As You Like It, Act 3, Scene 2

Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love. And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character, That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere. Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

Hang there, my poem, as proof of my love. And you, three-times-crowned queen of the night, look down with your chaste eye, from your pale sphere above, on the name of your huntress, who rules my whole life. Oh Rosalind, these trees will be my books, and I'll write my thoughts in their bark, so that every eye that looks in this forest will see your goodness declared everywhere. Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree the beautiful, the chaste, the indescribable woman.

And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?

And how do you like this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?

Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

Honestly, shepherd, considered in itself, it's a good life; but considering that it's a shepherd's life, it's worth nothing. Considering that it's solitary, I like it very much; but considering that it's cut off from company, it's a thoroughly wretched life. Now, considering it's out in the fields, it suits me well; but considering it isn't at court, it's dull. Since it's a plain, frugal life, you see, it fits my mood well; but since there's no abundance in it, it goes strongly against my appetite. Do you have any philosophy in you, shepherd?

No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.

Nothing more than this: I know that the sicker a man gets, the worse he feels; and that a man who lacks money, resources, and contentment is short of three good friends; that it's the nature of rain to make things wet, and of fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a chief cause of night is the absence of the sun; that a man who has gained no sense either from nature or from learning can either complain about his upbringing or else comes from a very stupid family.

Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

A man like that is a born philosopher. Were you ever at court, shepherd?

No, truly.

No, truly.

Then thou art damned.

Then you're damned.

Nay, I hope.

No, I hope not.

Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

Truly, you're damned, like a badly roasted egg, all on one side.

For not being at court? Your reason.

For not having been at court? Give me your reason.

Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw’st good manners; if thou never saw’st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Well, if you were never at court, you never saw good manners; if you never saw good manners, then your manners must be bad, and badness is sin, and sin is damnation. You're in a dangerous condition, shepherd.

Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court but you kiss your hands. That courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.

Not in the least, Touchstone. The things that count as good manners at court are just as ridiculous in the country as country behaviour is laughable at court. You told me that at court you don't greet anyone without kissing your hands. That courtesy would be filthy if courtiers were shepherds.

Instance, briefly. Come, instance.

Give me an example, quickly. Come on, an example.

Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells, you know, are greasy.

Well, we're always handling our ewes, and their fleeces, you know, are greasy.

Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? And is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say. Come.

Well, don't courtiers' hands sweat? And isn't the grease of a sheep as clean as a man's sweat? Weak, weak. A better example, I say. Come on.

Besides, our hands are hard.

Besides, our hands are rough.

Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder instance, come.

Your lips will feel them all the sooner. Weak again. A sounder example, come on.

And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.

And they're often smeared with tar from doctoring our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? Courtiers' hands are perfumed with civet.

Most shallow man! Thou worm’s meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise and perpend. Civet is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

What a shallow man you are! You're food for worms compared with a really good piece of flesh! Learn from the wise and consider carefully. Civet has a lower origin than tar: it's the very filthy discharge of a cat. Improve your example, shepherd.

You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.

Your wit is too courtly for me. I'll give up.

Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee, thou art raw.

Will you give up and stay damned? God help you, shallow man! May God cut into you and let you bleed, for you're only half cooked.

Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

Sir, I'm an honest working man. I earn what I eat and get what I wear, I bear no man hate, I envy no man's happiness, I'm glad at other men's good fortune, and I put up with my own losses; and the greatest thing I take pride in is watching my ewes graze and my lambs suckle.

That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou be’st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape.

That's another plain sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together and to try to make your living out of the mating of livestock; to act as a pimp for the leading ram of the flock and to hand over a year-old female lamb to a crooked-horned, old, cuckold-making ram, completely unsuitable as a match. If you aren't damned for this, then the devil himself wants no shepherds. Otherwise I can't see how you could possibly escape.

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.

[Reads.] From the east to western Inde No jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalind. All the pictures fairest lined Are but black to Rosalind. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind.

[She reads.] From the east to the West Indies, no jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth, carried up on the wind, spreads the name of Rosalind through all the world. All the most beautifully drawn pictures are only dark next to Rosalind. Let no face be remembered except the beauty of Rosalind.

I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.

I could rhyme for you like that for eight years on end, not counting time for dinners and suppers and sleep. That's the very jog-trot in which the butter-women ride to market, one after another.

Out, fool!

Get out, fool!

For a taste: If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalind. If the cat will after kind, So be sure will Rosalind. Winter garments must be lined, So must slender Rosalind. They that reap must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with Rosalind. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, Such a nut is Rosalind. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself with them?

Here's a sample: If a stag lacks a doe, let him go looking for Rosalind. If a cat follows its nature, so, you can be sure, will Rosalind. Winter clothes have to be lined, and so must slim Rosalind. Those who harvest must bundle and tie, then off to the cart with Rosalind. The sweetest nut has the sourest shell, and Rosalind is a nut like that. Anyone who wants to find the sweetest rose must find love's thorn, and Rosalind. That's the true limping pace of bad verse. Why do you catch the disease of these rhymes?

Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.

Be quiet, you stupid fool, I found them on a tree.

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

Truly, the tree produces bad fruit.

I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

I'll graft you onto it, and then I'll have grafted it with a medlar. Then it will bear the earliest fruit in the country, because you'll be rotten before you're half ripe, and that's exactly the special quality of the medlar.

You have said, but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.

You've had your say, but whether wisely or not, let the forest be the judge.

Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.

Quiet, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.

[Reads.] Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No! Tongues I’ll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the streching of a span Buckles in his sum of age; Some, of violated vows ’Twixt the souls of friend and friend. But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence’ end, Will I “Rosalinda” write, Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven nature charged That one body should be filled With all graces wide-enlarged. Nature presently distilled Helen’s cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra’s majesty; Atalanta’s better part, Sad Lucretia’s modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devised, Of many faces, eyes, and hearts To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave.

[She reads.] Why should this place be a wilderness? Because no one lives here? No! I'll hang tongues on every tree that will speak civilized wisdom: some telling how short a man's life is as he runs his wandering pilgrimage, so that a stretch no longer than a handspan encloses the whole sum of his years; some telling of broken vows between the souls of one friend and another. But on the loveliest branches, and at the end of every sentence, I'll write "Rosalinda," teaching everyone who reads to recognize the purest essence of every spirit that heaven wanted to display in small compass. So heaven ordered nature that one single body should be filled with every grace, spread out to the full. Nature at once distilled Helen's cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's finest quality, serious Lucretia's modesty. In this way Rosalind, made of many parts, was designed by a council of the gods, to have the most precious features taken from many faces, eyes, and hearts. Heaven decreed that she should have these gifts, and that I should live and die as her slave.

O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried “Have patience, good people!”

Oh most merciful Jupiter, what a dreary sermon about love you've worn out your congregation with, and you never once said, "Be patient, good people!"

How now! Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.

What's this! Get back, you two. Shepherd, move off a little way. You go with him, fellow.

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

Come on, shepherd, let's make an honourable retreat — not with bag and baggage, perhaps, but at least with satchel and satchelage.

Didst thou hear these verses?

Did you hear these verses?

O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

Oh yes, I heard them all, and more than all, because some of them had more feet in them than the lines could carry.

That’s no matter. The feet might bear the verses.

That doesn't matter. The feet could carry the verses.

Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

Yes, but the feet were lame and couldn't carry themselves without the verse, and so they limped along in the lines.

But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

But did you hear them without being amazed that your name should be hung up and carved on these trees?

I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

I'd already had seven of my nine days' wonder before you came; because look here what I found on a palm tree. I've never been rhymed at so much since the days when, under Pythagoras, I was an Irish rat — which I can barely remember.

Trow you who hath done this?

Do you know who has done this?

Is it a man?

Is it a man?

And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?

And with a chain around his neck that you once wore. Are you changing colour?

I prithee, who?

Please, who?

O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.

Oh Lord, Lord, it's a hard thing for friends to meet; but mountains can be shifted by earthquakes and so come face to face.

Nay, but who is it?

No, but who is it?

Is it possible?

Is it possible?

Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

No, please, right now, with the most urgent begging, tell me who it is.

O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!

Oh amazing, amazing, most amazingly amazing, and amazing all over again, and beyond that, past all shouting about!

Good my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouthed bottle—either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

For goodness' sake! Do you think that, because I'm dressed up like a man, I have a man's jacket and breeches in my character too? One inch more of delay is as vast as an ocean of exploration to me. Please tell me who it is, quickly, and speak fast. I wish you could stammer, so that you might pour this hidden man out of your mouth the way wine comes out of a narrow-necked bottle — either too much at once or none at all. Please take the cork out of your mouth so that I can drink your news.

So you may put a man in your belly.

Then you might put a man in your belly.

Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Is he made by God? What sort of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Nay, he hath but a little beard.

No, he has only a little beard.

Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

Well, God will send more if the man is grateful. I'll wait for his beard to grow, as long as you don't keep me waiting to know about his chin.

It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your heart both in an instant.

It's young Orlando, the one who tripped up the wrestler's heels and your heart at the same moment.

Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true maid.

No, the devil take this teasing! Speak with a serious face, like an honest girl.

I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.

Honestly, cousin, it's him.

Orlando?

Orlando?

Orlando.

Orlando.

Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he when thou saw’st him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.

Oh no, what am I going to do about my jacket and breeches? What was he doing when you saw him? What did he say? How did he look? What was he wearing? What is he doing here? Did he ask about me? Where is he staying? How did he say goodbye to you? And when will you see him again? Answer me in one word.

You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first. ’Tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

You'll have to lend me Gargantua's mouth first. That's a word too big for any mouth the size of ours today. Saying yes and no to all these details is more work than answering a catechism.

But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

But does he know that I'm in this forest, and dressed as a man? Does he look as fresh as he did the day he wrestled?

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover. But take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

It's as easy to count specks of dust as to settle a lover's questions. But have a taste of how I found him, and savour it with close attention. I found him under a tree, like a fallen acorn.

It may well be called Jove’s tree when it drops forth such fruit.

It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops fruit like that.

Give me audience, good madam.

Let me speak, my good lady.

Proceed.

Go on.

There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.

There he lay, stretched out like a wounded knight.

Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.

Though it's a pity to see such a sight, it suits the ground very well.

Cry “holla!” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.

Call "whoa!" to your tongue, please. It keeps prancing at the wrong moments. He was equipped like a hunter.

O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.

Oh, that's a bad sign! He comes to kill my heart.

I would sing my song without a burden. Thou bring’st me out of tune.

I'd like to sing my song without a chorus joining in. You're throwing me out of tune.

Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.

Don't you know I'm a woman? When I think something, I have to say it. Go on, sweet.

You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?

You're putting me off. Quiet, isn't that him coming?

’Tis he! Slink by, and note him.

It's him! Let's slip aside and watch him.

I thank you for your company but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

Thank you for your company, but honestly, I'd just as soon have been by myself.

And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your society.

So would I, but still, for politeness' sake, I thank you too for your company.

God be wi’ you, let’s meet as little as we can.

God be with you; let's meet as seldom as we can.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

I hope we become better strangers.

I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks.

Please, don't spoil any more trees by carving love songs into their bark.

I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

Please, don't spoil any more of my verses by reading them badly.

Rosalind is your love’s name?

Rosalind is the name of the woman you love?

Yes, just.

Yes, exactly.

I do not like her name.

I don't like her name.

There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

Nobody was thinking of pleasing you when she was christened.

What stature is she of?

How tall is she?

Just as high as my heart.

Exactly as high as my heart.

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?

You're full of clever answers. Haven't you been friendly with goldsmiths' wives, and learned these off the inscriptions in rings?

Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.

No; I answer you in the style of the mottoes on painted wall-hangings, which is where you got your questions from.

You have a nimble wit. I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me? And we two will rail against our mistress the world and all our misery.

You have a quick wit. I think it was made out of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? The two of us will complain about our mistress the world and all our misery.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.

I won't scold any living creature in the world except myself, and I know more faults in him than in anyone.

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

The worst fault you have is being in love.

’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

It's a fault I wouldn't trade for your best virtue. I'm tired of you.

By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.

Honestly, I was looking for a fool when I found you.

He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.

He's drowned in the brook. Just look in, and you'll see him.

There I shall see mine own figure.

There I'll only see my own reflection.

Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

Which I take to be either a fool or a zero.

I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love.

I won't stay with you any longer. Goodbye, good Signior Love.

I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

I'm glad you're going. Goodbye, good Monsieur Melancholy.

I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?

I'll speak to him like a cheeky serving boy, and in that disguise play tricks on him. Do you hear me, forester?

Very well. What would you?

Very well. What do you want?

I pray you, what is’t o’clock?

Tell me, please, what time is it?

You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest.

You should ask me what time of day it is. There's no clock in the forest.

Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock.

Then there's no true lover in the forest, otherwise a sigh every minute and a groan every hour would mark out time's lazy footstep as well as a clock does.

And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?

And why not time's swift footstep? Wouldn't that have been just as fitting?

By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

Not at all, sir. Time moves at different speeds with different people. I'll tell you who time walks slowly with, who time trots with, who time gallops with, and who it stands still with.

I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Please, who does he trot with?

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year.

Well, he trots roughly with a young girl between the signing of her marriage contract and the day the wedding takes place. If the gap is only a week, time's pace is so rough that it feels as long as seven years.

Who ambles time withal?

Who does time walk slowly with?

With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These time ambles withal.

With a priest who doesn't know Latin and a rich man who doesn't have gout; because the one sleeps easily since he can't study, and the other lives cheerfully since he feels no pain; the one free of the burden of thin, draining learning, the other knowing nothing of the burden of heavy, dreary poverty. These are the ones time walks slowly with.

Who doth he gallop withal?

Who does he gallop with?

With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

With a thief on his way to the gallows; because even though he goes as slowly as his feet can move, he thinks he gets there too soon.

Who stays it still withal?

Who does it stand still with?

With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.

With lawyers during the court holidays; because they sleep between one court session and the next, and so they don't notice time moving at all.

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

Where do you live, handsome young man?

With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

With this shepherdess, my sister, here on the edges of the forest, like fringe on the hem of a skirt.

Are you native of this place?

Were you born in this place?

As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.

As much as the rabbit you see living where she was born.

Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

Your way of speaking is rather more refined than you could have picked up in such an out-of-the-way place.

I have been told so of many. But indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man, one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

Many people have told me so. But in fact an old uncle of mine, a religious man, taught me to speak; in his youth he lived inland, and he knew court life and courtship too well, for that is where he fell in love. I have heard him deliver many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, and so not tainted with all those frivolous faults that he generally charged against their whole sex.

Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Can you remember any of the chief evils he accused women of?

There were none principal. They were all like one another as halfpence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.

There were no chief ones. They were all as alike as halfpennies, each single fault seeming enormous until the next one came along to match it.

I prithee recount some of them.

Please, list some of them for me.

No. I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with carving “Rosalind” on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.

No. I will only waste my medicine on those who are sick. There is a man who haunts this forest and mistreats our young trees by carving “Rosalind” on their bark; he hangs poems on hawthorn trees and laments on bramble bushes; all of them, if you please, making a goddess of the name Rosalind. If I could meet that peddler of love-fancies, I would give him some good advice, for he seems to have a daily fever of love on him.

I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you tell me your remedy.

I am the man who is so shaken with love. Please tell me your cure.

There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you. He taught me how to know a man in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

There is not one of my uncle's signs on you. He taught me how to recognize a man in love, and I am sure you are no prisoner in that cage made of reeds.

What were his marks?

What were his signs?

A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not—but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man. You are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

A thin cheek, which you do not have; dark, sunken eyes, which you do not have; a spirit too downcast to talk, which you do not have; a neglected beard, which you do not have—but I forgive you that, since the amount of beard you own is no more than a younger brother's income. Then your stockings should be without garters, your hat without its band, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you showing a careless despair. But you are no such man. You are rather perfectly precise in your outfit, like a man in love with himself rather than one who seems to love anyone else.

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Handsome young man, I wish I could make you believe that I am in love.

Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it, which I warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Make me believe it? You might as easily make the woman you love believe it, and I promise you she is readier to believe it than to admit she does. That is one of the matters in which women are always lying to their own consciences. But, truly, are you the man who hangs the verses on the trees, in which Rosalind is so admired?

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

I swear to you, young man, by Rosalind's white hand, I am that man, that unlucky man.

But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

But are you as deeply in love as your poems say?

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Love is nothing but a madness, and, I tell you, it deserves a darkened room and a whipping just as much as madmen do; and the reason lovers are not punished and cured that way is that the insanity is so common that the whippers are in love too. Still, I claim to cure it by advice.

Did you ever cure any so?

Have you ever cured anyone that way?

Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in ’t.

Yes, one man, and in this way. He had to imagine that I was his beloved, his mistress, and I made him court me every day; and during that time I, being a young man as changeable as the moon, would be sorrowful, womanish, unpredictable, full of longings and likings, haughty, full of fantasies, silly as a monkey, superficial, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; putting on a show for every emotion and truly feeling none, since boys and women are for the most part animals of this same breed; one moment I would like him, the next loathe him; then welcome him, then reject him; now weep over him, then spit at him; so that I drove my suitor out of his mad mood of love into a real mood of madness, which was to abandon the world's great current altogether and live in a corner like a monk. And that is how I cured him, and by this method I will undertake to wash your liver as clean as a healthy sheep's heart, so that there will not be one spot of love left in it.

I would not be cured, youth.

I do not want to be cured, young man.

I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cote and woo me.

I would cure you, if you would only call me Rosalind and come every day to my cottage and court me.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.

Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

Come there with me, and I will show you; and on the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you come?

With all my heart, good youth.

Gladly, good young man.

Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?

No, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you come along?