As You Like It, Act 3, Scene 3

Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? Am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?

Hurry up, good Audrey. I'll go and collect your goats, Audrey. And so, Audrey? Am I your man yet? Does my plain face satisfy you?

Your features, Lord warrant us! What features?

Your face? God help us! What face?

I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

I'm here with you and your goats the way that most goatish poet, decent Ovid, was among the Goths.

[Aside.] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatched house!

[Aside.] Oh, learning badly housed — worse lodged than Jove in a cottage with a thatched roof!

When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.

When a man's verses can't be understood, and his sharp wit isn't backed up by that eager child, understanding, it kills him more surely than a huge bill in a small tavern room. Honestly, I wish the gods had made you poetic.

I do not know what “poetical” is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?

I don't know what "poetic" is. Is it chaste in act and speech? Is it something true?

No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said, as lovers, they do feign.

No, honestly; because the truest poetry is the most made up, and lovers are inclined to poetry, and what they swear in poetry, as lovers, you might say they invent.

Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?

So you wish the gods had made me poetic?

I do, truly, for thou swear’st to me thou art honest. Now if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.

I do, honestly, because you swear to me that you're chaste. Now if you were a poet, I might have some hope that you were making it up.

Would you not have me honest?

Wouldn't you want me to be chaste?

No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

No, honestly, not unless you were ugly; because chastity joined to beauty is like having honey as a sauce for sugar.

[Aside.] A material fool!

[Aside.] A fool with substance to him!

Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.

Well, I'm not beautiful, so I pray the gods make me chaste.

Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Honestly, and to throw away chastity on an ugly slattern would be like putting good meat into a dirty dish.

I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.

I'm not a slattern, though I thank the gods I'm ugly.

Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness; sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee. And to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest and to couple us.

Well, praise the gods for your ugliness; being a slattern may come later. But however that turns out, I'll marry you. And to that end I've been to see Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who has promised to meet me here in this part of the forest and join us together.

[Aside.] I would fain see this meeting.

[Aside.] I'd very much like to see this meeting.

Well, the gods give us joy!

Well, may the gods give us joy!

Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt, for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said, “Many a man knows no end of his goods.” Right. Many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; ’tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no, the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor. And by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want.

Amen. A man might, if he had a timid heart, hesitate over this undertaking, since here we have no church but the woods, and no congregation but horned animals. But so what? Courage! Though horns are hateful, they're necessary. There's a saying, "Many a man doesn't know the extent of his goods." True. Many a man has fine horns and doesn't know how far they reach. Well, that's his wife's dowry; he didn't earn it himself. Horns? Just so. Only poor men? No, no, the noblest deer has them as big as the scrawny one does. Is the unmarried man therefore lucky? No. Just as a walled town is worth more than a village, so a married man's forehead is more honourable than a bachelor's bare brow. And by as much as being able to defend yourself is better than having no skill, by that much is having horns better than lacking them.

Here comes Sir Oliver. Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

Here comes Sir Oliver. Sir Oliver Martext, well met. Will you settle the business for us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

Is there none here to give the woman?

Is there nobody here to give the woman away?

I will not take her on gift of any man.

I won't take her as a gift from any man.

Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

Honestly, she has to be given away, or the marriage isn't legal.

[Coming forward.] Proceed, proceed. I’ll give her.

[Coming forward.] Go on, go on. I'll give her away.

Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t, how do you, sir? You are very well met. God ’ild you for your last company. I am very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay, pray be covered.

Good evening, good Master What's-your-name, how are you, sir? Well met indeed. God reward you for your company the other day. I'm very glad to see you. Just a trifle in hand here, sir. No, please, put your hat back on.

Will you be married, motley?

Are you getting married, fool in your patchwork coat?

As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.

Just as the ox has his yoke, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man has his desires; and as pigeons kiss beak to beak, so marriage would have its nibbling.

And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is. This fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and like green timber, warp, warp.

And will you, a man brought up as you were, be married under a bush like a beggar? Go to a church, and get a proper priest who can tell you what marriage is. This fellow will only fasten you together the way they fasten wall panelling; then one of you will turn out to be a shrunken panel, and warp, warp, like unseasoned wood.

[Aside.] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another, for he is not like to marry me well, and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

[Aside.] I rather think it would be better for me to be married by him than by someone else, because he isn't likely to marry me properly, and not being properly married will be a good excuse for me later on to leave my wife.

Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Come along with me, and let me give you some advice.

Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee. But Wind away,— Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee.

Come, sweet Audrey. We must get married, or we must live in filthy sin. Goodbye, good Master Oliver. Not "Oh sweet Oliver, oh splendid Oliver, don't leave me behind you." But "Off with you — clear out, I say, I won't go to a wedding with you."

’Tis no matter. Ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.

It doesn't matter. Not one of these whimsical rogues will mock me out of my profession.