ACT I. SCENE I.

Orchard of OLIVER'S house

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM

  ORLANDO. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed
    me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st,
    charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there
    begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and
    report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me
    rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at
    home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my
    birth that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are
    bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding,
    they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly
    hir'd; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for
    the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him
    as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the
    something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from
    me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a
    brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my
    education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of
    my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against
    this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no
    wise remedy how to avoid it.

                           Enter OLIVER

  ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your brother.

  ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me
    up.                                           [ADAM retires]

  OLIVER. Now, sir! what make you here?

  ORLANDO. Nothing; I am not taught to make any thing.

  OLIVER. What mar you then, sir?

  ORLANDO. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a
    poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.

  OLIVER. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile.

  ORLANDO. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What
    prodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury?

  OLIVER. Know you where you are, sir?

  ORLANDO. O, sir, very well; here in your orchard.

  OLIVER. Know you before whom, sir?

  ORLANDO. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are
    my eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you
    should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better
    in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not
    away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as
    much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming
    before me is nearer to his reverence.

  OLIVER. What, boy!                               [Strikes him]

  ORLANDO. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.

  OLIVER. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

  ORLANDO. I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
    Boys. He was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such
    a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not
    take this hand from thy throat till this other had pull'd out thy
    tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself.

  ADAM. [Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's
    remembrance, be at accord.

  OLIVER. Let me go, I say.

  ORLANDO. I will not, till I please; you shall hear me. My father
    charg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have
    train'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all
    gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in
    me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such
    exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor
    allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy
    my fortunes.

  OLIVER. And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? Well, sir,
    get you in. I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have
    some part of your will. I pray you leave me.

  ORLANDO. I no further offend you than becomes me for my good.

  OLIVER. Get you with him, you old dog.

  ADAM. Is 'old dog' my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in
    your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke
    such a word.
                                         Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM

  OLIVER. Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic
    your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither.
    Holla, Dennis!

                          Enter DENNIS

  DENNIS. Calls your worship?

  OLIVER. not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?

  DENNIS. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access
    to you.

  OLIVER. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS] 'Twill be a good way; and
    to-morrow the wrestling is.

                          Enter CHARLES

  CHARLES. Good morrow to your worship.

  OLIVER. Good Monsieur Charles! What's the new news at the new
    court?

  CHARLES. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that
    is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke;
    and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary
    exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke;
    therefore he gives them good leave to wander.

  OLIVER. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished
    with her father?

  CHARLES. O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,
    being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have
    followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at
    the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own
    daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.

  OLIVER. Where will the old Duke live?

  CHARLES. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many
    merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood
    of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day,
    and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

  OLIVER. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke?

  CHARLES. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a
    matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger
    brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against
    me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he
    that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well.
    Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would
    be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come
    in; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint
    you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment,
    or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is
    thing of his own search and altogether against my will.

  OLIVER. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt
    find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my
    brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to
    dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee,
    Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of
    ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret
    and villainous contriver against me his natural brother.
    Therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his
    neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou
    dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace
    himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap
    thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he
    hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I
    assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one
    so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly
    of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush
    and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.

  CHARLES. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come
    to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again,
    I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship!

 Exit

  OLIVER. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester.
    I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why,
    hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and
    yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly
    beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and
    especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am
    altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler
    shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy
    thither, which now I'll go about.                       Exit

Orlando, the youngest son of the recently deceased Sir Rowland de Bois, describes his unfortunate state of affairs to Adam, Sir Rowland's loyal former servant. Upon his father's death, Orlando was bequeathed a mere 1,000 crowns, a paltry sum for a young man of his social background. His only hope for advancement is if his brother, Oliver, honors their father's wish and provides him with a decent education. Oliver, as the eldest son, inherited virtually everything in his father's estate, yet he not only neglects this charge but actively disobeys it. Although he arranges for his other brother, Jaques, to attend school, Oliver refuses to allow Orlando any education whatsoever, leaving the young man to lament that his upbringing is little different from the treatment of a piece of livestock. Orlando has long borne this ill treatment, but he admits to Adam that he feels rising within himself a great resentment against his servile condition and vows that he will no longer endure it. Oliver enters, and the hostility between the brothers soon boils over into violence. Orlando claims that the system that allows the eldest son to inherit the bulk of a father's estate does not reduce the ancestral blood in the other sons. Oliver, offended by his brother's insolence, assails Orlando, while Orlando seizes Oliver by the throat. Adam tries to intervene, seeking peace in the name of their father, but the brothers do not heed him. Orlando, undoubtedly the stronger of the two, refuses to unhand his brother until Oliver promises to treat him like a gentleman, or else give him his due portion of their father's estate so that he may pursue a gentlemanly -lifestyle on his own. Oliver hastily agrees to give Orlando part of his small inheritance and, in a rage, dismisses Orlando and Adam, whom he chastises as an "old dog" . Oliver bids his servant Denis to summon Charles, the court wrestler, who has been waiting to speak to him. Oliver asks Charles for the news at court, and Charles reports that Duke Senior has been usurped by his younger brother, Duke Frederick, and has fled with a number of loyal lords to the Forest of Ardenne. Because the noblemen have forfeited their land and wealth by going into voluntary exile, Duke Frederick allows them to wander unmolested. When Oliver asks if Senior's daughter, Rosalind, has been banished, Charles says that the girl remains at court. Not only does Duke Frederick love Rosalind as though she is his own daughter, but the duke's daughter, Celia, has a great friendship with her cousin and cannot bear to be parted from her. Charles asserts that two ladies never loved as Celia and Rosalind do. Charles then admits his real reason for coming to see Oliver: he has heard rumors that Orlando plans to disguise himself in order to enter a wrestling match at the royal court. Because Charles's reputation depends upon the brutal defeat of all of his opponents, he worries that he will harm Orlando. He begs Oliver to intervene on his brother's behalf, but Oliver replies that Orlando is a conniving and deceitful scoundrel. He convinces Charles that Orlando will use poison or some other trick in order to bring down the wrestler. Charles threatens to repay Orlando in kind, and Oliver, pleased with Charles's promise, plots a way to deliver his brother to the wrestling ring.

Analysis  Shakespeare begins his play with a pair of dueling brothers, an amendment of his source material--Thomas Lodge's popular prose romance, Rosalynde--that allows him to establish, with great economy, the corrupt nature of so-called civilized life. Oliver's mistreatment of his brother spurs Orlando to journey into the curative Forest of Ardenne as surely as Frederick's actions did his own brother Duke Senior, which immediately locates the play in the pastoral tradition: those wounded by life at court seek the restorative powers of the country. But fraternal hostilities are also deeply biblical and resonate with the story of Cain's murder of Abel, an act that confirmed mankind's delivery from paradise into a world of malignity and harm. The injustice of Oliver's refusal to educate or otherwise share his fortune with Orlando seems all the more outrageous because it is perfectly legal. The practice of primogeniture stipulated that the eldest son inherits the whole of his father's estate so that estates would not fragment into smaller parcels. Primogeniture was not mandated by law in Shakespeare's England, but it was a firmly entrenched part of traditional English custom. With such a system governing society, inequality, greed, and animosity become unfortunate inevitabilities, and many younger sons in Shakespeare's time would have shared Orlando's resentment. In this opening scene, Shakespeare begins to muse on another theme common in pastoral literature: the origins of gentleness. As scholar Jean E. Howard makes clear in her introduction to the play, "gentleness" refers to both nobility and a virtuous nature . Elizabethans were supremely interested in whether this quality could be achieved or whether one had to be born with it, and Orlando shows himself to be a man of the times. Though Oliver has denied him all forms of education and noble living, Orlando nonetheless has a desire for gentleness. As he assails Oliver, he claims that his "gentleman-like qualities" have been obscured, but feels confident that he could develop them still . Of course, Oliver's behavior suggests that gentleness has little to do with being born into nobility. Though he has the vast majority of his father's estate at his fingertips, he proves lacking in the generosity and grace that would make him a true gentleman. The audience, then, looks optimistically to Orlando, who vows to go find his fortune on his own. The episode with the wrestler Charles is important for several reasons. First, it provides further evidence of the prejudices that rule court society. Charles visits Oliver because he worries about defeating Orlando. Although Charles is paid to be a brute, he fears that pummeling a nobleman, even one so bereft of fortune as Orlando, may win him disfavor in the court. Such deference on Charles's part speaks to the severe hierarchy of power that structures court life. Charles also provides necessary plot explication. Through Charles's report to Oliver, Shakespeare sketches the backdrop of his comedy: the usurpation of Duke Senior by Duke Frederick, Rosalind's precarious situation, and the qualities of life in the Forest of Ardenne. Although set in France, the forest to which Duke Senior and his loyal lords flee is intentionally reminiscent of Sherwood Forest, the home of Robin Hood. It is, in Charles's estimation, a remnant of "the golden world," a time of ease and abundance from which the modern world has fallen . Thus, before we ever see Ardenne, which cannot be located on any map, we understand it as a place where Orlando will find the remedy he so desperately seeks.


SCENE II.

A lawn before the DUKE'S palace

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

  CELIA. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

  ROSALIND. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and
    would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget
    a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any
    extraordinary pleasure.

  CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I
    love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy
    uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me,
    I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst
    thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd
    as mine is to thee.

  ROSALIND. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to
    rejoice in yours.

  CELIA. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to
    have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what
    he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee
    again in affection. By mine honour, I will; and when I break that
    oath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear
    Rose, be merry.

  ROSALIND. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports.
    Let me see; what think you of falling in love?

  CELIA. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love no man
    in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety
    of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.

  ROSALIND. What shall be our sport, then?

  CELIA. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her
    wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.

  ROSALIND. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily
    misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her
    gifts to women.

  CELIA. 'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes
    honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very
    ill-favouredly.

  ROSALIND. Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's:
    Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of
    Nature.

                         Enter TOUCHSTONE

  CELIA. No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by
    Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to
    flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off
    the argument?

  ROSALIND. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when
    Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.

  CELIA. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but
    Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of
    such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for
    always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
    How now, wit! Whither wander you?

  TOUCHSTONE. Mistress, you must come away to your father.

  CELIA. Were you made the messenger?

  TOUCHSTONE. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you.

  ROSALIND. Where learned you that oath, fool?

  TOUCHSTONE. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were
    good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught.
    Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard
    was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.

  CELIA. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge?

  ROSALIND. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.

  TOUCHSTONE. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear
    by your beards that I am a knave.

  CELIA. By our beards, if we had them, thou art.

  TOUCHSTONE. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were. But if you
    swear by that that not, you are not forsworn; no more was this
    knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he
    had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or
    that mustard.

  CELIA. Prithee, who is't that thou mean'st?

  TOUCHSTONE. One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

  CELIA. My father's love is enough to honour him. Enough, speak no
    more of him; you'll be whipt for taxation one of these days.

  TOUCHSTONE. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise
    men do foolishly.

  CELIA. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that
    fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have
    makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.

                           Enter LE BEAU

  ROSALIND. With his mouth full of news.

  CELIA. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young.

  ROSALIND. Then shall we be news-cramm'd.

  CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. Bon jour,
    Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news?

  LE BEAU. Fair Princess, you have lost much good sport.

  CELIA. Sport! of what colour?

  LE BEAU. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?

  ROSALIND. As wit and fortune will.

  TOUCHSTONE. Or as the Destinies decrees.

  CELIA. Well said; that was laid on with a trowel.

  TOUCHSTONE. Nay, if I keep not my rank-

  ROSALIND. Thou losest thy old smell.

  LE BEAU. You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good
    wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.

  ROSALIND. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.

  LE BEAU. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your
    ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and
    here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.

  CELIA. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.

  LE BEAU. There comes an old man and his three sons-

  CELIA. I could match this beginning with an old tale.

  LE BEAU. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.

  ROSALIND. With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men by
    these presents'-

  LE BEAU. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's
    wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of
    his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he serv'd
    the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man,
    their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the
    beholders take his part with weeping.

  ROSALIND. Alas!

  TOUCHSTONE. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have
    lost?

  LE BEAU. Why, this that I speak of.

  TOUCHSTONE. Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time
    that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.

  CELIA. Or I, I promise thee.

  ROSALIND. But is there any else longs to see this broken music in
    his sides? Is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking?
    Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?

  LE BEAU. You must, if you stay here; for here is the place
    appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.

  CELIA. Yonder, sure, they are coming. Let us now stay and see it.

           Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, LORDS, ORLANDO,
                     CHARLES, and ATTENDANTS

  FREDERICK. Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own
    peril on his forwardness.

  ROSALIND. Is yonder the man?

  LE BEAU. Even he, madam.

  CELIA. Alas, he is too young; yet he looks successfully.

  FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin! Are you crept hither to
    see the wrestling?

  ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave.

  FREDERICK. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,

    there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth
    I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated.
    Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him.

  CELIA. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.

  FREDERICK. Do so; I'll not be by.
                                     [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart]

  LE BEAU. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you.

  ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty.

  ROSALIND. Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the wrestler?

  ORLANDO. No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger. I come
    but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.

  CELIA. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years.
    You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength; if you saw
    yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment, the
    fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal
    enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own
    safety and give over this attempt.

  ROSALIND. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be
    misprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the
    wrestling might not go forward.

  ORLANDO. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts,
    wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent
    ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go
    with me to my trial; wherein if I be foil'd there is but one
    sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is
    willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none
    to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only
    in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when
    I have made it empty.

  ROSALIND. The little strength that I have, I would it were with
    you.

  CELIA. And mine to eke out hers.

  ROSALIND. Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceiv'd in you!

  CELIA. Your heart's desires be with you!

  CHARLES. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to
    lie with his mother earth?

  ORLANDO. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.

  FREDERICK. You shall try but one fall.

  CHARLES. No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a
    second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.

  ORLANDO. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mock'd me
    before; but come your ways.

  ROSALIND. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!

  CELIA. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the
    leg.                                          [They wrestle]

  ROSALIND. O excellent young man!

  CELIA. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should
    down.
                                      [CHARLES is thrown. Shout]

  FREDERICK. No more, no more.

  ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd.

  FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles?

  LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord.

  FREDERICK. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?

  ORLANDO. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
    Boys.

  FREDERICK. I would thou hadst been son to some man else.
    The world esteem'd thy father honourable,
    But I did find him still mine enemy.
    Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed,
    Hadst thou descended from another house.
    But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;
    I would thou hadst told me of another father.
                                 Exeunt DUKE, train, and LE BEAU

  CELIA. Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

  ORLANDO. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,
    His youngest son- and would not change that calling
    To be adopted heir to Frederick.

  ROSALIND. My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul,
    And all the world was of my father's mind;
    Had I before known this young man his son,
    I should have given him tears unto entreaties
    Ere he should thus have ventur'd.

  CELIA. Gentle cousin,
    Let us go thank him, and encourage him;
    My father's rough and envious disposition
    Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd;
    If you do keep your promises in love
    But justly as you have exceeded all promise,
    Your mistress shall be happy.

  ROSALIND. Gentleman,        [Giving him a chain from her neck]
    Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune,
    That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.
    Shall we go, coz?

  CELIA. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

  ORLANDO. Can I not say 'I thank you'? My better parts
    Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up
    Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.

  ROSALIND. He calls us back. My pride fell with my fortunes;
    I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?
    Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
    More than your enemies.

  CELIA. Will you go, coz?

  ROSALIND. Have with you. Fare you well.
                                       Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA

  ORLANDO. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?
    I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference.
    O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown!
    Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

                      Re-enter LE BEAU

  LE BEAU. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you
    To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd
    High commendation, true applause, and love,
    Yet such is now the Duke's condition
    That he misconstrues all that you have done.
    The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,
    More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

  ORLANDO. I thank you, sir; and pray you tell me this:
    Which of the two was daughter of the Duke
    That here was at the wrestling?

  LE BEAU. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;
    But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter;
    The other is daughter to the banish'd Duke,
    And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,
    To keep his daughter company; whose loves
    Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
    But I can tell you that of late this Duke
    Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,
    Grounded upon no other argument
    But that the people praise her for her virtues
    And pity her for her good father's sake;
    And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
    Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well.
    Hereafter, in a better world than this,
    I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

  ORLANDO. I rest much bounden to you; fare you well.
                                                    Exit LE BEAU
    Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
    From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.
    But heavenly Rosalind!                                  Exit

Rosalind is depressed over the banishment of her father, Duke Senior. Her cousin, Celia, attempts to cheer her up. Celia promises that as the sole heir of the usurping Duke Frederick, she will give the throne to Rosalind upon his death. In gratitude, Rosalind promises to be less melancholy, and the two women wittily discuss the roles of "Fortune" and "Nature" in determining the circumstances of one's life. They are interrupted by the court jester, Touchstone, who mockingly tells of a knight without honor who still swore by it. Le Beau, a dapper young courtier, also arrives and intrigues them with the promise of a wrestling match featuring the phenomenal strength and skill of the wrestler Charles. The match's participants enter with many members of the court, including Duke Frederick, who cordially greets Rosalind and Celia. The duke remarks on the danger Charles's young challenger faces, and he suggests that the girls attempt to dissuade the present challenger from his effort to defeat the wrestler. Rosalind and Celia agree and call to the young man, who turns out to be Orlando. Try as they might, they cannot sway him. He remains deaf to their pleas and speaks as if he has absolutely nothing to lose. Orlando and Charles wrestle, and Orlando quickly defeats his opponent. Amazed, Duke Frederick asks Orlando to reveal his identity. When Orlando responds that he is the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois, the duke laments that he wishes Orlando had been someone else's son, admitting that he and Sir Rowland were enemies. Rosalind and Celia rush in to offer their congratulations, and Rosalind admits how deeply her father admired Orlando's father. In the exchange, Orlando and Rosalind become mutually smitten, though both are too tongue-tied to confess their feelings. Immediately after Rosalind and Celia take their leave, Le Beau warns Orlando that, though his victory and conduct deserve great praise, he will get none from Duke Frederick. In fact, La Beau says, the duke is due for a dangerous outburst. Orlando, already heartsick over Rosalind, resolves to flee from the tyrannical duke

Act I, scenes ii-iii  As many critics have pointed out, Rosalind's relationship with Celia suggests an element of homoeroticism. Homoeroticism differs from homosexuality in connoting feelings of desire or longing between members of the same sex, but not necessarily the desire for actual sex acts. Celia begins Act I, scene ii by challenging the depth of her cousin's love for her, claiming that the depressed Rosalind would be content if she only returned Celia's love. Celia's language here conforms to conventional protestations of romantic love, and there is no doubt that the women's friendship is remarkable. When Celia pleads with Duke Frederick to allow Rosalind to stay at court, she points out that the pair has always slept in the same bed--people normally slept two to a bed in Shakespeare's time--and went everywhere together, "coupled and inseparable" . The women's special bond is not lost on those who witness their friendship--as Duke Frederick's courtier, Le Beau, exclaims, the cousins share a love that is "dearer than the natural bond of sisters" . Before jumping to conclusions about the nature of Rosalind and Celia's relationship, it is important to note that contemporary ideas about sexuality are quite different from Elizabethan ideas. Whereas people today tend to expect adherence to neatly defined and mutually exclusive categories of behavior, such as -heterosexuality or homosexuality, sexual identity was more loosely defined in Shakespeare's England. Then, in literature and culture, if not in actual practice, Elizabethans were tolerant of same-sex couplings--indeed, homosexuality was an inescapable part of the Greek and Roman classics that made up an educated person's culture in Shakespeare's day. At the same time, Elizabethans could be very inflexible in their notions of the sexual and social roles that different genders play. They placed greater importance than we do on the external markers of gender such as clothing and behavior; so to Elizabethans, Rosalind's decision to masquerade as a man may have been more thrilling than her homoerotic bond with Celia and perhaps even threatening to the social order. By assuming the clothes and likeness of a man, Rosalind treats herself to powers that are normally beyond her reach as a woman. For instance, instead of waiting to be wooed, she adopts the freedom to court a lover of her choosing. By subverting something as simple as a dress code, Rosalind ends up transgressing the Elizabethans' carefully monitored boundaries of gender and social power. Indeed, it is this very freedom that Rosalind seeks as she departs for the Forest of Ardenne: "Now go we in content, / To liberty, and not to banishment" . By christening herself Ganymede, Rosalind underscores the liberation that awaits her in the woods. Ganymede is the name of Jove's beautiful young male page and lover, and the name is borrowed in other works of literature and applied to beautiful young homosexuals. But while the name links Rosalind to a long tradition of homosexuals in literature, it does not necessarily confine her to an exclusively homosexual identity. To view Rosalind as a lesbian who settles for a socially sanctifying marriage with Orlando, or to view Celia as her jilted lover, is to relegate both of them to the unpleasantly restrictive quarters of contemporary sexual politics. The Forest of Ardenne is big enough to embrace both homosexual and heterosexual desires--it allows for both, for all, rather than either/or.


SCENE III.

The DUKE's palace

Enter CELIA and ROSALIND

  CELIA. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy!
    Not a word?

  ROSALIND. Not one to throw at a dog.

  CELIA. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs;
    throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

  ROSALIND. Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should
    be lam'd with reasons and the other mad without any.

  CELIA. But is all this for your father?

  ROSALIND. No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how full of
    briers is this working-day world!

  CELIA. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
    foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats
    will catch them.

  ROSALIND. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my
    heart.

  CELIA. Hem them away.

  ROSALIND. I would try, if I could cry 'hem' and have him.

  CELIA. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

  ROSALIND. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.

  CELIA. O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of
    a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in
    good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall
    into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?

  ROSALIND. The Duke my father lov'd his father dearly.

  CELIA. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly?
    By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his
    father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

  ROSALIND. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

  CELIA. Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?

                    Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

  ROSALIND. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I
    do. Look, here comes the Duke.

  CELIA. With his eyes full of anger.

  FREDERICK. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
    And get you from our court.

  ROSALIND. Me, uncle?

  FREDERICK. You, cousin.
    Within these ten days if that thou beest found
    So near our public court as twenty miles,
    Thou diest for it.

  ROSALIND. I do beseech your Grace,
    Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.
    If with myself I hold intelligence,
    Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;
    If that I do not dream, or be not frantic-
    As I do trust I am not- then, dear uncle,
    Never so much as in a thought unborn
    Did I offend your Highness.

  FREDERICK. Thus do all traitors;
    If their purgation did consist in words,
    They are as innocent as grace itself.
    Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

  ROSALIND. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.
    Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

  FREDERICK. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.

  ROSALIND. SO was I when your Highness took his dukedom;
    So was I when your Highness banish'd him.
    Treason is not inherited, my lord;
    Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
    What's that to me? My father was no traitor.
    Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
    To think my poverty is treacherous.

  CELIA. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

  FREDERICK. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake,
    Else had she with her father rang'd along.

  CELIA. I did not then entreat to have her stay;
    It was your pleasure, and your own remorse;
    I was too young that time to value her,
    But now I know her. If she be a traitor,
    Why so am I: we still have slept together,
    Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
    And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
    Still we went coupled and inseparable.

  FREDERICK. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,
    Her very silence and her patience,
    Speak to the people, and they pity her.
    Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name;
    And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous
    When she is gone. Then open not thy lips.
    Firm and irrevocable is my doom
    Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.

  CELIA. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege;
    I cannot live out of her company.

  FREDERICK. You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself.
    If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
    And in the greatness of my word, you die.
                                           Exeunt DUKE and LORDS

  CELIA. O my poor Rosalind! Whither wilt thou go?
    Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
    I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am.

  ROSALIND. I have more cause.

  CELIA. Thou hast not, cousin.
    Prithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke
    Hath banish'd me, his daughter?

  ROSALIND. That he hath not.

  CELIA. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love
    Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.
    Shall we be sund'red? Shall we part, sweet girl?
    No; let my father seek another heir.
    Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
    Whither to go, and what to bear with us;
    And do not seek to take your charge upon you,
    To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
    For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
    Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.

  ROSALIND. Why, whither shall we go?

  CELIA. To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.

  ROSALIND. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
    Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
    Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

  CELIA. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
    And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
    The like do you; so shall we pass along,
    And never stir assailants.

  ROSALIND. Were it not better,
    Because that I am more than common tall,
    That I did suit me all points like a man?
    A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
    A boar spear in my hand; and- in my heart
    Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will-
    We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,
    As many other mannish cowards have
    That do outface it with their semblances.

  CELIA. What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

  ROSALIND. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,
    And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
    But what will you be call'd?

  CELIA. Something that hath a reference to my state:
    No longer Celia, but Aliena.

  ROSALIND. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal
    The clownish fool out of your father's court?
    Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

  CELIA. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;
    Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
    And get our jewels and our wealth together;
    Devise the fittest time and safest way
    To hide us from pursuit that will be made
    After my flight. Now go we in content
    To liberty, and not to banishment.                    Exeunt

Rosalind is overcome with her emotions for Orlando. Celia asks her cousin how she could possibly manage to fall in love with Orlando so quickly. Just then, Duke Frederick approaches and demands that Rosalind leave the royal court. He denounces her as a traitor and threatens her with death should she be found within twenty miles of court. Rosalind does not know how she has offended the duke and pleads her innocence, but the duke remains firm. When Rosalind asks him to explain his decision to banish her, Duke Frederick replies that she is her father's daughter, and that is enough. Celia makes an impassioned plea on Rosalind's behalf, but the duke condemns Rosalind for her "smoothness" and "silence," and tries to convince his daughter that she will seem more beautiful and virtuous after Rosalind is gone. Celia announces that in banishing Rosalind, Duke Frederick has also banished Celia, and the two women decide to seek out Duke Senior in the Forest of Ardenne. Realizing that such a journey would be incredibly dangerous for two wealthy, attractive young women, they decide to travel in disguise: Celia as a common shepherdess and Rosalind as a young man. Celia renames herself Aliena, while Rosalind dubs her disguised self Ganymede, after the cupbearer to Jove. The two decide to convince Touchstone, a clown, to accompany them on their journey


ACT II. SCENE I.

The Forest of Arden

Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters

  DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
    Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
    Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
    More free from peril than the envious court?
    Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
    The seasons' 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 shrink with cold, I smile and say
    'This is no flattery; these are counsellors
    That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
    Sweet are the uses of adversity,
    Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
    Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
    And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
    Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
    Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
    I would not change it.

  AMIENS. Happy is your Grace,
    That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
    Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

  DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
    And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,
    Being native burghers of this desert city,
    Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
    Have their round haunches gor'd.

  FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord,
    The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
    And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
    Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
    To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
    Did steal behind him as he lay along
    Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
    Upon the brook that brawls along this wood!
    To the which place a poor sequest'red 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 such groans
    That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
    Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
    Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
    In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
    Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
    Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook,
    Augmenting it with tears.

  DUKE SENIOR. But what said Jaques?
    Did he not moralize this spectacle?

  FIRST LORD. O, yes, into a thousand similes.
    First, for his weeping into the needless stream:
    'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testament
    As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
    To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone,
    Left and abandoned of his velvet friends:
    ''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part
    The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd,
    Full of the pasture, jumps along by him
    And never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques
    'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
    'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look
    Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'
    Thus most invectively he pierceth through
    The body of the country, city, court,
    Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we
    Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
    To fright the animals, and to kill them up
    In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

  DUKE SENIOR. And did you leave him in this contemplation?

  SECOND LORD. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
    Upon the sobbing deer.

  DUKE SENIOR. Show me the place;
    I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
    For then he's full of matter.

  FIRST LORD. I'll bring you to him straight.             Exeunt

scene i ur life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything. The banished Duke Senior expounds on the wonders of life in the forest. He tells his associates that he prefers forest dwelling to the "painted pomp" of courtly existence. He reminds them that their existence in Ardenne is free from danger and that their greatest worry here is nothing worse than the cold winter wind. The woods provide Duke Senior with everything he needs, from conversation to education to spiritual edification, for he "inds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, / Sermons in stones, and good in everything". Lord Amiens agrees with him. The duke suggests that they hunt some venison, but he cannot help but mourn the fate of the deer, who, though natives of Ardenne, are violently slaughtered. One lord announces that the melancholy lord Jaques has seconded this observation, declaring Senior guiltier of usurpation than his loveless brother, Duke Frederick. Duke Senior, in good humor, asks one of his men to bring him to Jaques, because arguing with him is such fun

Act II, scenes i-iv Pastoral literature makes a clear distinction between the quality of life and benefits of living in the city versus the country. The stresses of the former, this genre romantically suggests, may be healed by the charms of the latter; thus Act II introduces us to the Forest of Ardenne after we witness characters undergo banishment from courtly life. Although supposedly situated in France, Shakespeare's forest bears closer resemblance to the fantastical getaway of A Midsummer Night's Dream than to any identifiable geography. It may not be overrun with mischievous fairies and sprites, but it serves the function of correcting what has gone wrong with the everyday world. However, even with that purpose in mind, Ardenne is no Eden. Though Duke Frederick praises the forest as preferable to the artificial ceremony of the court, he takes care to describe its hardships. With its wild animals and erratic weather, Ardenne can hardly be called a paradise, and at the same time the duke celebrates Ardenne, he also draws attention to the difference between that forest and Eden or the Golden Age.  The forest is a lovely but ultimately temporary haven for the characters who seek refuge from exile. One reason for the transience of this sanctuary is that the city dwellers are, by the play's end, ready to return to court. Jaques, a stock character who represents the melancholy brooder, suggests a more troubling reason for the temporary nature of the forest's pristine state and restorative powers. Man, he suggests, will sooner or later mar the forest's beauty. Grieved by the killing of the deer, Jaques claims that Duke Senior is guiltier of usurpation than his crown-robbing brother, Duke Frederick. According to Jaques, wherever men go, they bring with them the possibility of the very perils that make life in the "envious court" so unbearable . None of Duke Senior's courtiers disagrees with Jaques, but the melancholy lord's criticism lacks real sting. Indeed, Duke Senior sees Jaques as little more than entertainment, for the extremity of Jaques's mood prompts Senior to declare amusingly, "I love to cope him in these sullen fits, / For then he's full of matter"--matter being the word for pus in Shakespearean English . In a play that celebrates the complexity and the range of human emotions, there is little room for someone like Jaques, who knows how to sing only one tune. With the introduction of Silvius, As You Like It begins to explore the foolishness of love as opposed to its delightfulness. Unlike Rosalind, who is equipped with enough wit to recognize the silliness of her sudden devotion to Orlando, Silvius is powerless in his attraction to Phoebe. In his laments to Corin in Act II, scene iv, he presents himself as love's only true victim, and he implies that no one has ever loved as he loves Phoebe. Although Rosalind at first pities the shepherd's predicament as curiously close to her own, she soon enough comes to share Touchstone's observation on the necessary foolishness of being in love. As he watches Silvius call out to the absent Phoebe, Touchstone says, "We that are true lovers run into strange capers. But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly" . Touchstone's inarticulate and rude manner of speaking makes him a true touchstone for Rosalind, bringing into greater relief her supreme eloquence and wit. Here, however, he utters two essential pieces of truth: everything in the natural world is temporary, and every lover naturally behaves like a fool. But the fact that so many characters fall in love in Ardenne proves that they are less love's victims than its willing subjects.


SCENE II.

The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

  FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them?
    It cannot be; some villains of my court
    Are of consent and sufferance in this.

  FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her.
    The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
    Saw her abed, and in the morning early
    They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.

  SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
    Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
    Hisperia, the Princess' gentlewoman,
    Confesses that she secretly o'erheard
    Your daughter and her cousin much commend
    The parts and graces of the wrestler
    That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
    And she believes, wherever they are gone,
    That youth is surely in their company.

  FREDERICK. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither.
    If he be absent, bring his brother to me;
    I'll make him find him. Do this suddenly;
    And let not search and inquisition quail
    To bring again these foolish runaways.                Exeunt

Back at court, Duke Frederick is enraged to discover the disappearances of Celia, Rosalind, and Touchstone; he cannot believe that the three could leave court without anyone's notice. One attending lord reports that Celia's gentlewoman overheard Celia and Rosalind complimenting Orlando, and she speculates that wherever the women are, Orlando is likely with them. Frederick seizes on this information and commands that Oliver be recruited to find his brother


SCENE III.

Before OLIVER'S house

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting

  ORLANDO. Who's there?

  ADAM. What, my young master? O my gentle master!
    O my sweet master! O you memory
    Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?
    Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
    And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
    Why would you be so fond to overcome
    The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?
    Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
    Know you not, master, to some kind of men
    Their graces serve them but as enemies?
    No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master,
    Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
    O, what a world is this, when what is comely
    Envenoms him that bears it!

  ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter?

  ADAM. O unhappy youth!
    Come not within these doors; within this roof
    The enemy of all your graces lives.
    Your brother- no, no brother; yet the son-
    Yet not the son; I will not call him son
    Of him I was about to call his father-
    Hath heard your praises; and this night he means
    To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
    And you within it. If he fail of that,
    He will have other means to cut you off;
    I overheard him and his practices.
    This is no place; this house is but a butchery;
    Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

  ORLANDO. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

  ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here.

  ORLANDO. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food,
    Or with a base and boist'rous sword enforce
    A thievish living on the common road?
    This I must do, or know not what to do;
    Yet this I will not do, do how I can.
    I rather will subject me to the malice
    Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

  ADAM. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
    The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
    Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,
    When service should 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 sparrow,
    Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
    All this I give you. Let me be your servant;
    Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
    For in my youth I never did apply
    Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
    Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
    The means of weakness and debility;
    Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
    Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;
    I'll do the service of a younger man
    In all your business and necessities.

  ORLANDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears
    The constant service of the antique world,
    When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
    Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
    Where none will sweat but for promotion,
    And having that do choke their service up
    Even with the having; it is not so with thee.
    But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree
    That cannot so much as a blossom yield
    In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
    But come thy ways, we'll go along together,
    And ere we have thy youthful wages spent
    We'll light upon some settled low content.

  ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow the
    To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
    From seventeen years till now almost four-score
    Here lived I, but now live here no more.
    At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
    But at fourscore it is too late a week;
    Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
    Than to die well and not my master's debtor.          Exeunt

Orlando returns to his former home, where the servant Adam greets him. News of the young man's victory over Charles precedes him, and Adam worries that Orlando's strength and bravery will be the keys to his downfall. Adam begs Orlando not to enter Oliver's house. Oliver, he reports, having learned of Orlando's triumph, plans to burn the place where Orlando sleeps in hopes of destroying Orlando with it. Abhor it," Adam warns, "fear it, do not enter it". Orlando wonders about his fate, speculating that without a home, he may be destined to eke out a living as a common highway robber. Adam suggests that the two of them take to the road with his modest life's savings. Touched by Adam's constant service, Orlando agrees


SCENE IV.

The Forest of Arden

Enter ROSALIND for GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA, and CLOWN alias TOUCHSTONE

  ROSALIND. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!

  TOUCHSTONE. I Care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

  ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,
    and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as
    doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat;
    therefore, courage, good Aliena.

  CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I cannot go no further.

  TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you;
    yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you
    have no money in your purse.

  ROSALIND. Well,. this is the Forest of Arden.

  TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at
    home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

                        Enter CORIN and SILVIUS

  ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a
    young man and an old in solemn talk.

  CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still.

  SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!

  CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.

  SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
    Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
    As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow.
    But if thy love were ever like to mine,
    As sure I think did never man love so,
    How many actions most ridiculous
    Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

  CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

  SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily!
    If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly
    That ever love did make thee run into,
    Thou hast not lov'd;
    Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
    Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
    Thou hast not lov'd;
    Or if thou hast not broke from company
    Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
    Thou hast not lov'd.
    O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!                          Exit Silvius

  ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
    I have by hard adventure found mine own.

  TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my
    sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to
    Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the
    cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember
    the wooing of peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods,
    and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these
    for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers;
    but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal
    in folly.

  ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.

  TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break
    my shins against it.

  ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
    Is much upon my fashion.

  TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.

  CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man
    If he for gold will give us any food;
    I faint almost to death.

  TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!

  ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman.

  CORIN. Who calls?

  TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.

  CORIN. Else are they very wretched.

  ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

  CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

  ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
    Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
    Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
    Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
    And faints for succour.

  CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her,
    And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
    My fortunes were more able to relieve her;
    But I am shepherd to another man,
    And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.
    My master is of churlish disposition,
    And little recks to find the way to heaven
    By doing deeds of hospitality.
    Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
    Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,
    By reason of his absence, there is nothing
    That you will feed on; but what is, come see,
    And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

  ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

  CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
    That little cares for buying any thing.

  ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
    Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
    And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

  CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,
    And willingly could waste my time in it.

  CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
    Go with me; if you like upon report
    The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
    I will your very faithful feeder be,
    And buy it with your gold right suddenly.             Exeunt

Rosalind, Celia, and Touchstone arrive, safe but exhausted, in the Forest of Ardenne. The three sit down to rest, but before long they are interrupted by two shepherds: young Corin and old Silvius. The shepherds are so wrapped up in their conversation about Silvius's hopeless love and devotion to the shepherdess Phoebe that they do not notice the three travelers. Corin, who claims to have loved a thousand times, tries to advise Silvius, but the young man, maintaining that his companion could not possibly understand the depth of his feelings, wanders off. Rosalind, Celia, and Touchstone approach Corin and ask where they might find a place to rest. When Corin admits that his master's modest holdings are up for sale, Rosalind and Celia decide to buy the property


SCENE V.

Another part of the forest

Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS

                       SONG

  AMIENS.    Under the greenwood tree
               Who loves to lie with me,
               And turn his merry note
               Unto the sweet bird's throat,
             Come hither, come hither, come hither.
               Here shall he see
               No enemy
             But winter and rough weather.

  JAQUES. More, more, I prithee, more.

  AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

  JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy
    out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.

  AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.

  JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing.
    Come, more; another stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos?

  AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

  JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing.
    Will you sing?

  AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself.

  JAQUES. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you; but
    that they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes;
    and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a
    penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you
    that will not, hold your tongues.

  AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the Duke
    will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look
    you.

  JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is to
    disputable for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but
    I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble,
    come.

                       SONG
              [All together here]

           Who doth ambition shun,
           And loves to live i' th' sun,
           Seeking the food he eats,
           And pleas'd with what he gets,
         Come hither, come hither, come hither.
           Here shall he see
           No enemy
           But winter and rough weather.

  JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in
    despite of my invention.

  AMIENS. And I'll sing it.

  JAQUES. Thus it goes:

             If it do come to pass
             That any man turn ass,
             Leaving his wealth and ease
             A stubborn will to please,
           Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
             Here shall he see
             Gross fools as he,
             An if he will come to me.

  AMIENS. What's that 'ducdame'?

  JAQUES. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle.
    I'll go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the
    first-born of Egypt.

  AMIENS. And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepar'd.
                                                Exeunt severally

As Amiens strolls through the Forest of Ardenne with Jaques in tow, he sings a song inviting his listeners to lie with him "nder the greenwood tree" , where there are no enemies but "winter and rough weather". Jaques begs him to continue, but Amiens hesitates, claiming that the song will only make Jaques melancholy. The warning does not deter Jaques, who proudly claims that he can "suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs". While the other lords in attendance prepare for Duke Senior's meal, Amiens leads them in finishing the song. Jaques follows with a verse set to the same tune, which he himself wrote. In it, he chides those foolish enough to leave their wealth and leisure for life in the forest. Amiens leaves to summon the duke to dinner

Act II, scenes v-vii Both Act II, scene v and Act II, scene vi deal primarily with the melancholy lord, Jaques, who offers a sullen perspective on the otherwise comedic events in Ardenne. He turns Amiens's song about the pleasures of leisurely life into a means of berating the foresters, and he comes close to playing the part of the fool, in the sense that he turns a critical eye on a world in which he lives but does not fully inhabit. But unlike Feste in Twelfth Night or the fool in King Lear, Jaques does not demonstrate the insight or wisdom that would make his observations truly arresting or illuminating. His most impressive speech in the play begins with a familiar set piece in Elizabethan drama: "All the world's a stage, / And all the men and women merely players" . He goes on to describe the seven stages of a man's life, from infancy to death, through his roles as lover and soldier, but Jaques's observations may strike us as untrue or banal. His estimation that lovers sigh "like furnace, with a woeful ballad / Made to his mistress' eyebrow" is humorous, and it certainly describes the kind of intemperate, undiscriminating affection that Silvius shows to Phoebe, or Phoebe to Ganymede . But the criticism seems ill-suited to a play as aware and forgiving of love's silliness as As You Like It. As a philosopher, Jaques falls short of accurately describing the complexity of Rosalind's feelings for Orlando; his musings bear the narrow and pinched shortcomings of the habitually sullen.  Jaques's sullenness blinds him to his own foolishness regarding life. Jaques goes on to describe man's later years, the decline into second childhood and obliviousness, without teeth, eyesight, taste, or anything else. Countering Jaques's unflattering picture of old age, Orlando carries Adam to the duke's banquet table, the old man entering his final years with his loyalty, generosity of spirit, and appetite intact. Although the thought of serving as Duke Frederick's fool appeals to him, Jaques ultimately lacks the wit, wisdom, and heart to perform the task. When he meets Touchstone in the forest, he sings the clown's praises, quoting with glee Touchstone's nihilistic musings on the passage of time: "And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, / And then from hour to hour we rot and rot" . Jaques does not realize that Touchstone's "deep--contemplative" speech is a bawdy mockery of his own brooding behavior . Indeed, throughout the play, Jaques remains so mired in his own moodiness that he sees very little of the world he so desperately wants to criticize. Knowing that Jaques's eyes are trained on men's baser instincts, the duke doubts Jaques's ability to serve as a proper and entertaining fool. Jaques, he feels, would be a boor, berating the courtiers for sins that Jaques himself has committed. This exchange points to an important difference between Jaques and the duke: the former is committed to being unhappy in the world and will suffer in it, while the latter is happy to make the best of the world he is given and will thrive, as the title of the play seems to promise.


SCENE VI.

The forest

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM

  ADAM. Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food! Here lie
    I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.

  ORLANDO. Why, how now, Adam! No greater heart in thee? Live a
    little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth
    forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or
    bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy
    powers. For my sake be comfortable; hold death awhile at the
    arm's end. I will here be with the presently; and if I bring thee
    not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou
    diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said!
    thou look'st cheerly; and I'll be with thee quickly. Yet thou
    liest in the bleak air. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter;
    and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live
    anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam!          Exeunt

Orlando and Adam enter the Forest of Ardenne. Adam is exhausted from travel and claims that he will soon die from hunger. Orlando assures his loyal servant that he will find him food. Before he sets off to hunt, Orlando fears leaving Adam lying in "the bleak air" and carries him off to shelter


SCENE VII.

The forest

A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws

  DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transform'd into a beast;
    For I can nowhere find him like a man.

  FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
    Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

  DUKE SENIOR. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
    We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
    Go seek him; tell him I would speak with him.

                         Enter JAQUES

  FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach.

  DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,
    That your poor friends must woo your company?
    What, you look merrily!

  JAQUES. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest,
    A motley fool. A miserable world!
    As I do live by food, I met a fool,
    Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
    And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
    In good set terms- and yet a motley fool.
    'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I; 'No, sir,' quoth he,
    'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.'
    And then he drew a dial from his poke,
    And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
    Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock;
    Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags;
    'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;
    And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
    And so, 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 should be so deep contemplative;
    And I did laugh sans intermission
    An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
    A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

  DUKE SENIOR. What fool is this?

  JAQUES. O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,
    And says, 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 biscuit
    After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
    With observation, the which he vents
    In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!
    I am ambitious for a motley coat.

  DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one.

  JAQUES. It is my only suit,
    Provided that you weed your better judgments
    Of all opinion that grows rank in them
    That I am wise. I must have liberty
    Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
    To blow on whom I please, for so fools have;
    And they that are most galled with my folly,
    They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
    The why is plain as way to parish church:
    He that a fool doth very wisely hit
    Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
    Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,
    The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
    Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool.
    Invest me in my motley; give me leave
    To speak my mind, and I will through and through
    Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,
    If they will patiently receive my medicine.

  DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

  JAQUES. What, for a counter, would I do but good?

  DUKE SENIOR. Most Mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;
    For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
    As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
    And all th' embossed sores and headed evils
    That thou with license of free foot hast caught
    Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

  JAQUES. Why, who cries out on pride
    That can therein tax any private party?
    Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
    Till that the wearer's very means do ebb?
    What woman in the city do I name
    When that I say the city-woman bears
    The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
    Who can come in and say that I mean her,
    When such a one as she such is her neighbour?
    Or what is he of basest function
    That says his bravery is not on my cost,
    Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
    His folly to the mettle of my speech?
    There then! how then? what then? Let me see wherein
    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. But who comes here?

             Enter ORLANDO with his sword drawn

  ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more.

  JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet.

  ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.

  JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of?

  DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress?
    Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
    That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

  ORLANDO. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point
    Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
    Of smooth civility; yet arn I inland bred,
    And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;
    He dies that touches any of this fruit
    Till I and my affairs are answered.

  JAQUES. An you will not be answer'd with reason, I must die.

  DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force
    More than your force move us to gentleness.

  ORLANDO. I almost die for food, and let me have it.

  DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

  ORLANDO. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you;
    I thought that all things had been savage here,
    And therefore put I on the countenance
    Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are
    That in this desert inaccessible,
    Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
    Lose 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 sat at any good man's feast,
    If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,
    And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,
    Let gentleness my strong enforcement be;
    In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

  DUKE SENIOR. True is it that we have seen better days,
    And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,
    And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes
    Of drops that sacred pity hath engend'red;
    And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
    And take upon command what help we have
    That to your wanting may be minist'red.

  ORLANDO. Then but forbear your food a little while,
    Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
    And give it food. There is an old poor man
    Who after me hath many a weary step
    Limp'd in pure love; till he be first suffic'd,
    Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,
    I will not touch a bit.

  DUKE SENIOR. Go find him out.
    And we will nothing waste till you return.

  ORLANDO. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!
 Exit

  DUKE SENIOR. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
    This wide and universal theatre
    Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
    Wherein we play in.

  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 seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
    Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
    In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances;
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
    Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
    His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

                  Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM

  DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden.
    And let him feed.

  ORLANDO. I thank you most for him.

  ADAM. So had you need;
    I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

  DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you
    As yet to question you about your fortunes.
    Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

                         SONG
            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
            Thou art not so unkind
              As man's ingratitude;
            Thy tooth is not so keen,
            Because thou art not seen,
              Although thy breath be rude.
    Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly.
    Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
            Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
              This life is most jolly.

            Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
            That dost not bite so nigh
              As benefits forgot;
            Though thou the waters warp,
            Thy sting is not so sharp
              As friend rememb'red not.
    Heigh-ho! sing, &c.

  DUKE SENIOR. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,
    As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,
    And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
    Most truly limn'd and living in your face,
    Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke
    That lov'd your father. The residue of your fortune,
    Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man,
    Thou art right welcome as thy master is.
    Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,
    And let me all your fortunes understand.              Exeunt

And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,And then from hour to hour we rot and rot;And thereby hangs a tale. Duke Senior returns to camp to find that Jaques has disappeared. When a lord reports that Jaques has last been seen in good spirits, the duke worries that happiness in one who is typically so miserable portends discord in the universe. Just after the duke commands the lord to find Jaques, Jaques appears. He is uncharacteristically merry and explains that while wandering through the forest, he met a fool. He repeats the fool's witty observations about Lady Fortune and proclaims that he himself would like to be a fool. In this position, Jaques reasons, he would be able to speak his mind freely, thereby cleansing "the foul body of th'infected world" with the "medicine" of his criticism. The duke laments the sin of "chiding sin" and reminds Jaques that he himself is guilty of many of the evils he would inevitably criticize in others. Their playful argument is interrupted when Orlando barges onto the scene, drawing his sword and demanding food. The duke asks whether Orlando's rudeness is a function of distress or bad breeding and, once Orlando has regained his composure, invites him to partake of the banquet. Orlando goes off to fetch Adam. Duke Senior observes that he and his men are far from alone in their unhappiness: there is much strife in the world. Jaques replies that the world is a stage and "all the men and women merely players". All humans pass through the stages of infancy, childhood, and adulthood; they experience love and seek honor, but all eventually succumb to the debility of old age and "mere oblivion". Orlando returns with Adam and all begin to eat. The duke soon realizes that Orlando is the son of Sir Rowland, the duke's old friend, and heartily welcomes the young man


ACT III. SCENE I.

The palace

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS

  FREDERICK. Not see him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be.
    But were I not the better part made mercy,
    I should not seek an absent argument
    Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:
    Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is;
    Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living
    Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
    To seek a living in our territory.
    Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine
    Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,
    Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth
    Of what we think against thee.

  OLIVER. O that your Highness knew my heart in this!
    I never lov'd my brother in my life.

  FREDERICK. More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;
    And let my officers of such a nature
    Make an extent upon his house and lands.
    Do this expediently, and turn him going.              Exeunt

Oliver, who has been unable to locate Orlando, reports to Duke Frederick at court. The duke chastises him for his failure and commands him to find Orlando within a year's time or else forfeit the whole of his property. Frederick turns Oliver out to search for Orlando and seizes his lands and worldly goods until Orlando is delivered to court

Act III, scenes i-ii In Act III, as the play moves from Duke Frederick's court into the Forest of Ardenne, Shakespeare explores more fully the complexities of his major themes: the merits of country versus city life, and the delights and dismays of romantic love. The conversation between Touchstone and Corin in Act III, scene ii provides interesting insight into the matter of city versus country living. Although Corin concedes the argument to Touchstone, calling the clown's high but hollow rhetoric "too courtly . . . for me," we note that Corin's speech is much clearer and his logic more sound than Touchstone's . Corin's declaration that "hose 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" is not only sensible, it is also in keeping with the guiding philosophy of the play: that the world is full of contradictions that do not cancel one another out, but exist side by side . Corin's willingness to rest, then, is not so much an admission of defeat as a recognition that court and country, along with the style and the substance that they respectively represent, must coexist.  As the argument between Touchstone and Corin plays out, we witness the repercussions of Orlando's lovesickness. When characters fall in love in As You Like It, they invariably fall hard and fast, abandoning all reason in their desperate attempts to win the object of desire. Orlando is no exception, as the silly and unskilled poems he tacks on the trees make clear. Here, Orlando's behavior accords with the Petrarchan model of romantic love . Orlando's behavior leads him to great folly and prompts Jaques's sour declaration: "The worst fault you have is to be in love" . But, sour though it is, the sentiment is not Orlando's alone. As Rosalind reads Orlando's verses, she comments on their poor composition, but this shortcoming does not stop her from enjoying them. It is much to the play's credit that it conceives of such irrational devotion as both a virtue and a vice. It is also the greatest testament of the depth of Rosalind's character: only she is capacious and generous enough to welcome and thrive on such contradictions. The play also adds an interesting twist on the stage convention of cross-dressing as Rosalind decides to use her disguise as Ganymede, in effect, to woo Orlando. The erotic possibilities here are nearly endless, considering that Rosalind dresses as a rather effeminate man and offers to provide Orlando with love lessons so that Orlando may win his beloved Rosalind. The complexities of the situation multiply when we consider that in Shakespeare's era, Rosalind would have been played by a boy actor. As the audience watches a boy playing a woman who plays a man in order to win a man's love, the neat borders of gender and sexuality become hopelessly muddled.