing distress has stripped me of smooth manners. But I wasn’t raised in the forest, and I was somewhat well-bred. But stop, I say. Whoever eats this fruit before I’ve been taken care of dies.

If you won’t listen to reason, I’ll have to die.

What would you like? Gentlemanly manners have more sway around here than force does.

I’m dying for food, so let me have some.

Sit down and eat, and welcome to our table.

Do you really speak like such a gentleman? I beg your pardon. I thought everything out here was wild, which is why I acted so stern and commanding. But whoever you are—you who sit in the dark shade, losing track of time in this remote forest—if you have ever seen better days or been to church or sat at a man’s table for a feast or wiped a tear from your eye, if you know what it is to pity and be pitied, let my kindness and nobility persuade you. With that hope, I’ll blush at my rudeness and put away my sword.

We have in fact seen better days and been summoned to church by the ringing of the holy bell and sat at good men’s feasts and cried tears of pity—therefore, sit down and take whatever will satisfy your needs.

Then please, put off your eating for a little while I, like a mother doe, find my fawn and bring it food. There is a poor old man who, purely out of love, has limped after me for miles. He’s burdened by two debilitating evils—age and hunger. Until he’s fed, I won’t eat a thing.

Go find him. We won’t touch a thing till you return.

Thank you, and God bless you for your hospitality.

You see, we’re not alone in our unhappiness. This wide, universal theater has more sad plays than our own little scene.

The whole world is a stage, and all the men and women merely actors. They have their exits and their entrances, and in his lifetime a man will play many parts, his life separated into seven acts. In the first act he is an infant, whimpering and puking in his nurse’s arms. Then he’s the whining schoolboy, with a book bag and a bright, young face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school. Then he becomes a lover, huffing and puffing like a furnace as he writes sad poems about his mistress’ eyebrows. In the fourth act, he’s a soldier, full of foreign curses, with a beard like a panther, eager to defend his honor and quick to fight. On the battlefield, he puts himself in front of the cannon’s mouth, risking his life to seek fame that is as fleeting as a soap bubble. In the fifth act, he is a judge, with a nice fat belly from all the bribes he’s taken. His eyes are stern, and he’s given his beard a respectable cut. He’s full of wise sayings and up-to-the-minute anecdotes: that’s the way he plays his part. In the sixth act, the curtain rises on a skinny old man in slippers, glasses on his nose and a money bag at his side. The stockings he wore in his youth hang loosely on his shriveled legs now, and his bellowing voice has shrunk back down to a childish squeak. In the last scene of our play—the end of this strange, eventful history—our hero, full of forgetfulness, enters his second childhood: without teeth, without eyes, without taste, without everything.

Welcome. Set the honorable old man down and let him eat.

I thank you very much on his behalf.

You had better do that. I can barely speak to thank you myself.

Welcome. Eat. I won’t trouble you yet with questions about your situation.—Some music, please, and, good friend, sing.

(singing)

Blow, blow, winter wind.

You aren’t as harsh

As men’s ingratitude.Your teeth aren’t as sharp,

As you are invisible,

Even though your breath is an assault.

Heigh-ho! Sing, heigh-ho! Sing to the green holly.

Most friendship is false, most love simply foolishness.

Then heigh-ho, to the holly.

This life is really jolly.

Freeze, freeze, you bitter sky,

Your bite isn’t as painful

As when good deeds are forgotten.

Even though you can freeze water

Your sting is not as sharp

As the friend who is forgotten.

Heigh-ho! Sing, heigh-ho! Sing to the green holly.

Most friendship is false, most love simply foolishness.

Then heigh-ho, to the holly.

This life is really jolly.

If you really are Sir Rowland’s son, as you’ve just whispered to me—and I can absolutely see the likeness in your face— you are truly welcome here. I am the duke who loved your father. Come to my cave and tell me the rest of your story.—Good old man, you are as welcome here as your master is. Give him your arm. Give me your hand, and explain your situation to me.