As You Like It, William Shakespeare [the false prince TXT] 📗

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. Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone and Audrey.

Sir Oliver Martext ’Tis no matter: ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. Exit. Scene IV

The forest.

Enter Rosalind and Celia. Rosalind Never talk to me; I will weep. Celia Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man. Rosalind But have I not cause to weep? Celia As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep. Rosalind His very hair is of the dissembling colour. Celia Something browner than Judas’s marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children. Rosalind I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour. Celia An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour. Rosalind And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread. Celia He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. Rosalind But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not? Celia Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. Rosalind Do you think so? Celia Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut. Rosalind Not true in love? Celia Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in. Rosalind You have heard him swear downright he was. Celia “Was” is not “is:” besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke your father. Rosalind I met the duke yesterday and had much question with him: he asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando? Celia O, that’s a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose: but all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here? Enter Corin. Corin

Mistress and master, you have oft inquired
After the shepherd that complain’d of love,
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Celia Well, and what of him? Corin

If you will see a pageant truly play’d,
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Rosalind

O, come, let us remove:
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
Bring us to this sight, and you shall say
I’ll prove a busy actor in their play. Exeunt.

Scene V

Another part of the forest.

Enter Silvius and Phebe. Silvius

Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe;
Say that you love me not, but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon: will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind. Phebe

I would not be thy executioner:
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye:
’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now