As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 1

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say: “This is no flattery. These are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.” Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Now, my companions and brothers in exile, hasn't long habit made this life sweeter than the life of painted show? Aren't these woods freer from danger than the spiteful court? Here we feel nothing of Adam's punishment except the change of the seasons — the icy fang and rough scolding of the winter wind, which, when it bites and blows on my body until I shrink with cold, makes me smile and say: "This is no flattery. These are advisers who make me feel what I really am." Sweet are the benefits of hardship, which, like the toad, ugly and poisonous, still wears a precious jewel in its head; and this life of ours, free from crowds, finds voices in trees, books in the running streams, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

I would not change it. Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

I wouldn't change it. Your grace is fortunate, since you can turn the harshness of fortune into such a calm and pleasant style.

Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored.

Come, shall we go and kill ourselves some venison? And yet it troubles me that the poor spotted fools, who are born citizens of this wild city, should have their round haunches pierced by barbed arrows inside their own territory.

Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that, And in that kind swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banished you. Today my lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; To the which place a poor sequestered stag, That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heaved forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Coursed one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase. And thus the hairy fool, Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on th’ extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.

Indeed, my lord, the melancholy Jaques is upset about that, and on that score he swears you are more of a usurper than your brother who banished you. Today my lord of Amiens and I crept up behind him as he lay stretched out under an oak whose ancient root sticks out over the brook that brawls along through this wood. To that place a poor stag, cut off from the herd and wounded by a hunter's shot, came to suffer; and truly, my lord, the wretched animal pushed out such groans that letting them go stretched his leathery hide almost to bursting, and the big round tears chased one another down his innocent nose in a pitiful hunt. And so the hairy fool, closely watched by the melancholy Jaques, stood on the very edge of the swift brook, adding to it with his tears.

But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle?

But what did Jaques say? Didn't he draw a moral from this sight?

O yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream: “Poor deer,” quoth he “thou mak’st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much.” Then, being there alone, Left and abandoned of his velvet friends: “’Tis right”; quoth he, “thus misery doth part The flux of company.” Anon a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him And never stays to greet him. “Ay,” quoth Jaques, “Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens! ’Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?” Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse, To fright the animals and to kill them up In their assigned and native dwelling-place.

Oh yes, into a thousand comparisons. First, about the deer weeping into the stream that didn't need the water: "Poor deer," he said, "you're making a will the way worldly people do, giving all you have to what already had too much." Then, seeing him there alone, left and abandoned by his velvet-coated friends: "That's right," he said, "that's how misery breaks up the flow of company." Soon a carefree herd, full from grazing, comes bounding past him and never stops to greet him. "Yes," said Jaques, "sweep on, you fat and greasy townspeople! That's exactly the fashion. Why should you look at that poor, ruined bankrupt there?" So, full of abuse, he stabs right through the body of the country, the city, the court — yes, and of this life of ours too, swearing that we are nothing but usurpers, tyrants, and worse, for frightening the animals and killing them off in the place that has been given them as their home.

And did you leave him in this contemplation?

And did you leave him thinking like this?

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.

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

Show me the place. I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he’s full of matter.

Show me the place. I love to argue with him in these gloomy moods, because then he's full of things to say.

I’ll bring you to him straight.

I'll take you to him right away.