As You Like It

I remember, Adam, that’s exactly why my father only left me a thousand crowns in his will. And as you know, my father commanded my brother, Oliver, to make sure that I was brought up well—and that’s where my sadness begins. Oliver keeps my brother Jaques away at school, and everyone says he’s doing extremely well there. But he keeps me at home in the country—to be precise, he keeps me stuck at home but doesn’t support me. I ask you, is this any way to treat a gentleman as nobly born as I am, to pen me in like an ox? His horses get treated better than I do—at least he feeds them and trains them properly, and spends a lot of money on trainers for them. All I’ve gained from his care is weight, which makes me as indebted to him as his animals on the manure pile are. He gives me plenty of nothing, and takes away everything else, letting me eat with his servants, refusing me what’s owed me as his brother, and ruining my good birth with a poor education. This is what angers me, Adam. My father’s temper and spirit, which I think I share, makes me want to mutiny against my brother’s tyranny. I won’t stand for it any longer, though I haven’t yet figured out how to revolt.

Here comes my master, your brother.

Go hide, Adam, and you’ll hear how he abuses me.

Hey, you! What are you making here?

Nothing. I’ve never been taught how to make anything.

Well, then, what are you messing up?

I’m helping you mess up one of God’s creations—your poor, unworthy brother—by having him do nothing.

Indeed, sir, find something better to do and get lost for a while.

Should I tend your pigs and eat husks with them? When did I waste so much money that I ended up this poor?

Do you know where you are, sir?

Yes, sir, very well—I’m here in your orchard.

Do you know whom you’re talking to?

Yes, better than you know me. I know you’re my oldest brother, and deserve more respect. But we’re in the same family, so you should acknowledge that I am a gentleman too. According to custom, as the first-born you are my superior. But it’s not customary to treat me like I’m not even a gentleman, even if there were twenty brothers between you and me. I have as much of our father in me as you do, though I admit you’re closer to him and matter more because you’re older.

(hitting ORLANDO) What nerve!

(grabbing hold of OLIVER) Come on, big brother; you don’t know anything about fighting.

What, you dare put your hands on me, villain?

I’m no villain. I’m the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, and anyone who claims my father’s sons are villains is a villain himself. If you weren’t my brother, I’d leave this hand of mine on your neck until I’d pulled out your tongue for talking like this. You’ve only insulted yourself.

Gentlemen, calm down. For the sake of your father’s memory, make peace.

Let me go, I say.

I won’t until I’m ready. You will listen to me. My father instructed you in his will to give me a good education. But you’ve raised me as a peasant, hiding from me what I needed to become a gentleman. My father’s spirit is growing in me, and I won’t take this any longer. Either give me the freedom to act like someone of my own rank or give me my share of the inheritance, so that I can seek my fortune elsewhere.

And what are you going to do after you’ve spent your money? Beg? Well, sir, go inside. I’m not going to be bothered by you for long. You’ll get some of what you want. Now please leave me alone.

I won’t bother you any more than necessary.

(to ADAM) And you get lost too, you old dog.

Is that my reward—to be called “old dog?” Well, it’s true, I’ve served this family so long I’ve gotten old and toothless, like a dog. God bless my old master. He would never have spoken to me like this.

Is that how it’s going to be? Are you starting to challenge me? I’ll cure you of your insolence, and I’m not going to give you a thousand crowns, either!—Hey, Dennis!

Did you call for me, your Worship?

Wasn’t Charles, the duke’s wrestler, here to speak with me?

Yes, sir, he’s here at the door right now and asks to see you.

Call him in.

I have a good plan. And tomorrow is the wrestling match.

Good morning, sir.

Good Mr. Charles! Tell me, what’s the latest news at the new court?

No news but the old news: the old Duke Senior has been banished by his younger brother, the new Duke Frederick. A few loyal lords have gone into exile with Duke Senior, and given up their lands and money to Frederick—so he’s happy enough to have them leave.

Can you tell me whether Rosalind, Duke Senior’s daughter, has also been banished?

Oh, no. Duke Frederick’s daughter, Celia, grew up with Rosalind, and Celia loves her cousin so much that she would have either followed her into exile or died of grief. Rosalind has stayed at court, where Duke Frederick loves her like his own daughter. No two women ever loved each other like they do.

Where will the old duke live?

They say he’s already in the Forest of Arden. He has many cheerful men with him, and they live like Robin Hood and his outlaws. People say that new batches of young men flock there every day, and that they all pass the time without a care, like people did in the Golden Age.

So, are you going to wrestle before the new duke tomorrow?

Indeed I do, sir, and I’ve come to let you in on a certain problem. I’ve been informed by certain sources I can’t disclose that your younger brother Orlando plans to fight me in disguise. Tomorrow, sir, I’m fighting for my reputation, and any man who gets away without a broken bone or two is an exceptional wrestler indeed. Your brother is young and inexperienced, and because of my affection for you, I’d hate to crush him—though I’d have to, if he challenged me. I’m telling you all this out of affection for you, so you can either keep him from carrying out his plans or prepare to accept his disgrace, which will be his own fault, not mine.

Charles, I thank you for your loyalty to me, and you’ll see that I’ll reward you. I’d heard about my brother’s plan and have been subtly trying to change his mind, but he’s determined. I tell you, Charles, he’s the stubbornest young fellow in France: overly ambitious, jealous of other people’s good qualities, and a traitor against me, his own blood brother. So use your discretion. I’d be just as happy if you broke his neck as his finger. And you’d better be careful, because if you embarrass him at all—in fact, if he doesn’t beat you thoroughly—he’ll come after you and won’t leave you alone till he’s poisoned you or trapped you—killed you, in other words, one way or another. It brings me to tears to say this, but there isn’t another person alive who is so young and at the same time so wicked. Because he’s my brother, I have to take his side. But if I really laid him bare, I’d have to weep and hang my head, and you would not believe me, his behavior is so shocking.

I’m very glad I came to see you. If he shows up tomorrow, I’ll give him what’s coming to him. If he can manage to walk after our fight, I’ll never wrestle for money again. Farewell, my lord.

Take care, Charles.

Now it’s time to get this playboy brother of mine all worked up. I hope I’ll see the end of him soon—I don’t know why, but I hate nothing in the world as much as him, though he’s an upstanding guy. He’s never gone to school but he’s smart, with good values, and everyone is delighted by him and loves him, especially my subjects, who know him the best. They love him, and therefore they despise me. But not for long; Charles will take care of everything. All I have to do is get Orlando to fight, which I’ll do now.

Please, Rosalind, my sweet cousin—be happy.

Dear Celia—I already look much happier than I feel, but you want me to look even happier? Unless you can also teach me how to forget my banished father, you shouldn’t try to teach me how to be happy.

Well, by this I can see that you don’t love me as much as I love you. If your father had banished my father, I could have learned to love your father as my own, as long as I still had you. You’d do the same, if your love for me were as true as mine for you.

Well, I’ll just forget the difficulties of my situation, in order to focus on the happiness of yours.

You know I’m my father’s only child, and he isn’t likely to have another. And when he dies, you will inherit his fortune—because whatever he took from your father by force, I will return to you as affection. I swear I will, and if I ever break my promise let me turn into a monster. So please, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be happy.

From now on I will, cousin, and I’ll think of all kinds of games for us. Let me see—what do you think about falling in love?

Yes, please do, so we can have a good laugh about it. But don’t fall in love for real, and don’t take the game too far. You want to get out of it easily, and with your honor intact.

Well, then, what should we do for fun instead?

Let’s go find that hussy, Fortune, and and mock her till she starts distributing her gifts more equally.

I wish we could do that, because Fortune gives all of her gifts to the wrong people, and she especially gets things wrong where women are concerned.

It’s true: the women she makes beautiful she also makes slutty, and the women she makes pure and virginal she also makes ugly.

No, you’re getting Fortune and Nature mixed up: Nature determines how we’re made, and Fortune decides what happens to us.

Oh, really? Well, when Nature makes a person beautiful, can’t Fortune make her fall into a fire, thereby making her ugly after all? And even though Nature has given us the wit to have this argument, hasn’t Fortune sent this fool here to stop us?

Yes, and now Fortune is playing a nasty trick on Nature: she’s breaking up a show of wit between two naturally witty women with the arrival of a natural fool.

Well, maybe this is Nature’s work after all. Maybe Nature sensed that we’re not smart enough to be having this high-flown discussion about goddesses, so she sent us this fool to use as a mental whetstone. After all, smart peoples’ wits are always sharpened by the presence of a fool. What’s up, you wit? Where are you wandering off to?

Mistress, you have to go see your father.

Did they make you the messenger?

No, by my honor, but they told me to come get you.

Where’d you learn a phrase like, “by my honor,” fool?

From a certain knight who swore on his honor that the pancakes he was eating were good, and that the mustard on top of them—he swore on his honor—was bad. Now, I’ll swear to the opposite—that the pancakes were rotten, and the mustard was fine—but even so, the knight wasn’t lying.

And how, out of your great heap of knowledge, will you manage to prove that?

Yes, please; unleash your wisdom.

Watch me: stroke your chins and swear by your beards that I am a knave.

By our beards (if we had them), you are a knave.

And I swear by my wickedness (if I had any) that I am a knave. But you can’t swear by what you don’t have—and this knight had no honor, or if he did, he swore it off before he ever saw those pancakes and that mustard.

Tell me, who is this knight?

A man old Frederick, your father, loves.

If he has my father’s love, then that’s enough honor for me. Enough of this. No more talk about my father; you’ll be whipped for slander one of these days.

It’s a pity that fools aren’t allowed to speak wisely about the foolish things that wise men do.

Honestly, you’re speaking the truth—ever since the fools were silenced, the foolishness of wise men has become all the more apparent. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.

With his mouth full of news.

Which he’ll shove down our throats the way pigeons feed their young.

Then we’ll be stuffed with news.

Well that’s good. If we’re fattened up, we’ll be worth more. Hello, Monsieur Le Beau. What’s the news?

Fair princess, you’ve missed some good sport.

Sport? Of what color?

What color, madam? I don’t understand—how should I answer that?

However your wit and luck allow.

Or however the Destinies say you should.

Nicely done; you laid that on thick.

Well, if I don’t keep up my rank—

—you’ll lose your smell.

You’re confusing me, ladies. I was going to tell you all about a good wrestling match that’s going on, which you’re missing.

Tell us about this wrestling.

I’ll tell you about the beginning, and if you find that interesting you can see the end. The best is yet to come, and they’re going to perform it right here.

Well, we’ve missed the beginning; it’s dead and buried.

There comes an old man with his three sons—

It sounds like the beginning of an old folktale.

Three proper young men, all good looking and with great presence—

Right, and they wore proclamations around their necks, saying, “Be it known to all men by these presents—”

The eldest of the three brothers wrestled with Charles, the duke’s wrestler. Immediately, Charles threw the brother, breaking three of his ribs; it’s not likely he will survive. Charles did the same to the second brother, and the third. They’re lying over there, and the poor old man, their father, weeps so piteously over them that the whole audience has joined him in grieving.

Oh, dear!

But tell me, monsieur—what sport are the ladies missing?

Why, the one I just told you about.

Men must be getting wiser every day; that’s the first time I’ve heard that rib-breaking was appropriate entertainment for ladies.

Me too, I swear.

Doesn’t anyone else want to see this, and hear breath wheezing out from broken ribs? Does anyone else love rib breaking? Shall we go watch this wrestling, cousin?

You’re going to have to, if you stay here. This is the place they’re scheduled to wrestle, and they’re ready to go.

Yes, I see them coming. Let’s stay and watch.

Come on. Since the youth won’t be reasoned with, he’ll have to suffer for his stubbornness.

Is that the man?

That’s him, madam.

Alas, he is too young. Yet he seems capable.

What’s up, daughter and niece? Have you snuck over here to watch the wrestling?

Yes, my lord, if you give us permission.

You won’t enjoy it much, I can tell you, the odds are so against this young man. Because he’s so young, I’ve tried to discourage him, but he won’t listen. Talk to him, ladies. See if you can persuade him.

Call him over here, good Monsieur Le Beau.

Go ahead. I’ll make myself scarce.

Mister Challenger, the princess wants to speak to you.

I’ll wait on them with all respect and duty.

Young man, have you challenged Charles the Wrestler?

No, lovely princess. He is the general challenger. I have only come in—like the others have—to try to fight him with the strength of my youth.

Young gentleman, you are too bold for your age. You have seen the cruel proof of this man’s strength. If you took a good look at yourself, or if you thought about this more carefully, your fear would teach you to act more cautiously. We beg you, for your own sake, to respect your safety and give up.

Please, young sir. We’ll make sure your reputation isn’t hurt; we’ll take it upon ourselves to argue with the duke that the wrestling match should be called off.

I beg you not to think poorly of me—though I suppose anyone who could deny anything to such beautiful women deserves to be scorned. But please, send me good thoughts in this match. If I’m beaten, the shame is all mine, and I wasn’t in anyone’s good graces to begin with. If I’m killed, it will only be the death of a man who was willing to be dead. I won’t wrong any of my friends, because I don’t have any to mourn for me, and I won’t have wronged the world, because I don’t have anything in the world. In this world, I’m only taking up space. If I leave, maybe someone more worthy will fill it.

I wish I could give you the little strength that I have.

Mine too, to join hers.

Good luck. I hope to God I’m wrong about your chances.

I hope you get what you desire!

Come on, where’s the young show-off who’s so eager to lie with mother earth?

Ready, sir, but I have more modest ambitions.

You get only one round.

No, I’m sure your Grace won’t be able to persuade him to try a second round, even though you couldn’t dissuade him from trying the first.

You should mock me after you’ve beaten me, not before. Come on.

Hercules give you speed, young man!

I wish I were invisible, so I could grab that strong fellow by the leg.

Oh, what an excellent young man!

If I could shoot lightning bolts from my eyes, I can tell you who’d be on the ground.

No more, no more.

Oh, come on, your Grace—I’m barely out of breath.

How are you doing, Charles?

He can’t speak, my lord.

Carry him away. What is your name, young man?

Orlando, my lord, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.

I wish you were someone else’s son. The whole world thought your father was an honorable man, but he was always my enemy. Your victory would have pleased me more if you’d been someone else’s son. But good luck; you are a brave young man. I wish you had told me you had a different father.

If I were my father, cousin, would I do this?

I’m proud to be Sir Rowland’s son—his youngest son—and I would never change that, not even to be Frederick’s adopted heir.

My father loved Sir Rowland as much as he loved his own soul, and the rest of the world shared my father’s opinion. If I had known this young man was his son, I would have tried harder to convince him not to fight.

Gentle cousin, let’s go thank him and encourage him. My my father’s rude and envious behavior is like a knife through my heart. (to ORLANDO) Sir, you fought very well. If you live up to your potential in love as well, your wife will be a very happy woman.

(giving him a chain from her neck) Gentleman, wear this for me. I’m a woman who’s down on her luck, and I’d give more if I could. Shall we go, cousin?

Yes. Good luck, fair gentleman.

(to himself) Can’t I even say “thank you”? I left my brain back on the wrestling field. What’s left of me is a dummy, just a lifeless block.

He’s calling us back. My pride fell when my fortunes did; I’ll ask him what he wants.—Did you call us, sir? Sir, you wrestled well and conquered more than just your enemies.

Will you come on, cousin?

I’m coming. Farewell.

What is this passion that ties up my tongue? I can’t speak to her, even though she asked me to. Oh, poor Orlando, you’ve been overthrown! Either Charles or some prettier thing has mastered you.

Good sir, as a friend, I advise you to leave this place. Although you deserve praise, applause, and love, right now the duke misconstrues everything you’ve done. The duke is temperamental. I’m sure you can imagine what I mean without my having to spell it out.

Thank you, sir. Now please tell me this: which of the two ladies who were at the wrestling match is the duke’s daughter?

Neither one is his daughter, to judge from their good manners. But really, the smaller one is his daughter. The other is the daughter of the banished duke. Duke Frederick keeps her for his daughter’s sake; the love between the two of them is stronger than the bond between sisters. But I will tell you that lately the duke has been displeased with his niece, and for no other reason than that people praise her virtues and pity her for her father’s sake. I swear, one day the duke’s malice toward Rosalind will suddenly erupt. Goodbye, sir. Later, in a better world than this, I’d love to get to know you.

I’m indebted to you. Goodbye.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire—from a tyrant duke to a tyrant brother! But, oh, heavenly Rosalind!

What’s going on, Rosalind? Cupid have mercy! You won’t utter a single word?

I don’t even have one to throw at a dog.

No, your words are too precious to be wasted on dogs. Throw some of your words at me. Come on, throw your words at me like you would throw stones at a dog.

Then there would be two cousins lying sick in bed: one hurt by reasons and the other gone crazy without any.

Is all of this about your father?

No, some of it is about my child’s father. Oh, this working-day world is full of thorns!

They’re only burrs, cousin, thrown at you because you took a holiday from conventional behavior. If we walk on the well-worn paths, they won’t get caught in our petticoats.

Those burrs I could shake off my clothing, but these are in my heart.

Cough them up.

I’d try it, if I could cry “hem” and have him.

Come on, take control of your feelings.

But they’re siding with a better wrestler than myself.

Oh, that’s a good wish! You’ll fight with him eventually, and fall. But let’s put these jokes aside for a moment, and speak earnestly. Is it possible that you could have fallen in love with Orlando, Sir Rowland’s youngest son, this suddenly?

The duke, my father, loved his father very much.

Does that necessarily mean you should love his son? By that kind of logic, I should hate Orlando, since my father hates his father. But I don’t hate Orlando.

No, please don’t hate him—for my sake.

Why shouldn’t I? Doesn’t he deserve it?

Let me love him because he deserves it, and you can love him because I do. Look, here comes the duke.

He looks angry.

Madam, hurry as fast as you can get out of my court.

Me, uncle?

You, niece. In ten days time, if you’re found within twenty miles of the court, you’ll die for it.

Please, your Grace, tell me what crime I have committed. If I know my own thoughts and desires, and I’m not dreaming or crazy—which I’m sure I’m not—then, dear uncle, I’ve never had so much as a half-formed thought that would have offended you.

All traitors protest like this. If they could purge their guilt simply by saying that they were innocent, they’d all be as innocent as God Himself. I don’t trust you. Enough said.

But your mistrust alone can’t make me a traitor—on what basis do you suspect me?

You are your father’s daughter. That’s enough.

I was his daughter when your Highness took my father’s dukedom. I was his daughter when you banished him. Treason is not inherited, my lord. But even if we did inherit it from our family, what does that have to do with me? My father wasn’t a traitor. So, please, my lord, don’t assume that I’m treacherous just because I’m poor, with no titles to my name.

Dear master, listen to me.

Yes, Celia, we kept her here for your sake. Otherwise, she would have been banished with her father.

At that time, I didn’t beg you to keep her here; you wanted her here, and you felt guilty. I was too young at the time to appreciate her value, but now I know her. If she’s a traitor, why then, so am I. We have always slept together, woken up together, learned, played, and eaten together. Wherever we went, we went together and inseparable.

She’s too devious for you. Her smoothness, her silence, and her patient suffering appeal to the people, and they pity her. You’re a fool. She’s robbing you of the attention you deserve. You will seem even brighter and more virtuous when she’s out of the picture. So be quiet. The sentence I’ve passed down on her is firm and unshakeable. She is banished.

Then lay that sentence on me too, my lord. I cannot live without her.

You are a fool.—You, niece, prepare to leave. On my honor and by my word, if you outstay the ten days, you will die.

Oh, my poor Rosalind, where will you go? Do you want to exchange fathers? I’ll give you mine. I insist, don’t be more distressed than I am.

I have more reason to be distressed.

No you haven’t, cousin. Please, be cheerful. Don’t you realize the duke has also banished me, his daughter?

No, he hasn’t.

Oh, he hasn’t? Well, then, you don’t have the affection that would teach you that you and I are one. Will we be separated? Should we part, sweet girl? No. Let my father find another heir. So, help me plan how we’ll escape, where we’ll go, and what we’ll take with us. Don’t even try to take this all upon yourself, bearing your grief alone and leaving me out. I swear by the heavens, which have grown pale in sympathy with us, I’m going with you, whatever you say.

But where will we go?

To the Forest of Arden, to find your father.

But what danger we’ll put ourselves in, two young, innocent women traveling so far! Fresh beauty attracts thugs and thieves even more than money.

I’ll put on some poor and ragged clothes and smudge my face with dirt. You do the same, and we’ll be able to travel without attracting any attackers’ attention.

Wouldn’t it be better—since I’m unusually tall for a woman—to dress myself like a man? I’ll wear a big sword in my belt, carry a boar-spear in my hand, and hide all my womanish fear in my heart. We’ll maintain a swaggering, warrior look, like so many cowardly men, whose manner has nothing to do with what they’re feeling.

What should I call you when you’re a man?

I’ll take no lesser name than that of Jove’s own servant. So call me Ganymede. And what will you be called?

Something that refers to my current state. Instead of Celia, call me Aliena.

Cousin, what if we brought that clownish fool of your father’s court, Touchstone? Wouldn’t he be a comfort to us in our travels?

He’d walk the whole wide world with me. Leave me alone to go convince him. Let’s go gather our jewels and money. We’ll figure out the best time and safest route to avoid being found out by my father’s guards, whom he’ll send out as soon as he discovers I’ve gone. Now, we go contentedly to freedom—not banishment.

Now, my companions and brothers in exile, hasn’t experience made this simple life sweeter than a life of glittery pomp and circumstance? Aren’t these woods less perilous than the court, with all its jealousies and intrigues? Out here we feel the changing of the seasons, but we’re not bothered by it. When the icy fangs of the brutal, scolding wind bite and blow on my body, even though I’m shivering with cold, I can appreciate the weather’s honesty. I smile and think, “Thank goodness the wind doesn’t flatter me: it’s like a councilor who makes me feel what I’m really made of.” Adversity can have its benefits—like the ugly, poisonous toad that wears a precious jewel in its forehead. In this life, far away from the civilized world, we can hear the language of the trees, read the books of the running streams, hear sermons in the stones, and discover the good in every single thing.

I wouldn’t change my situation for anything. You’re lucky, my lord, to be able to see the peace and sweetness even in what bad luck has brought you.

Come, shall we hunt some deer for dinner? It bothers me, though, that these poor spotted innocents, who, after all, are this deserted city’s native citizens, should be gouged with arrows.

Indeed, my lord, the gloomy Jaques grieves over these deaths. He swears that when you kill the deer, you’re a worse usurper than your brother was for banishing you. Today, Lord Amiens and I followed Jaques. We saw him lie down along a brook under an oak tree whose ancient roots peeked out from the earth. A poor, lonely stag who had been hurt by a hunter’s arrow came to rest there, where he heaved such heavy groans that the effort seemed to stretch his hide to bursting. Big, round tears ran piteously down the animal’s innocent nose. The hairy fool, watched closely by sad Jaques, stood on the very edge of the brook, adding his own tears to the streaming water.

And what did Jaques say? Didn’t he take the opportunity to draw a moral from the scene?

Oh, yes, he created a thousand comparisons. First, he spoke of the deer’s needless addition to the stream’s water supply. “Poor deer,” he said, “you’re just like a human: you add more to what already has too much.” Then, about the deer’s being alone, abandoned by his velvety companions: “It’s appropriate,” he said, “that a miserable creature should excuse itself from company.” Just then, a carefree herd of deer, having just eaten their fill of pasture grass, bounded along without stopping to greet their wounded brother. “Sure,” said Jaques, “hurry on, you fat and greasy citizens. Why stop and notice this poor, broken, bankrupt creature here?” In this way, he most insightfully pierced to the heart of the country, the city, the court, and even our lives out here in the forest, swearing that we are mere usurpers and tyrants, frightening and killing animals in their own homes.

And did you leave him like this?

We did, my lord, weeping and carrying on about the sobbing deer.

Take me to him. I love to argue with him when he’s having one of these fits, because then he always has a lot to say.

I’ll bring you to him right away.

Can it be possible that no one saw them leave? It cannot be. Some villains in my court must have known about this and let it happen.

I can’t find anyone who saw her leave. Her ladies-in-waiting saw her go to bed, and early this morning the bed was empty.

My lord, that dirty clown whom you laughed at so often is also missing. Hisperia, the princess’ gentlewoman, confesses that she overheard your daughter and her cousin praising the good looks and skills of the wrestler who recently beat the muscular Charles. Hisperia believes that, wherever they have gone, that young man is likely with them.

Send a message to his brother. Bring that swinger Orlando here. If he’s not around, bring his brother Oliver to me. I’ll make Oliver find him. Do this immediately, and don’t stop searching and interrogating until you’ve brought home these foolish runaways.

Who’s there?

My young master! Oh, my gentle master! My sweet master! Oh, you living memory of old Sir Rowland! What are you doing here? Why are you so strong and good? Why do people love you? And why are you noble, strong, and brave? Why would you be so foolish as to beat the moody duke’s favorite champion? Your praise has beaten you home. Don’t you know, master, that some men’s best qualities do them in? Yours are like that—complete and utter traitors to you. Oh, what a world this is, when even what is beautiful in a man poisons him!

Why, what’s the matter?

Oh, unlucky boy! Don’t walk through these doors. In this house lives a man who despises all that is good in you. Oliver, your brother—no, not your brother; and yet he’s the son—but no, I won’t call him the son—of that great man I was about to call his father, has heard about how well you did in the wrestling match, and tonight he’s planning on burning your house down, with you in it. And if he fails at that, he will find other ways to kill you. I overheard him and his plans. This is no place for you; this home is now a slaughterhouse. Hate it, fear it, do not come inside.

Then where would you have me go, Adam?

It doesn’t matter where, so long as it’s not here.

What, would you have me beg for my food? Or become a lowlife, sticking up travelers on the road? This is all that’s left for me to do, but I won’t do it. I’d rather give myself up to the hatred of a violent brother who refuses to recognize that we are brothers.

But don’t do that. I have five-hundred gold coins, which I carefully saved when I was working for your late father. I meant to use it for my retirement, to help me when my old body was lame and forgotten in some dark corner. But take the money, and God, who feeds even the raven and looks after even the sparrow, will comfort me in my old age. Here is the gold, I give it all to you. Let me be your servant. I know I may be old, but I’m strong and healthy, because in my youth I never drank nor lived recklessly. Therefore, my old age is like a blustery winter: cold, but kindly. Let me go with you. I’ll do everything a younger man could do for you.

Oh, good old man, you’re a great example of that old work ethic, where people worked because it was their duty, not just for the money. Your approach isn’t the fashion these days, when no one works hard except for a promotion, and, as soon as they’ve got it, they stop working. But in working for me, old man, you are pruning a rotten tree: despite all your pains and efforts, it won’t yield a single blossom. Come along, though. We’ll go together, and before we’ve spent all the savings of your youth, we’ll find a way to make a living.

Go on, master, and I will follow you—with truth and loyalty to my last breath. From the time I was seventeen, over sixty years ago, I have lived in this house, but now I will live here no more. Many men seek their fortune at seventeen; at eighty, it’s a bit late. But fortune could not reward me better than to let me die well, without owing my master anything.

Oh Lord, my spirits are tired!

I wouldn’t care about my spirits, if my legs weren’t tired.

I’d insult my manly wardrobe by weeping like a woman if I didn’t have to comfort the weaker vessel here, as the jacket and hose ought to be brave for the sake of the petticoat. So, have courage, good Aliena.

Please bear with me. I can’t go any further.

I’d rather bear with you than bear you. But if I did carry you, it would be no cross to bear, because I’m pretty sure you don’t have any money.

Well, this is the Forest of Arden.

Yes, now I’m in Arden, and that makes me the bigger fool. When I was at home, I was in a better place. But travelers have to be content.

Yes, be content, good Touchstone.

Look who’s coming: a young man and an old man, having a serious talk.

What you’re doing is the way to make her scorn you continually.

Oh, Corin, I wish you could understand how much I love her!

I’m sure I can guess. I have been in love too, you know.

No Corin, since you’re old, you cannot guess—even if you were as dedicated a lover in your youth as there ever was, sighing and mooning all night long. If your love was anything like mine—and I’m sure that no man has loved as I love now—exactly how many ridiculous actions did your fantasizing lead you to?

Oh, a thousand of them, all of which I’ve forgotten.

Oh, then you never loved as wholeheartedly as me. If you can’t remember the stupidest little thing love made you do, you haven’t loved. Or if you haven’t sat as I do now, boring your listener with all your lover’s virtues, then you haven’t loved. Or if you haven’t broken away from human company, as my feelings now lead me to do, you haven’t loved. O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe!

Oh, poor shepherd! Listening to you speak of your wounded heart reminds me of my own pain.

Me too. I remember when I was in love, I broke my sword on a stone, and told him to take that for coming at night to see Jane Smile. I remember kissing her washing stick and the cow’s udders that her pretty, chapped hands had milked. I remember wooing a pea plant in her name, and then taking two pea pods and begging her to wear them “for my sake.” Those of us who are really in love will do the strangest things. But everything that lives is mortal, including the foolishness of love.

You speak more wisely than you know.

Nah, I’ll never be aware of my own wit, until I break my shins on it.

By God! This shepherd’s condition is like my own.

And like mine, but I’m getting a little tired of it.

Please, one of you go ask that man over there if we can buy some food off him. I’m faint with hunger.

(to CORIN) Hey, clown!

Shut up, fool. He’s not your relative.

Who’s calling?

Your superiors.

If they weren’t my betters, they’d be pretty wretched indeed.

(to TOUCHSTONE) Stop it, I say.—Good evening to you, friend.

Good evening to you, too, noble sir, and to all of you.

Please sir, if love or money can buy anything in this empty place, tell us where we can rest and feed ourselves. We’ll pay you for the information. We have a young woman here who is very tired from traveling and faint with hunger.

Dear sir, I pity the lady and wish—more for her sake than my own—that I was more able to help her. But I’m a hired hand: I don’t profit from the flocks I tend. My master is a brutish man and doesn’t care much if he gets to heaven by deeds of hospitality or not. Besides, his cottage, his flocks, and his grazing rights are on sale now, and since he’s not there, there’s nothing to eat at our house. But let’s see what’s on hand. If I have anything to say about it, you will be most welcome there.

Who wants to buy the flock and the pasture?

That young man who was just here. But he doesn’t really care about buying anything.

Please, if you can do it without taking advantage of the young man, buy the cottage, pasture, and flock for us, and we’ll pay you for it.

And we will raise your wages. I like this place. I could see myself wasting time here.

The thing is definitely going to be sold. Come with me. If you like what you see of the land, the profit that’s possible, and this rustic life, I’ll be your faithful servant, and buy the place with your gold right away.

(singing)

Whoever wants to lie with me,

Under the greenwood tree,

And turn his merry song

To follow the sweet bird’s singing,

Come here, come here, come here.

Here you will find

No enemy

Besides winter and rough weather.

More, more, please, more.

It’s only going to make you sad, Monsieur Jaques.

I’m glad about that. More, please, more. I can suck sadness out of a song the way a weasel sucks eggs. More, please, more.

My voice is ragged. I know I won’t please you.

I don’t want you to please me, I want you to sing. Come on, another stanza—is that what you call ’em, “stanzas”?

Call them whatever you want, Monsieur Jaques.

Nah, I don’t care what their names are; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?

Okay, but only because you want me to.

Well then, if I’ve ever thanked a man, I’ll thank you now. But two men complimenting each other is like two baboons getting together. Whenever a man compliments me, I feel like he’s a beggar and I just gave him a penny—an embarrassing exchange. Come on, sing—and those of you who won’t sing, shut up.

Well, I’ll finish the song I started.—Meanwhile, sirs, set the table. The duke will drink under this tree.—He’s been looking for you all day, you know.

And I’ve been avoiding him all day. He’s too argumentative for me. I think of as many things as he does, but I just thank heaven and don’t show off about it. Come, warble for me.

(singing)

Whoever shuns ambition

And loves to live in the sun,

Hunting the food he eats

Pleased with what he finds,

Come here, come here, come here.

Here he will findNo enemy

But winter and rough weather.

I wrote a verse to this tune, though it’s not very imaginative. I’ll give it you.

And I’ll sing it. (taking a paper from JAQUES) It goes like this:

(sings)

If it should come to pass

That any man turns into an ass

And leaves his wealth and ease

Simply to please his stubborn will

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame.

Here he will see

Fools as stupid as he

If he will only come to me.

What’s that word “ducdame”?

It’s a Greek invocation, calling fools into a circle. I’m going to take a nap, if I can—if I can’t, I’ll curse all the first-born children of Egypt.

And I’ll go find the duke; his banquet is ready.

Dear master, I can’t go any farther. Oh, I’m dying of hunger. I’ll lie down here and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.

Hey, what’s this, Adam? No braver than this? Live a little, be comforted a little, cheer up a little. If I can find any animal in this wild forest, I’ll either be food for it or bring it as food for you. You’re not as close to death as you think you are. For my sake, make yourself comfortable; keep death at arm’s length for a while. I’ll be back soon, and if I haven’t brought you anything to eat, I will give you permission to die. But if you die before I return, you’ll have made a mockery of my efforts. There we go! You look happier already, and I’ll be back quickly. But you’re lying out in the cold. Come, I’ll carry you to shelter. And you won’t die for lack of dinner, if there’s anything at all to eat in this desert-like forest. Cheer up, good Adam.

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.

You haven’t seen him since? Sir, sir, that can’t be true. If I weren’t a merciful man, I’d forget about your missing brother and punish you in his place. But do this: find your brother, wherever he is. Bring him here dead or alive within the next year, or get out off my land. I’m seizing your lands and all that you possess until your brother gives testimony that absolves you of any guilt.

I wish your Highness knew my true feelings in this matter: I have never in my life loved my brother.

That makes you an even bigger villain.—Well, throw him out, and have my officers seize his house and lands. Do this immediately, and send him packing.

Hang there on this tree, you lines of poetry, and bear witness to my love. And you, goddess of the moon, queen of the night—with your chaste eye, from your pale home up above—watch your huntress, who has the power to control my life. Oh, Rosalind, these trees will be my books—I’ll write my thoughts down on their bark. That way, everyone who passes through this forest will find your virtues everywhere. Run, run, Orlando, on every tree carve praises of her beauty, her virtue, and her inexpressibility.

And how are you liking the shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?

Well, in and of itself, it is a good life, but given that it’s a shepherd’s life, it’s worthless. In the fact that it’s solitary, I enjoy it very much; but in the sense that it’s private, it’s terrible. Now, I’m very pleased with it being outdoors, but in its not being at the court, it is boring. Being a simple life, it suits me very well, but being a life without plenty, it doesn’t suit me at all. Are you any kind of philosopher yourself, shepherd?

Only in that I know that the sicker one gets, the worse one feels, and that the man who lacks money, employment, and happiness is without three good friends. I know that rain makes things wet and fire burns things. I know that a good pasture makes sheep fat, that the main cause of night is the absence of sun, and that the man who isn’t smart by nature and hasn’t learned anything from his schooling will complain of his lack of good manners, or he comes from very dull parents indeed.

You’re a natural-born philosopher! Were you ever at court, shepherd?

Honestly, no.

Then you are damned.

I hope not.

Yep, you’re damned like a roasted egg: all on one side.

I’m damned for not having been at court? Explain.

Well, if you were never at court, you were never exposed to good manners; if you never witnessed good manners, your manners must be wicked; wickedness is a sin, and committing sins leads to damnation. You are in a perilous state, shepherd.

Not at all, Touchstone. The good manners of the court look as silly in the country as country behavior is laughable at the court. You told me that you don’t salute at the court but kiss hands. Now, if courtiers were shepherds, that kind of courtesy would be unclean.

Give a quick example. Come, explain.

Why, because we’re always handling our ewes, and their fleece, as you know, is greasy.

What, don’t courtiers’ hands sweat? And isn’t a sheep’s grease as wholesome as a man’s sweat? That’s a poor example. A better example—come on.

Besides, our hands are hard and calloused.

Then your lips will feel them more quickly. Shallow thinking, yet again. Come on.

Our hands are often covered in tar, from performing surgery on our sheep.Would you have us country folks kiss each other’s tarred hands? Courtiers’ hands are perfumed.

You shallow thinker! You worthless man! You are about as much of a thinker as worm’s meat is a nice steak. Learn from the wise, and comprehend: the courtier’s perfume is made from cat discharge—much more disgusting than tar. Fix your example, shepherd.

Your wit is too courtly for me. I’ll rest now.

You’re going to rest while you’re still damned? God help you, foolish man. Pray God does some surgery on you: you need to be fixed.

Sir, I’m a true, simple laborer: I earn what I eat, get what I wear, hate no man, envy no man’s happiness, am happy for other men’s good fortune and satisfied with my own bad fortune, and the source of my greatest pride is watching my ewes graze and my lambs feed.

That’s another sin arising from your ignorance: you bring ewes and rams together and make your living by their copulation. You act as a pimp to a young ewe by forcing her to have sex with a crooked-headed, horny old ram—a totally unreasonable match. If you’re not damned for that, then the devil must be keeping shepherds out of hell; I can’t see how else you can hope to escape.

Here comes young Mr. Ganymede, my new mistress’ brother.

(reading, as Ganymede) From the far east to the west Indies

There is no jewel like Rosalind.

Her worth is carried on the wind

And it blows throughout the world, carrying the name of Rosalind.

All the most beautiful paintings

Are black when compared to Rosalind.

Don’t think of any beauty

But the beauty of Rosalind.

I could rhyme like that for eight years in a row, excepting meal times and sleeping hours. That awful, plodding rhyme sounded like a row of dairy women stomping off to market.

Oh, stop, fool.

Let me try:

If there’s a buck who needs a doe

Tell him Rosalind will do.

A cat in heat will look for a mate,

And Rosalind certainly will too.

Winter garments need to be filled with something,

And so does skinny Rosalind.

After you harvest, you have to sheaf and bind

So throw ripe Rosalind on the harvest cart.

The sweetest nut has the sourest rind

And Rosalind is that kind of nut.

The man who finds the sweetest rose

Will be pricked by it, and by Rosalind.

This is exactly the false way that verses gallop along. Why bother with them?

Quiet, you stupid fool. I found them on a tree.

Well, the tree bears rotten fruit.

I’ll graft you onto that tree, and when I do I’ll be grafting onto it a medlar. The fruit the tree bears will be the earliest to ripen in the country because, God knows, you’ll be rotten before you’re half-ripe, which is how medlars are.

All right, you’ve had your say, but we’ll let the forest judge whether or not you spoke wisely.

Quiet! Here comes my cousin, reading something; step aside.

(reading, as Aliena) Why should this place be a desert

Just because there are no people in it? No,

I’ll hang these poems on every tree,

And they will voice the thoughts of a city.

Some will be about how man’s brief life

is spent in wandering,

his entire life contained

in the width of an open hand.

Some poems will be about betrayals

Committed by friends.

But on the prettiest branches

Or at the end of every sentence

I’ll write “Rosalinda,”

Teaching everyone who can read

that the essence of every spirit

Is contained in this one woman.

Heaven commanded Nature

To fill her one body

With all the graces that women contain.

Nature took

Helen’s beautiful face, but not her fickle heart;

Cleopatra’s majesty,

The best of Atalanta,

And unhappy Lucretia’s modesty.

So, by heaven’s decree, Rosalind

Was composed

Of different faces, eyes, and hearts,

so that she might have the most prized touches of all.

Heaven wanted Rosalind to have these gifts

And me to live and die as her slave.

Oh, Lord—what tedious sayings about love have you been wearing out your congregation with? Shouldn’t you have warned, “Be patient, good people”?

What are you saying?—Shoo, Shepherd, go a little ways away.—Go with him, Touchstone.

Come on, shepherd, let’s make an honorable retreat, though not with all the trappings of a full army; just with a shepherd’s pouch and the stuff he puts in it.

Were you listening to these verses?

Oh yes, I heard them all, and more, too. Some of those lines had more feet than the verses could bear.

That’s not a problem: the feet can bear the verses.

Sure, but these feet were lame, and couldn’t have stood up without the support of the verses. They stood lamely in the verse.

But did you listen to all that poetry without even wondering about what your name is doing on all these trees?

I was working through my wonder when you arrived. Look at what I found on a palm tree. I haven’t been rhymed about like this since my past life, when I was an Irish rat, but I can hardly remember that.

Do you know who wrote these?

Was it a man?

And he had a chain that once belonged to you hanging around his neck. Are you blushing?

Please, who?

Oh God, God! It’s difficult to bring two friends together, but even mountains can be moved together by earthquakes.

No, who are you talking about?

Is it possible?

No, I’m begging you now, tell me who it is.

Oh, this is wonderful, wonderful—just wonderful wonderful! And another wonderful, and beyond-my-ability-to-express wonderful!

Good grief, do you think that just because I’m dressed like a man, I have a man’s patience? Every second you delay is as long and dull as a journey to South Seas. I’m begging you, tell me who it is quickly, and speak fast. I wish you could just stammer this hidden man out of your mouth like wine out of a narrow-necked bottle: either too much at once or none at all. I’m begging you, take the cork out of your mouth so I can drink the news.

So you want to put a man in your belly.

Did God make him? I mean, what sort of man is he? Is he enough of a man to wear a hat and grow a beard ?

No, he has only a little beard.

Well, eventually God will send him some more hair, if he thanks Him. I’ll wait till his beard grows in, if you’ll just hurry up and tell me what chin that beard is on.

It’s Orlando, who triumphed over both the wrestler and you in the same instant.

Damn you for mocking me. Speak seriously and honestly.

Really, cousin, it’s him.

Orlando?

Orlando.

Oh no! What am I going to do in my man’s clothing? What did he do when you saw him? What did he say? How did he look? Where did he go? What brings him here? Did he ask about me? Where is he staying? How did he say good-bye? And when will you see him again? Answer me in a word.

You’d better get me Gargantua’smouth first. The word’s too big for any mouth nowadays. Answering “yes” and “no” to all those questions would be harder than answering a catechism.

But does he know that I’m here in the forest and dressed in men’s clothing? Does he look as bright and handsome as the day we saw him wrestling?

It’s easier to count specks than to answer a lover’s millions of questions. But taste my story, and relish it by paying attention. I found Orlando under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

That tree could be called God’s tree, since it drops such wonderful fruit.

Let me talk, good lady.

Go on.

He lay there, stretched out like a wounded knight.

Though that must have been a pitiful sight, the ground looked beautiful.

Cry, “whoa!” to your tongue, please. It’s leaping about like a frisky horse. He was dressed like a hunter.

Oh, that’s ominous! He has come to kill my heart.

I’d like to sing my song solo. You’re making me go off-key.

Don’t you know that I’m a woman? Whatever I think, I have to say. Sweetheart, go on.

You’ve made me lose the tune. Quiet! Isn’t that him heading this way?

That’s him. Let’s slink off, and watch him from a hiding place.

Thanks for your company but, really, I would have preferred being alone.

Me too, but still, for the sake of good manners, I’ll say thanks for your company.

Goodbye. Let’s meet as little as we can.

I also hope that we can be better strangers.

Please don’t ruin any more trees by carving love poems on their barks.

Please don’t ruin any more of my poems by reading them so badly.

Your love’s name is Rosalind?

Yes, that’s it.

I don’t like her name.

They weren’t looking to please you when they christened her.

How tall is she?

Just as tall as my heart.

You’re sure full of smooth answers. Are you friendly with goldsmiths’ wives, and memorized your little speeches off of their rings?

No, but I can answer you just like those painted cloths, where I suppose you memorized all your questions.

You have a quick wit; I think it must be made out of Atalanta’s heels. Why don’t you sit down with me? The two of us can complain about our mistress—the world—and all our miseries.

I won’t blame anyone in this world but myself, whose faults I’m most familiar with.

Your worst fault is being in love.

Well, it’s a fault I wouldn’t trade for your best virtue. I’m tired of you.

Well, I was looking for a fool when I found you, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

He’s drowned in the brook: look in, and you’ll see him.

There I’ll see only myself.

Which is either a fool or a nothing.

I’m not going to waste any more time with you. Goodbye, good Mr. Love.

I’m glad to see you go. Adieu, good Mr. Depression.

(speaking so that only CELIAcan hear) I’m going to talk to him like I’m an insolent boy, so I can play a trick on him.—Can you hear me, forester?

Very well. What do you want?

(as Ganymede) Please, what’s the hour?

You should ask me what time of day it is, instead. There’s no clock here in the forest.

Then there must be no lovers in the forest, either, because they’re as good as a clock, marking the lazy foot of time with a sigh every minute and a groan every hour.

Why didn’t you say “the swift steps” of time instead of the “lazy foot”? Wouldn’t that have been just as appropriate?

No, not at all, sir. Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.

Okay, who does it trot for?

Well, it trots for a young woman between the time she gets engaged and the time she marries: the time that’s passed may only be a week, but it always feels like seven years.

Who does time amble for?

For a priest who doesn’t know his Latin or a rich man who is free from the gout. The one sleeps easily because he isn’t up late studying and the other lives merrily because he’s free from pain. The first lacks the burden of intense, exhausting study, and the second is spared the burden of heavy, exhausting poverty. Time ambles for both men.

Who does it gallop for?

For a thief on his way to the gallows. Such a man walks as slowly as possible and, even so, gets there too soon.

Who does it stand still for?

For lawyers on vacation, because they sleep their holidays away, with no sense of how time moves.

Where do you live, pretty young man?

With this shepherdess, my sister, on the outskirts of the forest. We live like fringe on the edges of a petticoat.

Were you born here?

Just like the rabbit, who lives where she is born.

Your speech is more refined than I would expect in such a remote place as this.

Many people have told me so. Actually, an old religious uncle of mine taught me how to speak, and he was brought up in the city. He knew too much about courtship, because he fell in love back there, and when he came here he constantly lectured against it. Thank God I’m not a woman and afflicted with all the giddiness that troubles that entire sex.

What were the primary evils he claimed women were guilty of?

There were no primary ones. All of women’s faults are as alike as one half-pence is to another. Each of a woman’s faults seems monstrous until you’re presented with the next one, which is just as bad.

Please, tell me some of them.

No, I won’t give my medicine away to anyone but the sick. There’s a man haunting this forest who abuses the trees by carving “Rosalind” on their barks. He hangs his odes on the hawthorns and his elegies on the brambles—each of these poems praising to the heavens one “Rosalind.” Now if I could find this man, this dream-catcher, I would give him some good advice, because he is truly love-sick.

Well, I’m the man you’re speaking of. Please, tell me your cure.

But you don’t have any of the symptoms my uncle told me about. He taught me how to recognize a man in love, and you’re not a prisoner of love, I’m sure.

What did he say the symptoms were?

A thin face, which you don’t have; a sleepless, sunken eye, which you don’t have; an irritable temper, which you don’t have; a neglected beard, which you don’t have—but that might not be so telling, since you don’t have much beard anyway. Your stockings should be falling down around your ankles, your hat flying off your head, your sleeves unbuttoned, your shoes untied, and everything about you demonstrating carelessness and misery. But you’re no such man. You’re so neat and well put-together that you look like you love yourself more than anyone else.

Young boy, I wish I could make you believe that I’m in love.

Make me believe it? You might as well make the one you love believe it, which she’s more likely to do than admit that she does—that’s one of the ways that women fool their own consciences. But really, are you the one who’s been hanging on the trees those poems that speak so admiringly of Rosalind?

I swear to you by Rosalind’s own pretty hand that I am that unfortunate man.

Are you really as in love as your poems declare?

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much I love her.

Love is merely a form of insanity, and I tell you, lovers deserve the nuthouse just like crazy people do. The only reason they don’t get punished and cured is that the disease is so commonplace that the nuthouse nurses are usually suffering from it, too. But I promise it can be cured with some guidance.

Have you ever cured anyone this way before?

Yes, one, and this is how I did it. He had to imagine that I was the girl he was in love with. I made him woo me every day. When he did, being the changeable boy I am, I’d mope, act effeminate, switch moods, long for him, like him, be proud and standoffish, be dreamy, full of mannerisms, unpredictable, full of tears and then smiles; be passionate about everything, then nothing. Most boys and women act just like this. I’d like him one minute and despise him the next; cry for him, then spit at him—until finally I drove love out and anger in. He abandoned the world, and hid himself away in a monastery. So I cured him, and I’ll cure you just the same, leaving you as clean as a sheep’s heart, without one spot of love in you.

I don’t want to be cured, boy.

I could cure you, if you just called me Rosalind and came by my cottage every day to woo me.

By my faith in love, I will, then. Tell me where you live.

Come with me, I’ll show you, and along the way, you can tell me where you live. Will you come?

Wholeheartedly, good young man.

No, you have to call me Rosalind.—Sister, you’re coming?

Come on, sweet Audrey. I’ll get your goats, Audrey. Well now, what do you think, Audrey? Am I the man for you, Audrey? Do my simple features please you?

Your features, God help us! What features?

Well, I’m out here with you and your goats, in the same way that the witty poet Ovid was abandoned to the barbaric Goths.

(to himself) Oh, knowledge put to such bad use is worse than a god cooped up in a hut.

When a man’s jokes fall that flat, it’s as depressing as getting a large bill for a short stay in a little room. Really, Audrey, I wish you were more poetical.

I don’t know what “poetical” means. Is it “chaste in word and action”? Does it mean being truthful?

Not really, for the truest poetry is often the most artificial. Lovers are fond of poetry and often concoct great lies in their poems.

But you still wish the gods had made me poetical?

I do, in fact. Right now you swear to me that you are a virgin; if you were a poet, I might have some hope you were lying.

What, you don’t want me to be chaste?

Not really, unless you were ugly. Chastity and beauty together in one woman is like sweetening sugar with honey.

(to himself) A sensible fool.

Well, I’m not beautiful, so I hope that I can at least be chaste.

Yes, but wasting chastity on a dirty slut is like putting good meat in a dirty dish.

I’m not a slut—I keep myself clean—but I thank God I am ugly.

Well, praise the Lord you’re ugly. Maybe sluttishness will follow. Be that as it may, I’m going to marry you. To that end, I’ve spoken with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar from the next village, and he’s promised to meet us here and marry us.

(to himself) This I’d like to see.

Well, God bless this marriage!

Amen. You know, some men, who have fear in their hearts, might falter at this point. After all, these woods aren’t a proper church, and there’s no congregation here but horned animals. But who cares? I’ll be brave. Horns may be hateful, but they’re also necessary. They say, “Many a man doesn’t know the full extent of what he owns.” Exactly: many a man will see no end to the horns his wife furnishes him with.

Well, that’s what the wife brings to the marriage. He didn’t do anything to get them. Horns? Well, there they are. Only for poor men? No, no. The nobleman’s are as huge as the underfed villager’s. Is the single man lucky, then? No. Just as a town protected by a wall around it is worth more than a low-lying village, a married man’s horned forehead is more honorable than a bachelor’s bare forehead. Just as it’s better to be skilled at self-defense than it is to avoid fighting, it’s better to risk a horn by marrying. Here comes Sir Oliver.

Sir Oliver Martext, we’re glad to see you. Will you marry us here, under this tree, or should we follow you to your chapel?

Is there anyone to give the bride away?

I don’t want to take another man’s second-hand goods.

No, someone has to give her away or the marriage isn’t legal.

(coming forward) Go on, proceed—I’ll give her away.

Good evening, Mr. What’shisname. How are you, sir? We’re glad to see you. God bless you for being here. I’m very glad to see you. This is just a trifling matter here, sir. No, no, put your hat back on.

Do you want to get married, fool?

Just as the ox has his yoke, the horse its bridle, the falcon a tether, a man has his desires—to keep in check.

And, being a man of your breeding, you’re going to be married under some shrubs like a beggar? Get yourself to a church and have a proper priest, who can tell you what marriage is all about, marry you. This man here will slap you two together like two pieces of wood panelling. Then one of you will warp and pull away—and there goes your marriage.

(to himself) I’d rather have this guy marry us, because he is not likely to marry us well, and if we’re not married properly, I’ll have a better excuse later to leave my wife.

Come with me and let me advise you.

Come, sweet Audrey. We have to be married properly. Otherwise, we’ll be living in sin.—Goodbye, Sir Oliver. We’re not singing,

Oh, sweet Oliver

Oh, sweet Oliver

Don’t leave me behind—

but,

Go away, wind

Go, I say,

I’m not going to marry you.

It doesn’t matter to me. None of these deranged rascals can shake me from my profession.

Don’t talk to me. I’m going to cry.

Go ahead if you want, but remember that crying doesn’t suit a man.

But don’t I have good reason to cry?

As good a reason as any. So go ahead and cry.

I mean, his hair is even red—the same color as that lying Judas.

No, it’s a shade browner than Judas’—but his kisses are just like Judas’.

No, really, his hair is a nice color.

A very good color, this chestnut.

His kiss is as holy as bread blessed by a priest.

He must have bought a cast-iron pair of Diana’s lips: an elderly nun isn’t anymore devoted in her kissing than he is. His kiss is cold and chaste.

But why would he promise to come visit me this morning and then not come?

Really, he’s a total liar.

Do you think so?

Yes. He’s not a pickpocket or a horse thief, but when it comes to truth in love, he’s as hollow as a cup or a nut hollowed out by a worm.

You think his feelings aren’t true?

Oh, I think they are—when he’s in love. But he’s not in love.

But you heard him swear up and down that he was.

He “was,” but that doesn’t mean he is anymore. Besides, the promises of a lover are as untrustworthy as a bartender handing you an inflated tab: they both swear to their lies. He’s staying in the forest with your father now.

I met my father in the woods yesterday and had a long conversation with him. He asked me who my parents were, and I told him they were as good as he was. He laughed at that and let me go. But why are we talking about my father, when a man like Orlando exists?

Oh, sure, he’s a brave man! He writes brave poems, speaks brave words, makes brave promises, and then breaks them just as bravely. He’s like a cowardly jouster, who breaks his lance across his opponent’s shield, rather than directly against it. But everything’s brave that a young man does and foolishness leads.

Who’s coming here?

Mistress and master, you’ve often asked about that lovelorn shepherd you once saw me sitting with, the one who complained about the disdainful shepherdess he was in love with.

Yes, what about him?

If you’d like to see a scene played out between a man growing pale with unrequited love and a woman glowing with scorn and proud disdain, come with me a short distance and you’ll witness it.

(speaking so that only CELIAcan hear) Come on, let’s go. The sight of lovers nourishes whoever else is in love. (to CORIN) Bring us to this little show, and I’ll take a part in their play.

Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. Go ahead and say you don’t love me, but not so bitterly. The executioner, who’s seen death so much his heart has grown hard, still says, “forgive me” before he drops the axe on the criminal’s neck. Are you going to be crueler than the man who makes his living by killing?

I don’t want to be your executioner: I’m trying to avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me my eyes are murderous—that’s a very pretty sentiment, and oh-so-probable, that my frail, soft eyes (which are so cowardly that they close their gates against dust) are tyrants, butchers, and murderers. I’m frowning at you with all my might right now. If my eyes can injure, let them kill you now. Go ahead. Faint, fall down—if you don’t, then you’re lying about my eyes being murderers. Come on, show me the wound that my eyes have caused. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar; even if you lean on a rush, it leaves an impression on your palm. But my eyes, which I’ve darted at you, haven’t even left a mark. Now I am sure that eyes can’t hurt a person.

Oh, darling Phoebe, if you ever fall in love with some fresh face, then you’ll know about the invisible wounds that love’s sharp arrows can make.

Well, until that time, don’t come near me. And when that time comes, then you can mock me, but please don’t pity me, because I won’t pity you.

(coming forward, speaking as Ganymede) And why, please tell me? Is your mother a goddess that you would insult a wretched man, and exult over the injury you’ve caused him, all at the same time? You’re not beautiful—really, you’re not so pretty that you could go to bed with the lights on—so why must you act so proud and pitiless? Wait a minute, what’s going on? Why are you looking at me like that? I don’t see anything in you but nature’s usual handiwork.—Oh, for God’s sake, I think she also wants me to fall in love with her. No, proud woman, don’t hope for that. Not even your black eyebrows, your silky black hair, your beady black eyeballs, or your yellowish-white complexion can make me worship you. You foolish shepherd: why are you following her, raining tears and puffing hot air like a foggy south wind? You are a thousand times better than she. It’s fools like you who, marrying badly, fill the world with ugly children. It’s not her mirror but you who insists she’s beautiful. The image of herself that she gets from you is better than her actual features. But mistress, know yourself. Get down on your knees and thank heaven for sending you such a good man. I’m telling you, as a friend, that you should sell while the market’s good—you’re not going to have many more buyers. Ask this man’s forgiveness, love him, and accept his offer. You’re already ugly, don’t make matters worse by being scornful, too. So take her, shepherd, and God bless you.

Sweet boy, I’d rather hear you scold me for a whole year than this man woo me for a minute.

He’s fallen in love with your sheer ugliness. (to SILVIUS) And I think she’s falling in love with my anger. If I’m right, as soon as she answers you with frowns, I’ll rebuke her with bitter words. (to PHOEBE) Why are you looking at me like that?

I don’t wish you any harm.

I’m telling you, don’t fall in love with me. I’m more false than the promises a man makes while drunk. Besides, I don’t like you. If you’d like to know where I live, my house is in the olive grove close by. —Come on, sister. —Shepherd, keep working on her. —Come on, sister. —Shepherdess, give him another chance. And don’t be proud. The whole world could look at you, and no one would be as blind as he is, thinking you’re beautiful. —Come on, to our sheep.

Dead shepherd, now I understand what you meant when you said, “You’ve never loved until you’ve fallen in love at first sight.”

Sweet Phoebe—

What? Did you say something, Silvius?

Sweet Phoebe, have pity on me.

Well, I’m sorry for you, gentle Silvius.

But if you’re really sorry for me, you can cure me. If you’re sorry for the grief I feel in loving you, you can love me back. Then both my grief and your sorrow will be cured.

You have my friendship. Isn’t that enough?

I want you.

Well, that’s just greedy. Silvius, I used to hate you. I still don’t love you, but since you’re well-spoken when it comes to love, I’ll keep you around and make use of you. But don’t expect any more than that.

My love for you is so pure and perfect, and I’m in such a bad way, that I’ll be grateful for whatever leftover love you throw my way. Every once in a while, toss me a distracted smile, and I’ll live on that.

Do you know the boy who was just speaking to me?

Not very well, but I’ve met him several times. He’s bought the cottage and the grounds that the old peasant used to own.

Don’t think I’m in love with him just because I’m asking about him. He’s an irritable boy, though he speaks well. But what do I care about words? And yet, words are a good thing when the man speaking them is pleasant to listen to. He’s good-looking, but not too good-looking. He’s awfully proud, but his pride suits him. He’ll grow up to be a proper man. The best thing about him is his complexion: as fast as he offends me with words, his pretty face heals the wound. He’s not very tall, but he’s tall enough for his age. His legs aren’t great, but they’re alright. His lips were nice and red, a little more lively and passionate than the red that was in his cheeks—one was pure red and the other more pink. There are women out there, Silvius, who would have nearly fallen in love with him after inspecting him as closely as I have. But I don’t love him or hate him—though I suppose I have more reason to hate him than love him. What right did he have to scold me like that? He said my eyes and my hair were black and, now that I think of it, he scorned me. I’m surprised I didn’t bite back. But no matter—I’ll get back at him soon enough. I’ll write him a taunting letter, and you can deliver it. Will you do that for me, Silvius?

With all my heart, Phoebe.

I’ll write it right now—the whole thing is pressing on my mind, and on my heart. I’ll be bitter toward him, and curt. Come with me, Silvius.

Please, pretty young man, I’d like to get to know you better.

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

I am. I like it better than laughing.

People who are either too serious or too silly are awful. They make themselves targets for ridicule even faster than drunks do.

Well, I think it’s good to be serious and keep quiet.

In that case it’s good to be a post.

I’m not a scholar’s kind of melancholy, which is all about impressing one’s peers, or a musician’s, which comes from his passion for his art. I don’t have the proud melancholy of a courtier or the ambitious melancholy of a soldier or the calculated melancholy of a lawyer. My melancholy is not like a lady’s—which is nothing more than an affectation—nor like a lover’s, which combines all of these qualities. My melancholy is purely my own—a compound made from many ingredients. I’m serious because I’ve traveled so much. When I think about all the things I’ve seen, I sink into deep thoughts.

You’re a traveler. Well then, you have good reason to be sad. I’m afraid you’ve sold your own land to see other men’s. To have seen much but own nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Not true. I gained my experience.

And your experience makes you sad. I’d rather have a jester to make me happy than experience to make me sad—and to travel for all that trouble, no less!

Good day and happiness to you, darling Rosalind.

No—I’ll say goodbye if you’re going to talk in blank verse.

Goodbye, Mr. Traveler. Make sure to keep up your foreign accent, wear strange clothes, belittle all the benefits you receive from your native land and fall out of love with it, and nearly curse God for making you look like the Englishman you are, or else I’ll never believe you’ve paddled in a gondola in a Venetian canal, as you say you have.

(as Ganymede pretending to be ROSALIND) What’s going on, Orlando? Where have you been all this time? And you call yourself a lover? If you ever insult me like this again, don’t bother coming around here again.

My beautiful Rosalind, I’m only an hour late.

You’d break a date with your beloved by a whole hour? A man who will dare to meet his lover even a thousandth part of a minute late—well, it’s possible he likes her, but I doubt he really loves the woman.

Forgive me, darling Rosalind.

No, if you’re ever late like this again, I’ll refuse to see you. I’d rather be wooed by a snail.

A snail?

Yes, a snail. Because even though he’s slow, he carries his house on his head—a better offer than you can make a woman, I think. Besides, he brings his fate with him.

What fate is that?

Why, his cuckold’s horns, of course—the kind you men are always blaming on your wives. See, the snail already has its horns, which prevents nasty rumors from spreading about his wife’s infidelity.

A virtuous woman won’t give her husband horns, and my Rosalind is definitely virtuous.

And I am your Rosalind.

(as Aliena) He likes calling you that, but he’s got another Rosalind out there with a prettier face.

Come on, woo me, woo me. I’m in a good mood now and likely to give you what you want. What would you say to me now if I really were your precious little Rosalind?

I’d kiss you before I spoke.

No, it would be better to speak first and kiss only after you’ve run out of things to say. When good orators finish talking, they spit; when lovers do (God help us if they ever do), they kiss.

What if she won’t kiss me?

Then she’s making you beg, and that gives you a whole new set of things to talk about.

Who could be out of things to say if he were with the girl he loves?

Indeed, you would be out if I were your mistress—if my chastity is worth as much as my wit.

Would I be out of my suit?

No, you’d still have your clothes on—but, yes, I wouldn’t think much of you. Aren’t I your Rosalind?

I like to pretend you are, because then it’s almost like actually talking to her.

Well, on behalf of Rosalind, I’ll tell you I don’t want you.

Then, on behalf of myself, I’ll tell you I’ll die.

No, you won’t die yourself, but only by proxy. This world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time not one man has ever actually died from love. Troilus may have wanted to die from love, and he’s now considered one of the great, tragic love heroes, but, in fact, a Greek with a club beat his brains out. It had nothing to do with love. Leander would have lived many more years if it hadn’t been for a particularly hot summer night, when he went swimming in the Hellespont, got a cramp, and drowned. The foolish poets of the time insisted he died for love, but they’re lying. All the love stories are lies. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not because of love.

I hope Rosalind doesn’t feel as you do. Her frown alone would kill me.

No, her frown wouldn’t kill a fly. But come on, now I’ll play your Rosalind, and in a more friendly state of mind. Whatever you ask for, I’ll give.

Then love me, Rosalind.

Okay, I will—on Fridays and Saturdays, and the rest.

And will you have me?

Sure, and twenty others just like you.

What’s that?

Well, aren’t you a good man?

I hope so.

And can a person ever have too much of a good thing?—Come on, sister, you can be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?

Please, marry us.

I can’t say the words.

You just have to say, “Do you, Orlando—”

Oh, stop it.—Do you, Orlando, take Rosalind to be your lawfully wedded wife?

I do.

Okay, but when?

Right now; as fast as she can say the vows.

Then you have to say, “I take you, Rosalind, to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

I take you, Rosalind, to be my lawfully wedded wife.

Maybe I should ask you what right you have to take me, but I’ll take you, Orlando, to be my husband. Look, I’ve sped ahead of the priest and answered the question before he even asked. A woman’s thoughts are always running ahead of her actions.

So do all thoughts. They have wings.

Now tell me how long you intend to keep her.

Forever and a day.

You might as well just say for “a day,” and forget the “ever” part. No, Orlando, men are like April when they’re wooing a girl—young, and passionate—but like December once they’re married and their passions have cooled. Women are as sweet and temperate as springtime when they’re single, but the climate changes once they’re married. I’ll be more jealous of you than a wild rooster over his hen; more noisy than a parrot chattering about the rain; more fond of new things than an ape; more giddy about getting what I want than a monkey. I’ll cry at nothing, and I’ll always do it when you’re in a good mood. And when you want to go to sleep, I’ll be up laughing like a hyena.

But will my Rosalind do this, too?

Indeed, she’ll act just like me.

But she is wise.

Right. If she weren’t wise, she wouldn’t be smart enough to behave badly. The wiser the woman, the wilder. If you close the doors on a woman’s wit, it’ll fly out the window. If you shut the windows, it will pour out the keyhole. If you stop up the keyhole, it will escape from the chimney along with the smoke.

A man with a wife like that might ask, “Hey, wandering wit, where are you off to?”

Nah, better save the questions for when you find her in your neighbor’s bed.

And what wit could excuse that?

She’ll say she was at the neighbor’s looking for you. You’ll never find her without an answer unless you find her without a tongue. A woman who doesn’t know how to make her own indiscretions look like her husband’s fault is hardly a woman. And she’s hardly fit to be a mother—her child will turn out to be a fool.

Rosalind, I have to leave you for two hours.

Oh, no! Darling, I can’t live without you for two hours.

I must join the duke for lunch. I’ll be back here with you by two o’clock.

Oh, go, leave me. I knew you’d turn out this way. My friends told me as much, and I knew it, too. But I was won over by your flattering words. I’m just another girl whom you’ve cast aside. So, take me, death! You’ll be back at two o’clock?

Yes, sweet Rosalind.

Honestly, truly, in God’s name, and by all those little girly oaths that don’t actually have any power, if you break even a little bit of your promise, or if you come even a minute after two o’clock, I’ll think you the most pathetic promise breaker, the most lying lover, and the most unworthy partner for Rosalind that could be found anywhere. So beware of my contempt, and keep your promise.

I’ll keep my promise just as if you really were Rosalind. So, goodbye.

Well, time is the old judge that tries your kind of criminal. Time will tell what kind of a man you are. Goodbye.

You have absolutely abused our sex in this love talk of yours. We should rip off your man’s clothing and show the world the woman who has represented her own kind so badly.

Oh cousin, cousin, cousin, my sweet little cousin, I wish you knew how deep in love I am. The bottom of my love is so deep it can’t be reached. It’s as deep as the bay of Portugal.

Or it’s bottomless, at least: pour affection in one end, and it runs out the other.

Cupid—that blind bastard son of Venus, conceived from a thought and anger, born from insanity, that blind, naughty boy who makes everyone else go blind just because he can’t see himself—let Cupid judge how deep my love runs. I’m telling you, Aliena, I can’t stand being apart from Orlando. I’m going to find some shade and sigh until he returns.

And I’m going to sleep.

Which one of you killed the deer?

It was me, sir.

Let’s bring this man to the duke, like a triumphant Roman conqueror. Put the deer’s horns on his head, like a victory branch. Do you have a song, forester, for this occasion?

Yes, sir.

Then sing it. It doesn’t matter if it’s in tune so long as it’s loud enough.

(sings)

What should we give to the man who killed this deer?

Give him the hide and the horns to wear.

Then sing this song to send him home

(The other LORDS pick up the deer)

Don’t be ashamed to wear the horns.

They’ve been worn since before you were born.

Your father’s father wore it,

And your father endured it.

The horn, the horn, the lustful horn

Is not to be laughed at or scorned.

What do you say now? Isn’t it past two o’clock? And I see a lot of Orlando here.

I’m telling you, he’s taken his bow and arrows and, with a pure love and a worried brain, has gone to take a nap.

Look who’s coming.

(to ROSALIND) I’ve been sent to find you, young man. My lovely Phoebe told me to give you this letter. I don’t know what’s in it, but guessing from her stern expression and her wasp-like demeanor as she was writing it, I bet she’s angry. You’ll have to excuse me, as I’m just the messenger.

(reading the letter as Ganymede) Patience herself would be shocked by this letter and become feisty. If I can take this, I can take anything. She says I’m not handsome and have no manners. She says I’m arrogant and that she couldn’t love me even if men were as rare as the mythical phoenix. Honestly! I’m not hunting after her love. Why would she write this way to me? Tell the truth, shepherd: you wrote this letter.

No, I swear, I don’t even know what’s in it. Phoebe wrote it.

Come on, you’re a fool, and driven to extreme measures by love. I saw her hands: they were as rough as leather and just as brown; I thought she was wearing old gloves, but they were, in fact, her hands. These are the hands of a hard-working housewife, but that’s not the point. The point is that she didn’t write this letter. These are a man’s words, and his handwriting.

I’m telling you, it’s hers.

Well, it’s written in a boisterous and rude style—someone is up for a fight. Why, she challenges me like a Muslim would challenge a Christian. No, a woman’s gentle brain could never have come up with such crude expressions and even harsher meanings. Do you want to hear what she says?

If you want to read it, as I haven’t heard it yet, though I’ve heard too much of Phoebe’s cruelty.

She’s Phoebe-ing me. Listen to what the tyrant says. (reading) “Are you a god disguised as a shepherd, that you know so expertly how to burn my heart?” Now, honestly, would a woman rant like this?

You call that ranting?

(reading) “Why have you set aside your divine nature just to battle with a woman’s affections?” Did you ever hear such ranting? (reading) “When other men have wooed me, they didn’t hurt me.” In other words, she thinks I’m not a man, but an animal. (reading) “If the scorn in your bright eyes can make me fall so deeply in love, can you imagine what power they might have if they looked at me more kindly? While you sneered at me, I loved you. Consider what effect kind prayers might have. The man that brings you this letter doesn’t know how I feel about you. Send me your answer via him. Tell me via him whether you will accept my faithful offer of myself and all that I can do. Or tell him you will deny my love, in which case I’ll figure out how to die.”

You call this sneering?

(as Aliena) Oh, you poor shepherd!

Why do you pity him? He doesn’t deserve any pity. (to SILVIUS) Why would you love such a woman? So she can turn you into an instrument and play lousy tunes on you? It’s unbearable. Well, go back to her—I can tell she’s turned you into a perfectly tame snake—and tell her this: if she loves me, I command her to love you. And if she won’t love you, tell her I’ll never take her unless you beg me to. If you’re a true lover, get out of here. No, don’t say another word, because here comes more company.

Good morning, pretty ones. Tell me, if you know: where in this forest is there a shepherd’s cottage surrounded by olive trees?

West of here, in the valley next to us. Passing by on your right, there is a row of willows. Follow them straight to the cottage. But right now, the house is keeping to itself— there’s no one home.

I think I recognize you from a description I was given of your clothing and age: “The boy is pretty and feminine, and carries himself like a blooming young woman. The woman is short, with a darker complexion than her brother.” Aren’t you the owners of the house I was just asking about?

Since you asked, I suppose it’s not bragging to say that we are.

Orlando sends his regards to you both, and he sends this bloody handkerchief to the boy he calls “his Rosalind.” Is that you?

It is. What does this mean?

It’s a story that involves some shame on my part. It’s about who I am, and how, why, and where this handkerchief was stained.

Please, tell us.

When young Orlando left you last, he promised to return within an hour. He was pacing through the forest, thinking bittersweet thoughts of love, and listen what happened! He looked to the side, and pay attention to what he saw then: under an oak tree—whose lower branches were mossy with age and top branches ancient and brittle—he saw a wretched beggar, with overgrown hair and beard, asleep on his back. A green and gold snake had wound itself around this man’s neck and was slowly making its way toward the man’s mouth. However, when it saw Orlando, it unwound itself and slunk away into a bush. But there happened to be a lioness crouching under that bush. Her cubs had nursed from her until she was dry, so she was ravenously hungry, and she was lying with her head on the ground, watching the man as cats do and waiting to see if he would wake up—a lion won’t prey on anything that seems dead. Seeing the lioness, Orlando approached the sleeping man. He discovered that the man was his older brother.

Oh, I’ve heard him talk about that brother, and he described him as the most inhumane man alive.

And he was right. I know exactly how inhumane he was.

But, back to Orlando, did he leave his brother there, to be food for the hungry mother-lioness?

He turned away twice and almost left him there. But his kindness was nobler than even his desire for revenge, his natural goodness was stronger than his need to give his brother what he deserved. He fought the lioness and quickly defeated her. I woke from my miserable sleep when I heard the noise of their struggle.

Are you his brother?

Was it you that he rescued?

Was it you that was always plotting to kill him?

That was me, but it’s not me— I’m not ashamed to tell you what I once was, since I’m so happy to have since converted.

But what about the bloody handkerchief?

I’ll get there. When we had told each other our entire stories and cried, and I’d told him how I’d ended up in in the forest—well, he brought me to the duke, who gave me fresh clothing and hospitality, and put me in my brother’s care. My brother immediately took me to his cave, where he took off his clothing and there on his arm was a wound where the lioness had attacked him, ripping off some of his flesh. The wound had been bleeding the entire time. So, now he fainted, and as he fainted, he called out, “Rosalind!” Quickly, I resuscitated him and bound up his wound. After a brief time—as he is a strong, brave man— he sent me out to find you, even though I’m a stranger to you. He wanted me to tell you this story and beg your forgiveness for his having broken his promise. He wanted me to give this handkerchief, soaked in his blood, to the boy that he jokingly calls his Rosalind.

Oh no! Ganymede! Ganymede, sweetheart?

Many people faint when they see blood.

There’s more to it than that.—Ganymede!

Look, he’s recovering.

I want to go home.

We’ll take you there. Please, will you take his arm?

Buck up, boy! You’re a man? You don’t have a man’s courage.

It’s true, I confess. Oh, sir, someone would think I was a good fake. Please tell your brother what a convincing show I put on. Whoo-hoo!

That was no show. Your cheeks are too flushed for me to believe that was a fake faint.

Fake, I’m telling you.

Well, then, be brave and pretend to be a man.

That’s what I’m doing. But honestly, I should have been a woman.

Come on, you keep getting paler. Please, let’s go home. Sir, please come with us.

I’ll do that, because I have to tell my brother how you forgave him, Rosalind.

I’ll think of something. But please, tell him how well I faked a faint. Will you come with us?

We’ll get married at some point, Audrey. Be patient.

Really, the priest was good enough, no matter what that old guy said.

No, he was wicked and vile. But Audrey, there’s a boy in the forest who claims you’re his girl.

Yes, I know who you’re talking about, but he has no claim on me.

Here comes the man himself.

It warms my heart to encounter such a country bumpkin. Truly, we witty men can’t hold our tongues. We have to mess with the likes of him, we just can’t help it.

Good evening, Audrey.

Good evening, William.

And good evening to you, sir.

Good evening to you, good friend. No, no, put your hat back on, put it back on. No, please, keep your head covered. How old are you, friend?

Twenty-five, sir.

A mature age. Is your name William?

Yes, it’s William, sir.

A good name. Were you born here in the forest?

Yes sir, thank God.

“Thank God”—that’s a good answer. Are you rich?

Well, so-so.

“So-so” is good, very good, an excellent answer. And then again, it’s not so good, but only so-so. Are you wise?

Yes sir, I’m fairly witty.

Well, that’s a fine answer. I seem to remember a saying: “Only a fool thinks he’s wise; the wise man knows that he is, in fact, a fool.” When one self-described philosopher wanted to eat grapes, he opened his lips when they entered his mouth, thereby making the theoretical point that grapes were made to be eaten, and lips to open. Do you love this girl?

I do, sir.

Give me your hand. Are you educated?

No, sir.

Then learn this from me: if you have something, you have it. Everyone knows that when you pour a drink out of a cup and into a glass, the cup becomes empty. And all the authorities know that ipse is Latin for “he.” You are no longer ipse, because I am he.

Which he, sir?

Why, the he that will marry this woman. Therefore, idiot, abandon (or, in common language, “leave”) the society (which in the boorish tongue is “company”) of this female—maybe you’ll get it if I say “woman,” instead. Say it all at once, now: abandon the society of this female, or, simpleton, you’ll perish. Let me put it in a way you’ll understand: you’ll die. Or, rather, I’ll kill you, or I’ll do away with you, or I’ll turn your life into death and your freedom into captivity. I’ll poison you, or beat you with a club, or stab you with a sword. I’ll bandy you about and overwhelm you with my cleverness. I will, in other words, kill you in three hundred and fifty ways. Therefore, tremble with fear and leave.

Do what he says, William.

Farewell, sir.

Our master and mistress are looking for you. Let’s go.

Hurry up, Audrey, hurry.—I’m coming, I’m coming.

Is it really possible that you could like her right after meeting her? And fall in love with her after merely seeing her? And as soon as you fall in love, with her, woo her? And as soon as you woo her, have her accept? And do you really mean to marry her?

Don’t question the foolish haste of it all—or her poverty or our short time together or the abruptness of my courtship or the abruptness of her consent—but say with me, “I love Aliena.” And say with me that she loves me. Agree to this match, so we can enjoy each other. It will be to your advantage, because I’ll leave our father’s house and all his property to you, while I live and die a shepherd here in the forest.

You have my consent. You can be married tomorrow if you want. I’ll invite the duke and all of his followers. Go get Aliena ready—because, look, here comes my Rosalind.

Hello, brother.

And hello to you, fair sister.

Oh, darling Orlando, it’s so hard to see you wearing your heart in a sling.

Actually, it’s my arm.

I thought your heart had been wounded by a lion’s claws.

My heart has been wounded, but by a lady, not a lion.

Did your brother tell you how well I pretended to faint when he showed me the handkerchief?

Yes, and he told me some things that were even more amazing.

Oh, I know what you’re talking about. It’s true: it was as sudden as two rams rushing at each other, and as quick as Julius Caesar’s “I came, I saw, I conquered.” Your brother and my sister had no sooner met than they gave each other a good once over; they had no sooner looked at each other than they fell in love; no sooner fell in love than they sighed; no sooner sighed than they asked each other why they had sighed; no sooner answered than they sought a solution. And in this way, degree by degree, they’ve built a staircase toward marriage. And they had better climb those stairs immediately, or else they’ll end up in bed before they ought to. They’re in the heat of passion; they simply have to be together. You couldn’t beat the two of them apart.

They’ll be married tomorrow, and I’ll invite the duke to the ceremony. But, oh, it makes me bitter to look at happiness through another man’s eyes. Tomorrow I’ll be at the depths of my misery thinking about the happiness my brother has achieved, in having what he wished for.

Well then, can’t I act as Rosalind for you tomorrow?

I can’t live by pretending anymore.

I won’t exhaust you anymore with idle chitchat. You should know that I think you’re a smart man. I really mean it. I’m not telling you this so you’ll think well of me (who wouldn’t think well of someone who thought well of him, after all?) And I’m not trying to enhance my own reputation, but only to do you good. Believe me, then, that I have special powers. Since I was three years old, I’ve been in contact with a powerful but virtuous magician—no black magic here. If you love Rosalind as much as you say you do, you will marry her when your brother marries Aliena. I know where she is and, if you don’t mind, I will set her before you tomorrow, whole and unharmed.

Are you serious?

I swear on my life, which I take pretty seriously, even if I am a magician. So put on your best clothes and tell your friends to come. Because if you want to be married tomorrow, you will, and if you want to be married to Rosalind, you will.

Look, here comes someone who loves me, along with someone who loves her.

Young man, it was very rude of you to show him the letter I wrote you.

I don’t care. I’m being contemptuous and cruel toward you on purpose. A faithful shepherd worships you. Why don’t you pay attention to him? Why don’t you love him? He adores you.

Silvius, tell this youth what it means to be in love.

It means being full of sighs and tears, like I am for Phoebe.

And like I am for Ganymede.

And like I am for Rosalind.

And like I am for no woman.

It means being faithful and ready to serve, just like I am for Phoebe.

And like I am for Ganymede.

And like I am for Rosalind.

And like I am for no woman.

It means being filled with fantasy; with passion and wishes; with adoration, loyalty, and devotion. It means being humble, being patient, being impatient, being pure, being put-upon, being obedient. Just as I am for Phoebe.

And I for Ganymede.

And I for Rosalind.

And I for no woman.

Since you know all this is true, why do you blame me for loving you?

And why do you blame me for loving you?

And why do you blame me for loving you?

Who are you talking to?

I’m saying it to the girl who isn’t here and doesn’t hear me.

All right, stop this. You sound like a pack of wolves howling at the moon.(to SILVIUS) I’ll help you, if I can.(to PHOEBE) If I could love you, I would. All of you, meet me here tomorrow.(to PHOEBE) If I’m ever going to marry a woman, I’ll marry you. And I am getting married tomorrow.(to ORLANDO) If I will ever satisfy a man, I’ll satisfy you. And you will get married tomorrow.(to SILVIUS) If the thing you desire will make you happy, I’ll make you happy. And you’ll get married tomorrow.(to ORLANDO) By the love you have for Rosalind, come back tomorrow.(to SILVIUS) By the love you have for Phoebe, come here tomorrow.—And by my love for no woman, I’ll also be here tomorrow. So, goodbye for now. You all know what to do.

As long as I’m alive, I’ll be here.

Me too.

Me too.

Tomorrow is the happy day, Audrey. We’ll be married tomorrow.

I can’t wait. I hope it doesn’t make me unchaste that I really want to be a married woman.

Here come two of Duke Senior’s pages.

Good afternoon, good gentleman.

It really is good to see you. Come, sit, sit, and sing me a song.

Sounds good to us. Sit between us.

Should we just get down to it? Should we skip all that hacking and spitting and saying that we’re hoarse, which only makes clear what lousy singers we are?

Yes, yes, and let’s sing in unison, like two gypsies riding on a single horse.

(singing)

There was a lover and his girl,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no,

Who walked through the cornfield

In the springtime, the only proper wedding time,

The time when birds sing, Hey ding-a-ding-ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no

The pretty country folk would lie

In the springtime, the only proper wedding-time,

The time when birds sing, Hey ding-a-ding-ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

They wrote this song at that time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no,

About how life was as short-lived as a flower

In the springtime, the only proper wedding time,

The time when birds sing, hey ding-a-ding-ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

So seize the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonny-no,

For love is all perfection

In the springtime, the only proper wedding time,

The time when birds sing, Hey ding-a-ding-ding.

Sweet lovers love the spring.

Really, young men, though it wasn’t a very hard song to get right, the music was still all out of tune.

No, sir, you’re wrong; we kept the song’s time, we didn’t lose any.

Oh, yes you did—I lost time listening to your foolish song. God be with you, and I hope He fixes your voices! Come on, Audrey.

Orlando, do you really believe that this boy can do everything he’s promised?

Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t. I’m afraid of hoping, but I hope anyway.

(as Ganymede) Be patient for a bit longer while I go over the terms of our agreement. (to DUKE SENIOR ) You say that if I bring Rosalind here, you will give her to Orlando in marriage?

Yes, even if I had whole kingdoms to give along with her.

(to ORLANDO) And you promise to marry her, when I bring her here?

I will, even if I were king of all kingdoms.

(to PHOEBE) And you say you’ll marry me, if I’m willing to marry you?

Yes, even if I die an hour later.

But if you decide not to marry me, you’ll marry this faithful shepherd instead?

That’s the deal.

(to SILVIUS) And you agree to marry Phoebe, if she is willing?

Even if marrying her meant I died.

I’ve promised to make everything right. Duke Senior, keep your promise to give away your daughter. Orlando, keep your promise to marry his daughter. Phoebe, keep your promise to marry me, and to marry this shepherd if you choose to refuse me. Silvius, keep your promise to marry Phoebe if she refuses me. I’ll leave now, to set all these things right.

This shepherd boy reminds me quite vividly of my daughter.

My lord, when I first saw him I thought he was your daughter’s brother. But, my lord, this boy was born in the forest and has been schooled not in the usual subjects but only in magic. His uncle, who the boy says is a great magician and lives concealed within the boundaries of this forest, taught him.

Well, look: there must be another flood coming, with these couples also on their way to Noah’s ark. Here comes a pair of those strange creatures called “fools” in any language.

Hello, and greetings to you all.

My lord, welcome this man. This is the jester I have met so many times in the forest. He swears he used to be a courtier.

If anyone doubts this, let him put me on trial. I have danced a round, I have flattered a lady, I have been polite with my friends, smooth and cunning with my enemies. I have bankrupted three tailors. I have quarreled four times, and almost got in a fight.

And how was that one settled?

Well, we almost fought and then realized that we had reached the seventh cause.

What do you mean, the seventh cause? (to DUKE SENIOR ) My good lord, I hope you like this fellow.

I like him very well.

God bless you, sir. I want the same thing as all these other people. I’ve come here to be married, like all these other would-be couples. This poor virgin isn’t much to look at, sir, but she’s mine. It’s a strange habit of mine to take the thing that no one else wants: virginity in an ugly girl is like a rich man living in a broken-down house or a pearl in the hideous oyster.

Really, he’s very witty, and full of wise sayings.

His wittiness, a sweet disease, is here one minute and gone the next, sir, as with most fools.

But back to that argument you mentioned. What’s the “seventh cause”?

Our argument went through seven stages—watch your posture, Audrey.—It went like this. I didn’t like the way a particular courtier had cut his beard. He sent me word that, whether I liked it or not, he liked it fine. They call this “the courteous retort.” If I repeat that it isn’t cut well, and he responds that he isn’t trying to please me, just himself, with his beard. They call this “ the modest quip.” If I say again it is poorly cut, and he responds that my judgment is no good, they call this “the sullen reply.” If I say yet again that his beard is poorly cut, and he says that I’m not speaking the truth, they call this “the brave retort.” One more time I say it’s not well cut, and he says I’m lying. They call this “the argumentative countercheck.” And so on through “the circumstantial lie” and “the direct lie.”

And how many times did you say his beard wasn’t cut well?

I didn’t dare take it past “the circumstantial lie,” and he didn’t dare go to the “direct lie,” so we compared the lengths of our swords and then ended the fight.

Can you name the steps of that argument again?

Of course, sir. There are rulebooks for arguing just as there are rulebooks for manners. Here are the steps. First is “the courteous retort”; second, “the modest quip”; third, “the sullen reply”; fourth, “the valiant retort”; fifth, “the argumentative countercheck”; sixth, “the circumstantial lie”; seventh, “the direct lie.” You can avoid getting to that final stage if you can properly use an “if.” I once heard of an argument that seven judges couldn’t settle. The two parties met up on their own, and one said, “Well, if you said this-and-that, then I must have said such-and-such,” and they shook hands and parted on good terms. “If” is the only peacemaker. “If” is a very valuable word.

Isn’t he a remarkable fellow, my lord? He’s as smart as they come, but just a jester.

He uses his clownishness to disguise his deadly wit.

There is laughter in heaven

When earthly affairs are put right

And people unite.

Good duke, come receive your daughter.

Hymen brought her from heaven

Yes, brought her here.

(to DUKE SENIOR) I give myself to you, for I am yours.(to ORLANDO) I give myself to you, for I am yours.

If my eyes don’t deceive me, you are my daughter.

If my eyes don’t deceive me, you are my Rosalind.

If my eyes aren’t deceiving me, goodbye, love.

(to DUKE SENIOR) If you won’t be my father, I won’t have any.

(to ORLANDO) If you won’t be my husband, I won’t have any.

(to PHOEBE) If you won’t be my wife, I won’t have any.

Quiet! Stop chattering until I’ve made everything clear. There are eight people here that I will join in marriage, if the truth you see before you pleases you. (to ORLANDO and ROSALIND) No hardship can part you. (to OLIVER and CELIA) Your hearts are together. (to PHOEBE) You must consent to having Silvius as your husband, unless you’d rather be married to a woman. (to TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY) You are bound to each other as closely as winter is to bad weather. (to all the married couples) While we sing a wedding hymn, satisfy your curiosity with questioning. Your surprise will fade, and you’ll learn how all this came to be.

(singing)

Marriage is the crown Juno wears,

It’s a holy bond of domesticity.

It’s marriage that populates each town,

So marriage should be honored.

Honor, honor, and fame

Is due to Hymen, the god of every town.

My niece, you are welcome here as if you were my own daughter.

(to SILVIUS) I won’t go back on my promise; I’ll marry you. You’ve won me over with your faith.

Let me have your attention for a moment. I’m Sir Rowland’s middle son, and I bring you news. When Duke Frederick heard that great, worthy men were coming to this forest every day, he raised a large army to invade this land and fight his brother. But just at the edge of the forest, he met an old religious man. He spoke with him for a while and decided not only to abandon his pursuit of his brother but even to retreat from the world. He’s giving the throne to his banished brother and restoring all the men he’d exiled to their rightful lands. I swear on my life that I’m speaking the truth.

Welcome, young man: you bring a great present to your brothers’ wedding. To Oliver, you return his lands; to Orlando, you give a whole dukedom, since he will inherit my land. But first, let’s finish the things we started out here. Then I’ll share the abundance of my returned fortune with all those that have stayed out here with me, according to the rank and status each of you enjoy. But until then, let’s forget our nobility and enjoy some fun. Music, please. Brides and bridegrooms, dance your happiness away.

Wait a minute, sir. Do you mean to say that the duke has abandoned the glamorous court to live as a monk?

Yes, he has.

I will go find him. There is much to be learned from these converts. (to DUKE SENIOR) I bestow on you your former honor, for your patience and virtue. (to ORLANDO) I give you the love that your faithfulness deserves (to OLIVER) and you your land, your love, and your great allies. (to SILVIUS) You get a long and well-deserved stay in bed, with your new wife. (to TOUCHSTONE) And you I expect to be up fighting soon. The honeymoon will last two months, tops.— And with that, you may all return to your dancing. I’m bound for another fate.

Stay, Jaques, stay here for a bit.

No, this fun is not for me. I’ll wait for you in your cave, where you can tell me what you need from me.

Let’s proceed. We’ll begin the ceremony the way we hope it will end—with delight.

You don’t usually see a woman deliver an epilogue, but it’s no worse than seeing a man deliver the prologue. If it’s true that you don’t need ivy to sell good wine, then it should also be true that a good play doesn’t need an epilogue. But they use good-quality ivy to sell good wine, and a good play is improved by a good epilogue. But then I’m in a strange position, as I not only do not have a good epilogue, I’m not sure this was a good play. I’m not dressed like a beggar, so it wouldn’t be becoming for me to beg. No, instead I’ll bewitch you, and I’ll start with the women. Women, in the name of the love you have for men, I demand that you like as much of this play as you feel like. Men, in the name of the women you love—and I can guess by your goofy smiles that none of you exactly hates them—the play will act as a nice toy for you and the ladies to share. If I actually were a woman, I’d kiss all of you that have beards that pleased me, complexions that I liked, and breath that wasn’t foul. And I’m sure that all of you with nice beards, good faces, and sweet breath will, when I curtsy good night, give me a nice round of applause.