As You Like It, Act 4, Scene 1

I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Please, pretty young man, let me get to know you better.

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

They say you're a melancholy man.

I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

I am. I like it better than laughing.

Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.

People who go to the extreme of either one are disgusting, and they lay themselves open to every common criticism worse than drunkards do.

Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.

Well, it's good to be sad and say nothing.

Why then, ’tis good to be a post.

Then it's good to be a fence post.

I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

I don't have the scholar's melancholy, which is envy; nor the musician's, which is fanciful; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is scheming; nor the lady's, which is fussy; nor the lover's, which is all of these. Mine is a melancholy of my own, mixed out of many ingredients, drawn from many things I've seen, and really it's the varied reflection on my travels, and thinking them over so often wraps me in a most whimsical sadness.

A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

A traveller! Honestly, you have good reason to be sad. I'm afraid you've sold your own land to go and look at other men's. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.

And your experience makes you sad. I'd rather have a fool to make me cheerful than experience to make me sad—and have to travel to get it, too.

Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Good day and happiness to you, dear Rosalind!

Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.

Well then, goodbye, if you're going to talk in blank verse.

Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.

Goodbye, Monsieur Traveller. Make sure you lisp and wear foreign clothes; run down everything good about your own country; be sick of the place you were born in, and practically scold God for giving you the face you have, or I'll hardly believe you've ever swum in a gondola.

Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

Well now, Orlando, where have you been all this time? You, a lover! If you play me another trick like that, never come near me again.

My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

My fair Rosalind, I'm only an hour later than I promised.

Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.

Break a promise by an hour in love? A man who divides a minute into a thousand parts and breaks only a part of the thousandth part of a minute in matters of love—you might say Cupid has tapped him on the shoulder, but I'd guarantee his heart is untouched.

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Forgive me, dear Rosalind.

Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

No, if you're going to be so slow, don't come near me again. I'd just as soon be courted by a snail.

Of a snail?

By a snail?

Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

Yes, by a snail, because although he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better marriage settlement, I think, than you'd give a woman. Besides, he brings his fate with him.

What’s that?

What's that?

Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.

Horns, of course—the sort that men like you are glad to owe to your wives. But he comes already armed with his fortune, and so heads off any slander about his wife.

Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Virtue makes no horns, and my Rosalind is virtuous.

And I am your Rosalind.

And I am your Rosalind.

It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

He likes to call you that, but he has a Rosalind with a better look about her than you.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind?

Come on, court me, court me, because right now I'm in a holiday mood and likely enough to say yes. What would you say to me now, if I were your very, very own Rosalind?

I would kiss before I spoke.

I'd kiss you before I spoke.

Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

No, you'd do better to speak first, and when you were stuck for something to say, then you could take the chance to kiss. Very good speakers, when they dry up, spit; and for lovers short of—God help us—something to say, the cleanest way out is to kiss.

How if the kiss be denied?

What if the kiss is refused?

Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Then she forces you to beg, and that starts a new subject.

Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

Who could dry up, standing in front of the woman he loves?

Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

Why, you would, if I were your mistress—or else I'd have to think my virtue was stronger than my wit.

What, of my suit?

What, would I be put out of my courtship?

Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?

Not out of your clothes, but out of your suit all the same. Aren't I your Rosalind?

I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.

I get some pleasure out of saying you are, because it lets me talk about her.

Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.

Well then, speaking as her, I say I won't have you.

Then, in mine own person, I die.

Then, speaking as myself, I die.

No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

No, honestly, die by proxy. This poor world is nearly six thousand years old, and in all that time no man has ever died in his own person—that is, for love's sake. Troilus had his brains knocked out with a Greek club, though he did his best to die of love before that, and he is one of the great examples of love. Leander would have lived many a good year, even if Hero had become a nun, if it hadn't been for one hot midsummer night; because, good young man, he only went out to wash himself in the Hellespont and, seized with cramp, he drowned; and the foolish historians of that age decided it was Hero of Sestos who killed him. But these are all lies. Men have died now and then and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her frown might kill me.

I wouldn't want my real Rosalind to think this way, because I swear one frown from her could kill me.

By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

By this hand, it wouldn't kill a fly. But come on, now I'll be your Rosalind in a more willing mood, and ask me whatever you like, I'll grant it.

Then love me, Rosalind.

Then love me, Rosalind.

Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.

Yes, honestly, I will, Fridays and Saturdays and every other day.

And wilt thou have me?

And will you have me?

Ay, and twenty such.

Yes, and twenty men like you.

What sayest thou?

What are you saying?

Are you not good?

Aren't you good?

I hope so.

I hope so.

Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?

Well then, can anyone want too much of a good thing?—Come here, sister, you'll be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?

Pray thee, marry us.

Please, marry us.

I cannot say the words.

I don't know the words.

You must begin “Will you, Orlando—”

You have to begin, "Will you, Orlando—"

Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

All right then.—Will you, Orlando, take this Rosalind as your wife?

I will.

I will.

Ay, but when?

Yes, but when?

Why now, as fast as she can marry us.

Right now, as quickly as she can marry us.

Then you must say “I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”

Then you have to say, "I take you, Rosalind, as my wife."

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

I take you, Rosalind, as my wife.

I might ask you for your commission. But I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.

I could ask you what authority you have for that. But I do take you, Orlando, as my husband. There's a girl who speaks before the priest does—and certainly a woman's thoughts run ahead of her actions.

So do all thoughts. They are winged.

All thoughts do. They have wings.

Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.

Now tell me how long you'd want to keep her once you've had her.

For ever and a day.

Forever and a day.

Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.

Say "a day" without the "forever." No, no, Orlando, men are April when they court, December when they marry. Girls are May while they are girls, but the weather changes once they are wives. I will be more jealous of you than a Barbary cock-pigeon is over his hen, noisier than a parrot before rain, more fond of novelty than an ape, more unsteady in my desires than a monkey. I will cry over nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do it just when you feel like being cheerful. I will laugh like a hyena, and that will be when you feel like sleeping.

But will my Rosalind do so?

But will my Rosalind behave like that?

By my life, she will do as I do.

On my life, she will do exactly as I do.

O, but she is wise.

Oh, but she is wise.

Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement. Shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

If she weren't, she couldn't be clever enough to do this. The wiser she is, the more wayward. Shut the doors on a woman's wit and it will get out at the window. Close that, and it will get out at the keyhole. Block that, and it will fly out of the chimney with the smoke.

A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, “Wit, whither wilt?”

A man who had a wife with wit like that might well say, "Wit, where are you off to?"

Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.

No, you should save that rebuke until you caught your wife's wit on its way to your neighbour's bed.

And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

And what wit could wit find to excuse that?

Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.

Why, to say she came there looking for you. You'll never catch her without an answer unless you catch her without her tongue. Oh, any woman who can't turn her own fault into her husband's doing should never nurse her child herself, because she will raise it to be a fool.

For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

For the next two hours, Rosalind, I must leave you.

Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.

Oh, dear love, I can't do without you for two hours.

I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee again.

I have to wait on the Duke at dinner. By two o'clock I'll be with you again.

Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove. My friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won me. ’Tis but one cast away, and so, come death! Two o’clock is your hour?

Yes, off you go, off you go. I knew what you'd turn out to be. My friends told me as much, and I thought so too. That flattering tongue of yours won me over. It's only one more girl thrown away, and so, come death! Two o'clock is your time?

Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Yes, sweet Rosalind.

By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.

On my word, and in all seriousness, and so help me God, and by every pretty oath that carries no danger, if you break the smallest bit of your promise or come one minute later than your hour, I will consider you the most pitiful promise-breaker, and the most hollow lover, and the least worthy of the woman you call Rosalind, out of the whole fat crowd of the unfaithful. So beware my judgment, and keep your promise.

With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.

With no less devotion than if you really were my Rosalind. So, goodbye.

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try. Adieu.

Well, Time is the old judge who tries all such offenders, so let time be the test. Goodbye.

You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate! We must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

You have absolutely slandered our sex in all that love-chatter! We ought to pull your jacket and breeches over your head and show the world what the bird has done to her own nest.

O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.

Oh cousin, cousin, cousin, my pretty little cousin, if only you knew how many fathoms deep in love I am! But it can't be measured; my love has an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.

Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

Or rather it has no bottom at all, so that as fast as you pour love in, it runs out.

No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses everyone’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.

No, let that wicked bastard son of Venus, who was fathered by thought, conceived out of ill temper, and born of madness, that blind good-for-nothing boy who deceives everybody's eyes because his own are gone — let him be the judge of how deep in love I am. I tell you, Aliena, I cannot bear to be out of sight of Orlando. I'll go find a shady spot and sigh until he comes.

And I’ll sleep.

And I'll sleep.