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He fcatter'd not in ears; but grafted them
To grow there, and to bear;Let me not
-Thus his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of paftime,
When it was out- Let me not live,' quoth he,
After my flame lacks oil; to be the fnuff
Of younger fpirits, whose apprehensive fenfes
All but new things difdain; whofe judgments
Mere fathers of their garments; whofe con-I am the caitiff that do hold him to it:
And tho' I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was fo effected. Better 'twere
I met the raving lion, when he roar'd
Of the none-fparing war? And is it I
live'-That drive thee from the fportive court, where thou
Waft fhot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of fmoky mufkets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent fpeed of fire,
Fly with falfe aim; move the ftill-piecing air,
That fings with piercing, do not touch my lord!
Whoever fhoots at him, I fet him there:
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
Expire before their fashions.'-This he wished. I, after him, do after him wish too,
Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,
I quickly were diffolved from my hive,
To give fome labourer room.
-Thus, Indian like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The fun, that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more!
Mean Inftruments ofien successful.
What I can do, can do no hurt to try,
Since you fet up your reft 'gainft remedy.
He that of greateft works is finifher,
Oft does them by the weakest minister;
So holy writ in babes hath judgment fhewn,
When judges have been babes; great floods have
From fimple fources; and great feas have dry'd,
When miracles have by the greatest been deny'd.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there,
Where most it promifes; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
With fharp constraint of hunger: better 'twere,
That all the miferies which nature owes
Were mine at once. No, come thou home,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it lofes all. I will be gone:
My being here it is, that holds thee hence.
Shall I ftay here to do it? No, no, although
The air of Paradife did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all I will be gone;
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To confolate thine ear.
Honour due to perfonal Virtue, not to Birth.
Strange is it, that our bloods, [together,
Whofe colour, weight, and heat, pour'd out
Would quite confound diftinction, yet stand off
In diff'rences fo mighty. If the be
All that is virtuous, fave what thou dislik'ft,—
A poor phyfician's daughter, thou dislik'st
Of virtue for the name. But do not fo--
From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
The place is dignified by the doer's deed.
Where great addition fwells, and virtue none,
It is a dropfied honour; good alone
Is good, without a name; vilenefs is fo:
The property, by what it is, fhould go,
Not by the title. She is young, wife, fair;
In thefe, to nature the 's immediate heir;
And these breed honour: that is honour's fcorn,
Which challenges itfelf as honour's born,
And is not like the fire. Honours thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our fore-goers; the mere word's a flave
Debauch'd on every tomb, on every grave;
A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb,
Where duft and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Of honour'd bones indeed.
Self-accufation of too great Love.
Poor lord! is 't I
That chafe thee from thy country, and expofe
Thole tender limbs of thine to the event
Cuftom of Seducers.
Ay, fo ferve
Till we ferve you; but when you have our rofes,
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
And mock us with our bareness.
Mine honour's fuch a ring:
My chastity 's the jewel of our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors;
Which were the greatest obloquy i' th' world
In me to lofe.
Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great,
'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more;
But I will eat, and drink, and fleep as foft
As captain fhall: fimply the thing I am
Let him fear this; for it will come to pafs,
Shall make me live. Who knows himself a brag-
That every braggart fhall be found an afs.
Ruft, fword! cool, blufhes! and, Parolles,
Safeft in thame! being fool'd, by fool'ry
There's place and means for every man alive.
The Rafbness of Youth excused.
I beseech your majesty to make it
Natural rebellion, done in the blaze of youth,
When oil and fire, too ftrong for reason's force,
O'erbear it, and burn on.
What's loft most valued.
Praifing what is loft,
Makes the remembrance dear.
Let's take the inftant by the forward top;
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
Th' inaudible and noifelefs foot of time
Steals, ere we can effect them.
Excufe for unreasonable Diflike.
I ftuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durit make too bold a herald of my tongue:
Where the impreffion of mine eye enfixing,
Contempt his fcornful perfpective did lend me,
Which warp'd the line of every other favour;
Scorn'd a fair colour, or exprefs'd it ftolen;
Extended or contracted all proportions
To a most hideous object: thence it came,
That the whom all men prais'd, and whom my
Since I have loft, have lov'd, was in my eye
The duft that did offend it.
As" all impediments in fancy's courfe Are motives of mere fancy."
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, [felf,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head:
2. AS YOU LIKE IT. Playfellows. WE have ftill flept together;
Rofe at an inftant; learn'd, play'd, eat
And wherefoe'er we went, like Juno's fwans,
Still we went coupled, and infeparable.
Fond youthful Friendship.
Celia. Oh my poor Rofalind, whither wilt thou
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am.
Rofalind. I have more caufe.
Celia. Thou haft not, coufin.
Prythee be cheerful: know'st thou not, the Duke
Has banish'd me, his daughter?
Rofalind. That he hath not.
Celia. No Hath not? Rofalind lacks then the
Which teacheth me that thou and I are one:
Shall we be fundered? Shall we part, fweet girl:
No, let my father feek another heir.
Therefore devife with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us;
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out :
For by this heaven, now at our forrows pale,
Say what thou canft, I'll go along with thee.
Beauty provoketh thieves fooner than gold.
Wontan in a Man's Drefs.
Wer't not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did fuit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-fpear in my hand, and (in my heart,
Lie there what hidden woman's fears there will)
I'll have a fwafhing and a martial outside;
As many other mannith cowards have,
That do outface it with their femblances.
Solitude preferred to a Court Life, and the Advan-
tages of Adverfity.
Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not thefe woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The feafon's difference; as the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I fhrink with cold, I fmile and fay,
"This is no flattery;" thefe are counfe llors,
That feelingly perfuade me what I am.
Sweet are the ules of adversity,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Sermons in ftones, and good in every thing.
I would not change it!
Amiens. Happy is your grace,
That can tranflate the ftubbornnefs of fortune
Into fo quiet and fo fweet a ftyle!
Reflections on a wounded Stag, and on the
Come, fhall we go and kill us venifon?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this defert city,
Should in their old confines, with forked heads,
Have their round haunches gored.
ft Lord. Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, fwears you do more ufurp
Than doth your brother who hath banish'd you.
To-day my lord of Amiens, and myself,
Did fteal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whofe antique roots peep out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the which place a poor fequefter'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish: and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth fuch groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almoft to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nofe
In piteous chace; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on th' extremeft verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke. f. But what faid Jaques ?
Did he not moralize this fpectacle?
ift Lord. O yes, into a thoufand fimiles.
First, for his weeping in the needlefs stream
Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy fum of more
To that which had too much. Then, being alone,
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends;
'Tis right, quoth he, thus mifery doth part
The flux of company. Anon, a careless herd,
Full of the paiture, jumps along by him,
And never ftays to greet him: Ay, quoth Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greafy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you
Thus moft invectively he pierceth through
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life; fwearing that we
Are mere ufurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and kill them up,
In their affign'd and native dwelling-place.
D. S. And
D. f. And did you leave him in this contem And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
[menting | We'll light upon some fettled low content.
Adam. Mafter, go on; and I will follow thee,
To the laft gafp, with truth and loyalty.
From feventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At leventeen years many their fortune seek,
But at four core it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompenfe me better
Than to die well, and not my mafter's debtor.
Oh thou didst then ne'er love fo heartily.
If thou remember'ft not the flightcft folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou haft not lov'd-
Amiens. We did, my lord, weeping and comUpon the fobbing deer.
D.. Shew me the place;
I love to cope him in thefe fullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.
Confpicuous Virtue expofed to Envy.
Adam. What! my young matter? O my gentle
O my fweet mafter! O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland! why what make
Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, ftrong, and valiant?
Why would you be fo fond to overcome
The bony prifer of the humorous duke?
Your praife is come too fwiftly home before you.
Know you not, mafter, to fome kind of men
Their graces ferve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle mafter,
Are fan&tified and holy traitors to you.
Oh! what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!
Or if thou haft not fate as I do now,
Wearying thy hearer in thy miftrefs' praise,
Thou haft not lov'd-
The thrifty hire I fav'd under your father,
Which I did ftore, to be my fofter nurse
When fervice fhould in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take that; and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the fparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
your fervant :
All this I give you: let me be
Tho' I look old, yet I am ftrong and lufty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did I with unbafhful forehead woo
The means of weaknefs and debility:
Therefore my age is as a lufty winter,
Frofty but kindly. Let me go with you,
I'll do the fervice of a younger man,
In all your bufinefs and neccffitics.
Or if thou haft not broke from company
Abruptly, as my paffion now makes me,
Thou haft not lov'd-
Defeription of a Fool, and bis Morals on the Time.
Jaques. As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down, and bafk'd him in the fun,
And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms-
In good fet terms-and yet a motley fool.
Good-morrow, fool,' quoth I: No, Sir,' quoth
Call me not fool, till Heaven hath fent me
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-luftre eye,
Says, very wifely, It is ten o'clock:
Thus may we fee,' quoth he, how the world
'Tis but an hour ago fince it was nine;
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And fo 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 fhould be fo deep contemplative:
And I did laugh, fans intermiffion,
An hour by his dial.
Duke. What fool is this?
Gratitude in an old Servant.
Adam. But do not fo; I have five hundred, crowns,
[a courtier, Jaques. O worthy fool! one that hath been And fays, 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 bifcuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
With obfervation, the which he vents
Oh that I were a fool!
In mangled forms.
Orlando. Oh! good old man, how well in thee! I am ambitious for a motley coat!
The conftant fervice of the antique world,
When fervants fweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of thefe times,
Where none will fweat but for promotion;
And, having that, do choak their fervice up,
Even with the having. It is not fo with thee-
But, poor old man, thou prun'ft a rotten tree,
That cannot fo much as a bloffom vield,
In lieu of all thy pains and hufbandry.
But come thy ways, we 'll go along together,
A Fool's Liberty of Speech.
Duke. Thou fhalt have one.
Jaques. It is my only fuit:
Provided that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion, that grows rank in them,
That I am wife. I must have liberty
Withal; as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I pleate; for fo fools have:
And they that are moft galled with my folly,
They moft muft laugh. And why, Sir, muft they | And therefore fit you down in gentleness,
The why is plain as way to parifh-church: fo? And take upon cominand what help we have,
He, whom a fool doth very wifely hit,
That to your wanting may be minifier'd. [while,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Orlando. Then but forbear your food a little
Not to feem fenfelefs of the bob.
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
The wife man's folly is anatorniz'd
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Even by the fquandering glances of the fool.
Who after me hath many a weary step
Inveft me in my motley; give me leave [through Limp'd in pure love; till he be firft fuffic'd,
To freak my mind, and I will through and Opprefs'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,
Cleanfe the foul body of th' infected world, I will not touch a bit!
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Dake. Fie on thee-I can tell what thou
Jaques. What, for a counter, would I do
Duke. Moft mifchievous foul fin in chiding
For thou thyself haft been a libertine, [fin:
As fenfual as the brutish fting itself:
And all th' imboffed fores and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot haft caught,
Wouldst thou difgorge into the general world.
An Apology for Satire.
Jaques. Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the fea,
Till that the very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I fay, the city woman bears
The coft of princes on unworthy fhoulders?
Who can come in, and fay that I mean her,
When fuch a one as the, fuch is her neighbour
Or what is he of baseft function,
That fays, his bravery is not on my coft;
(Thinking that I mean him) but therein fuits
His folly to the metal of my speech ?
There then, how then? What then let me fee
My tongue hath wrong'd him. If it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself. If he be free,
Why, then, my taxing, like a wild goose, flies
Unclaim'd of any man.
Diftrefs prevents Ceremony.
The thorny point
Of bare diftrefs hath ta'en from me the fhow
Of Imooth civility.
A tender Petition and Reply.
Orlando. Speak you fo gently? Pardon me,
I thought that all things had been savage here;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of ftern commandment. But whate'er you are,
That in this defert inacceffible,
Under the fhade of melancholy boughs,
Lofe and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have look'd on better days;
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church;
If ever fat at any good man's feaft;
If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied-
Let gentleness my ftrong enforcement be;
In the which hope I blush, and hide my fword.
Duke. True it is that we have feen better days,
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,
And fat at good men's feafts; and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that facred pity hath engender'd ;
The World compared to a Stage.
Thou feeft we are not all alone unhappyThis wide and univerfal theatre
Wherein we play,
Prefents more woeful pageants than the scene
Jaques. 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 feven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
And then the whining fchool-boy, with his
And fhining morning face, creeping like fnail
Unwillingly to fchool. And then the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his miftrefs' eye-brow. Then, the soldier,
Full of ftrange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, fudden and quick in quarrel,
Secking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes fevere, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wife faws and modern inftances,
And fo he plays his part. The fixth age fhifts
Into the lean and flipper'd pantaloon,
With fpectacles on 's nofe and pouch on 's fide;
His youthful hofe, well fav'd, a world too wide
For his fhrunk thanks; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whiftles in his found. Laft fcene of all,
That ends this ftrange eventful hiftory,
Is fecond childifhnefs, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, fans eyes, fans tafte, fans every thing.
Ingratitude. A Song.
Blow, blow, thou winter-wind,
Thou art not fo unkind
As man's ingratitude :
Thy tooth is not fo keen,
Because thou art not feen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou doft not bite fo nigh
As benefits forgot:
Tho' thou the waters warp,
Thy fting is not fo fharp
As friend remember'd not.
The common executioner,
Whofe heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes
Falls not the axe upon the humble neck,
But firft begs pardon: will you fterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Phache. I would not be thy executioner:
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'ft me, there is murder in mine eye;
'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'ft and fofreft things,
Who fhut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers !
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;
And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them
Now counterfeit to fwoon; why, now fall down;
Or, if thou canst not, O, for fhame, for fhame,
Lie not, to fay mine eyes are murderers. [thee.
Now thew the wound mine eye hath made in
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some fear of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impreffure
Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt to any.
O dear Phoebe,
If ever (as that ever may be near)
You meet in fome fresh cheek the pow'r of fancy,
Then fhall you know the wounds invifible
That Love's keen arrows make.
Od's my little life!
I think he means to tangle mine eyes too.
No, 'faith, proud miftrefs! hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black filk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my fpirits to your worship.
You foolish thepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy fouth, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than the a woman: 'Tis fuch fools as you
That make the world full of ill-favour'd
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you the fees herfelf more proper
Than any of her lineaments can thew her.
But, miftrefs, know yourfelf; down on your knees
And thank Heaven, fafting, for a good man's love:
For I must tell you friendly in your car,
Sell when you can, you are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;
Foul is moft foul, being foul to be a fcoffer.
So holy, and fo perfect is my love, And I in fuch a poverty of That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harveft reaps: loofe now and then
A fcatter'd fimile, and that I'll live upon.
Real Love diffembled.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him 'Tis but a peevith boy ;-yet he talks well :But what care I for words? Yet words do well, When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth ;-not very pretty;
But fure he 's proud; and yet his pride becomes him:
He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him
Is his complexion: and fafter than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall;
His leg is but fo fo; and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lufty red
Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the
Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask. There be fome women, Sylvius, had they mark'd him
In parcels, as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but, for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him; For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; And, now I am remember'd, fcorn'd at me: I marvel why I anfwer'd not again; But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. A fine of a about to be delrayed by a Snake and a Lionest. Under an oak, whofe boughs were mofs'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched, ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay fleeping on his back; about his neck
A green and gilded fnake had writh'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did flip away
Into a bufa; under which bufh's fhade
A lionefs, with udders all drawn dry, [watch
Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like
When that the fleeping man fhould ftir: for tis
The royal difpofition of that beaft
To prey on nothing that doth feem as dead.
I do not fhame
To tell you what I was, fince my converfion
So sweetly taftes, being the thing I am.