As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7

I think he be transformed into a beast, For I can nowhere find him like a man.

I think he must have been turned into an animal, because nowhere can I find him in the shape of a man.

My lord, he is but even now gone hence; Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

My lord, he left here just this moment. He was cheerful here, listening to a song.

If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go seek him, tell him I would speak with him.

If he, who is made up of nothing but discords, starts turning musical, we shall soon have out-of-tune music in the heavens. Go look for him; tell him I want to speak with him.

He saves my labour by his own approach.

He spares me the trouble by coming here himself.

Why, how now, monsieur? What a life is this That your poor friends must woo your company? What, you look merrily.

Well, what's this, sir? What kind of life is it when your poor friends have to beg for your company? Why, you look cheerful.

A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ th’ forest, A motley fool. A miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool, Who laid him down and basked him in the sun, And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. “Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he, “Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.” And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock. Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags. ’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill be eleven. And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot, And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-contemplative, And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

A fool, a fool! I met a fool in the forest, a fool in a patchwork coat. What a wretched world! As surely as I live on food, I met a fool, who lay down and stretched out in the sun, and criticized Lady Fortune in well-chosen words, in well-arranged words, and yet he was a fool in motley. "Good morning, fool," I said. "No, sir," he said, "don't call me a fool until heaven has sent me a fortune." And then he pulled a pocket sundial out of his bag, and, looking at it with a dull eye, said very wisely, "It is ten o'clock. From this we can see," he said, "how the world goes along. It's only an hour ago that it was nine, and after one more hour it will be eleven. And so from hour to hour we ripen and ripen, and then from hour to hour we rot and rot, and there's a story in that." When I heard the fool in motley moralizing like this about time, my lungs began to crow like a rooster, to think that fools should be such deep thinkers, and I laughed without stopping for an hour by his sundial. Oh, noble fool! An admirable fool! Motley is the only thing worth wearing.

What fool is this?

Who is this fool?

O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier, And says if ladies be but young and fair, They have the gift to know it. And in his brain, Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms. O that I were a fool! I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Oh, an admirable fool! One who has been a courtier, and who says that if ladies are only young and beautiful, they have the talent to know it. And in his brain, which is as dry as the leftover ship's biscuit after a voyage, he has odd compartments stuffed with things he has noticed, which he pours out in mangled shapes. Oh, if only I were a fool! I long for a patchwork coat.

Thou shalt have one.

You shall have one.

It is my only suit, Provided that you weed your better judgements Of all opinion that grows rank in them That I am wise. I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have. And they that are most galled with my folly, They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? The “why” is plain as way to parish church. He that a fool doth very wisely hit Doth very foolishly, although he smart, Not to seem senseless of the bob. If not, The wise man’s folly is anatomized Even by the squandering glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley. Give me leave To speak my mind, and I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of th’ infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine.

It is the only thing I ask for — and the only suit of clothes I want — provided that you clear your better judgement of every opinion growing thick in it that I am wise. Along with it I must have freedom, as wide a licence as the wind, to blow on whomever I please, since that is what fools have. And those who are most stung by my mockery must laugh the most. And why, sir, must they do so? The reason is as plain as the road to the parish church. The man whom a fool hits very shrewdly acts very foolishly if, although it hurts, he doesn't act as though he never felt the jab. If he doesn't, then the wise man's folly is laid open by the fool's casually scattered hits. Dress me in my motley. Give me permission to speak my mind, and I will thoroughly cleanse the filthy body of this diseased world, if people will patiently swallow my medicine.

Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

Shame on you! I can tell exactly what you would do.

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

What, for the price of a worthless token, would I do except good?

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin; For thou thyself hast been a libertine, As sensual as the brutish sting itself, And all th’ embossed sores and headed evils That thou with license of free foot hast caught Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

You would commit the most harmful, foul sin, in scolding sin; for you yourself have been a man of loose living, as driven by the senses as raw animal lust itself, and all the swollen sores and ripe diseases that you caught while roaming freely wherever you liked, you would vomit out onto the world at large.

Why, who cries out on pride That can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea Till that the weary very means do ebb? What woman in the city do I name When that I say the city-woman bears The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? Who can come in and say that I mean her, When such a one as she, such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest function That says his bravery is not on my cost, Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits His folly to the mettle of my speech? There then. How then, what then? Let me see wherein My tongue hath wronged him. If it do him right, Then he hath wronged himself. If he be free, Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies Unclaimed of any man. But who comes here?

Why, who attacks pride in a way that accuses any one particular person? Doesn't it swell as vastly as the sea, until the very resources that keep it going run out? What woman in the city do I name when I say that the city woman wears a prince's worth of finery on shoulders that don't deserve it? Who can step forward and say I mean her, when her neighbour is just such a woman as she is? Or what man of the lowest occupation, who says his fine clothes aren't paid for by me, will claim I mean him, but by doing so fits his own foolishness to the substance of what I said? There you are, then. What of it, then, what then? Let me see how my tongue has wronged him. If what I said describes him accurately, then he has wronged himself. If he's innocent of it, then my criticism flies off like a wild goose, and no man claims it as his. But who's coming here?

Forbear, and eat no more.

Stop, and eat no more.

Why, I have eat none yet.

Why, I haven't eaten any yet.

Nor shalt not till necessity be served.

And you won't, until need has been satisfied.

Of what kind should this cock come of?

What breed can this rooster come from?

Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress? Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seem’st so empty?

Are you made this bold, man, by your hardship? Or are you a coarse scorner of good manners, that you seem so empty of politeness?

You touched my vein at first. The thorny point Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred And know some nurture. But forbear, I say! He dies that touches any of this fruit Till I and my affairs are answered.

You put your finger on my true state at once. The prickly sting of naked hardship has stripped from me the appearance of easy politeness; yet I was brought up inland, in civilization, and I know something of good breeding. But stop, I tell you! Anyone who touches any of this food dies, until my needs and I have been satisfied.

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

If you won't be satisfied by reason, then I must die.

What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.

What do you want? Your courtesy will compel us more than your compelling us can move us to courtesy.

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

I am nearly dying for lack of food; let me have some.

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

Sit down and eat, and welcome to our table.

Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you. I thought that all things had been savage here And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time, If ever you have looked on better days, If ever been where bells have knolled to church, If ever sat at any good man’s feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be, In the which hope I blush and hide my sword.

Do you speak so kindly? Forgive me, please. I thought that everything here was wild, and so I put on the face of harsh command. But whoever you are who, in this trackless wilderness, under the shade of gloomy branches, let the slow hours of time slip past unnoticed — if you have ever seen better days, if you have ever been where bells have rung people to church, if you have ever sat at any good man's feast, if you have ever wiped a tear from your eyelids, and know what it is to pity and be pitied, let kindness be the only force I use; and in that hope I blush and put away my sword.

True is it that we have seen better days, And have with holy bell been knolled to church, And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered. And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have That to your wanting may be ministered.

It's true that we have seen better days, and have been rung to church by the holy bell, and sat at good men's feasts, and wiped from our eyes the tears that holy pity has brought. And so sit down here in kindness, and take freely, as if you were ordering it, whatever help we have that can be given to your need.

Then but forbear your food a little while, Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, And give it food. There is an old poor man Who after me hath many a weary step Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed, Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit.

Then just hold off from your food a little while, while, like a doe, I go to find my fawn and give it food. There is a poor old man who has limped many a weary step after me out of pure love. Until he is fed first, weighed down as he is by two feeble troubles, old age and hunger, I won't touch a bite.

Go find him out, And we will nothing waste till you return.

Go and find him, and we won't consume anything until you come back.

I thank ye, and be blest for your good comfort.

Thank you, and may you be blessed for your kindness.

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy. This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.

You see that we are not the only unhappy ones. This wide, worldwide theatre presents more sorrowful shows than the one we act in.

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms; Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

All the world is a stage, and all the men and women are only actors; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his lifetime plays many roles, his acts being seven ages. First the baby, whimpering and being sick in the nurse's arms. Then the complaining schoolboy, with his bag and his shining morning face, crawling like a snail unwillingly to school. And then the lover, sighing like a furnace, with a mournful ballad written to his lady's eyebrow. Then a soldier, full of odd curses and bearded like a leopard, touchy about his honour, quick to flare up and quick to fight, chasing after reputation, which is only a bubble, right into the mouth of the cannon. And then the judge, with a nicely rounded belly padded out with good chicken, with stern eyes and a beard trimmed in the correct style, full of wise sayings and up-to-date examples; and so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts into the thin old man in slippers, with glasses on his nose and a money bag at his side, the stockings from his youth, carefully kept, far too wide for his shrunken legs, and his big manly voice, turning back to a childish treble, pipes and whistles in its sound. The last scene of all, which ends this strange, eventful story, is a second childhood and total blankness, without teeth, without eyes, without taste, without anything.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden, And let him feed.

Welcome. Put down your honourable load, and let him eat.

I thank you most for him.

I thank you most of all on his behalf.

So had you need; I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

You certainly needed to; I can hardly speak well enough to thank you for myself.

Welcome, fall to. I will not trouble you As yet to question you about your fortunes. Give us some music, and good cousin, sing.

Welcome, start eating. I won't bother you just yet by asking you about what has happened to you. Give us some music, and good cousin, sing.

(Sings.) Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude. Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly.

He sings. Blow, blow, winter wind; you are not as cruel as human ingratitude. Your bite is not as sharp, because you cannot be seen, although your breath is rough. Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, to the green holly. Most friendship is pretence, most loving is pure foolishness. Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is the merriest of all.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot. Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, bitter sky; you don't bite as close to the bone as kindnesses forgotten. Though you twist the waters into ice, your sting is not as sharp as a friend who is not remembered. Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, to the green holly. Most friendship is pretence, most loving is pure foolishness. Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is the merriest of all.

If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son, As you have whispered faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limned and living in your face, Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke That loved your father. The residue of your fortune Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man, Thou art right welcome as thy master is. Support him by the arm. [To Orlando.] Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand.

If you are the good Sir Rowland's son, as you have loyally whispered that you are, and as my eye sees his likeness truly drawn and living in your face, then 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 just as welcome as your master is. Hold him up by the arm. [To Orlando.] Give me your hand, and let me hear everything that has happened to you.