As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 3

Who’s there?

Who's there?

What, my young master? O my gentle master, O my sweet master, O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master, Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. O, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it!

What, my young master? Oh my noble master, oh my sweet master, oh you living reminder of old Sir Rowland! Why, what are you doing here? Why are you good? Why do people love you? And why are you noble, strong and brave? Why were you foolish enough to beat the muscular champion of the moody Duke? Your fame has run home ahead of you too fast. Don't you know, master, that for some kinds of men their good qualities work as nothing but enemies to them? Yours do the same. Your virtues, gentle master, are blessed and holy traitors to you. Oh, what a world this is, when the very thing that is beautiful poisons the man who carries it!

Why, what’s the matter?

Why, what's wrong?

O unhappy youth, Come not within these doors! Within this roof The enemy of all your graces lives. Your brother—no, no brother, yet the son— Yet not the son; I will not call him son— Of him I was about to call his father, Hath heard your praises, and this night he means To burn the lodging where you use to lie, And you within it. If he fail of that, He will have other means to cut you off; I overheard him and his practices. This is no place; this house is but a butchery. Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Oh unlucky young man, don't come inside these doors! Under this roof lives the enemy of everything good in you. Your brother—no, not a brother, yet the son—yet not the son; I won't call him the son—of the man I was about to call his father, has heard people praising you, and tonight he means to burn down the room where you usually sleep, and you inside it. If that fails, he'll find other ways to destroy you. I overheard him and his plots. This is no place for you; this house is nothing but a slaughterhouse. Hate it, fear it, don't go into it.

Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

Why, where, Adam, would you have me go?

No matter whither, so you come not here.

It doesn't matter where, so long as you don't come in here.

What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food, Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce A thievish living on the common road? This I must do, or know not what to do. Yet this I will not do, do how I can. I rather will subject me to the malice Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

What, would you have me go and beg for my food, or use a low, violent sword to force a thief's living out of travellers on the highway? I must do that, or I don't know what to do. Yet I won't do it, whatever else happens to me. I would rather submit myself to the spite of a brother who has turned against his own blood and means to shed it.

But do not so. I have five hundred crowns, The thrifty hire I saved under your father, Which I did store to be my foster-nurse, When service should in my old limbs lie lame, And unregarded age in corners thrown. Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age. Here is the gold. All this I give you. Let me be your servant. Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty, For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood, Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility. Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty but kindly. Let me go with you. I’ll do the service of a younger man In all your business and necessities.

But don't do that. I have five hundred crowns, the wages I carefully saved while serving your father, which I put aside to nurse and keep me when service should lie crippled in my old limbs and neglected old age be thrown into a corner. Take it, and may He who feeds the ravens, yes, and providently provides for the sparrow, be a comfort to my old age. Here is the gold. I give you all of it. Let me be your servant. Though I look old, I am still strong and vigorous, because in my youth I never poured hot, riotous drink into my blood, nor did I shamelessly chase after the things that bring weakness and feebleness. So my old age is like a vigorous winter, frosty but healthy. Let me go with you. I'll do a younger man's work in all your affairs and needs.

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed. Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. It is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree, That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. But come thy ways, we’ll go along together, And ere we have thy youthful wages spent We’ll light upon some settled low content.

Oh good old man, how clearly there appears in you the faithful service of the ancient world, when servants sweated out of duty, not for payment. You don't fit the fashion of these times, when nobody will sweat except for promotion, and once they have it they choke their service off in the very moment of getting it. It isn't so with you. But, poor old man, you are pruning a rotten tree that can't give you so much as one blossom in return for all your labour and care. But come along, we'll go together, and before we've spent the wages of your youth we'll find some settled, humble contentment.

Master, go on and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty. From seventeen years till now almost fourscore Here lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, But at fourscore it is too late a week. Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not my master’s debtor.

Master, lead on and I will follow you to my last breath with honesty and loyalty. From the age of seventeen until now, nearly eighty, I have lived here, but now I live here no longer. At seventeen many men go out to seek their fortunes, but at eighty it is a week too late. Yet fortune can't reward me better than to let me die well and not owing my master anything.