SCENE II.

The forest

Enter ORLANDO, with a paper

  ORLANDO. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;
    And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey
    With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
    Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.
    O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
    And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,
    That every eye which in this forest looks
    Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
    Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,
    The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.             Exit

                     Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

  CORIN. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?

  TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good
    life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is nought.
    In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in
    respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in
    respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect
    it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life,
    look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty
    in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in
    thee, shepherd?

  CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at
    ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is
    without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet,
    and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a
    great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath
    learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding,
    or comes of a very dull kindred.

  TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in
    court, shepherd?

  CORIN. No, truly.

  TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damn'd.

  CORIN. Nay, I hope.

  TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-roasted egg, all on
    one side.

  CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason.

  TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court thou never saw'st good
    manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must
    be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art
    in a parlous state, shepherd.

  CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone. Those 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. You told me you salute not
    at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be
    uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.

  TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance.

  CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you
    know, are greasy.

  TOUCHSTONE. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? And is not the
    grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man?
    Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come.

  CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard.

  TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again.
    A more sounder instance; come.

  CORIN. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our
    sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are
    perfum'd with civet.

  TOUCHSTONE. Most shallow man! thou worm's meat in respect of a good
    piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is
    of a baser birth than tar- the very uncleanly flux of a cat.
    Mend the instance, shepherd.

  CORIN. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.

  TOUCHSTONE. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man!
    God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

  CORIN. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I
    wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness; glad of other
    men's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is
    to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

  TOUCHSTONE. That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewes
    and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the
    copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray
    a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,
    out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damn'd for this,
    the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how
    thou shouldst scape.

  CORIN. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.

                  Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper

  ROSALIND.   'From the east to western Inde,
              No jewel is like Rosalinde.
              Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
              Through all the world bears Rosalinde.
              All the pictures fairest lin'd
              Are but black to Rosalinde.
              Let no face be kept in mind
              But the fair of Rosalinde.'

  TOUCHSTONE. I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and
    suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right
    butter-women's rank to market.

  ROSALIND. Out, fool!

  TOUCHSTONE.   For a taste:
                If a hart do lack a hind,
                Let him seek out Rosalinde.
                If the cat will after kind,
                So be sure will Rosalinde.
                Winter garments must be lin'd,
                So must slender Rosalinde.
                They that reap must sheaf and bind,
                Then to cart with Rosalinde.
                Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
                Such a nut is Rosalinde.
                He that sweetest rose will find
                Must find love's prick and Rosalinde.
    This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect
    yourself with them?

  ROSALIND. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.

  TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

  ROSALIND. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a
    medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i' th' country; for
    you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right
    virtue of the medlar.

  TOUCHSTONE. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest
    judge.

                      Enter CELIA, with a writing

  ROSALIND. Peace!
    Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.

  CELIA.   'Why should this a desert be?
             For it is unpeopled? No;
           Tongues I'll hang on every tree
             That shall civil sayings show.
           Some, how brief the life of man
             Runs his erring pilgrimage,
           That the streching of a span
             Buckles in his sum of age;
           Some, of violated vows
             'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;
           But upon the fairest boughs,
             Or at every sentence end,
           Will I Rosalinda write,
             Teaching all that read to know
           The quintessence of every sprite
             Heaven would in little show.
           Therefore heaven Nature charg'd
             That one body should be fill'd
           With all graces wide-enlarg'd.
             Nature presently distill'd
           Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
             Cleopatra's majesty,
           Atalanta's better part,
             Sad Lucretia's modesty.
           Thus Rosalinde of many parts
             By heavenly synod was devis'd,
           Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
             To have the touches dearest priz'd.
           Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
           And I to live and die her slave.'

  ROSALIND. O most gentle pulpiter! What tedious homily of love have
    you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have
    patience, good people.'

  CELIA. How now! Back, friends; shepherd, go off a little; go with
    him, sirrah.

  TOUCHSTONE. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;

    though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
                                     Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

  CELIA. Didst thou hear these verses?

  ROSALIND. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them
    had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

  CELIA. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.

  ROSALIND. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves
    without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

  CELIA. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be
    hang'd and carved upon these trees?

  ROSALIND. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you
    came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so
    berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat,
    which I can hardly remember.

  CELIA. Trow you who hath done this?

  ROSALIND. Is it a man?

  CELIA. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
    Change you colour?

  ROSALIND. I prithee, who?

  CELIA. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but
    mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.

  ROSALIND. Nay, but who is it?

  CELIA. Is it possible?

  ROSALIND. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell
    me who it is.

  CELIA. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet
    again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!

  ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am
    caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my
    disposition? One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery.
    I prithee tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would
    thou could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd man
    out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle-
    either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork
    out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.

  CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly.

  ROSALIND. Is he of God's making? What manner of man?
    Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard?

  CELIA. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

  ROSALIND. Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful.
    Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the
    knowledge of his chin.

  CELIA. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels
    and your heart both in an instant.

  ROSALIND. Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true
    maid.

  CELIA. I' faith, coz, 'tis he.

  ROSALIND. Orlando?

  CELIA. Orlando.

  ROSALIND. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?
    What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he?
    Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where
    remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him
    again? Answer me in one word.

  CELIA. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first; 'tis a word too
    great for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to these
    particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

  ROSALIND. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's
    apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

  CELIA. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the
    propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and
    relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a
    dropp'd acorn.

  ROSALIND. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth
    such fruit.

  CELIA. Give me audience, good madam.

  ROSALIND. Proceed.

  CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd along like a wounded knight.

  ROSALIND. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes
    the ground.

  CELIA. Cry 'Holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets
    unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter.

  ROSALIND. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

  CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring'st me out
    of tune.

  ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.
    Sweet, say on.

  CELIA. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?

                   Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES

  ROSALIND. 'Tis he; slink by, and note him.

  JAQUES. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as
    lief have been myself alone.

  ORLANDO. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too
    for your society.

  JAQUES. God buy you; let's meet as little as we can.

  ORLANDO. I do desire we may be better strangers.

  JAQUES. I pray you mar no more trees with writing love songs in
    their barks.

  ORLANDO. I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them
    ill-favouredly.

  JAQUES. Rosalind is your love's name?

  ORLANDO. Yes, just.

  JAQUES. I do not like her name.

  ORLANDO. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was
    christen'd.

  JAQUES. What stature is she of?

  ORLANDO. Just as high as my heart.

  JAQUES. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been
    acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd them out of rings?

  ORLANDO. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence
    you have studied your questions.

  JAQUES. You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of Atalanta's
    heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against
    our mistress the world, and all our misery.

  ORLANDO. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against
    whom I know most faults.

  JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love.

  ORLANDO. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am
    weary of you.

  JAQUES. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.

  ORLANDO. He is drown'd in the brook; look but in, and you shall see
    him.

  JAQUES. There I shall see mine own figure.

  ORLANDO. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

  JAQUES. I'll tarry no longer with you; farewell, good Signior Love.

  ORLANDO. I am glad of your departure; adieu, good Monsieur
    Melancholy.
                                                     Exit JAQUES

  ROSALIND. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey,
    and under that habit play the knave with him.- Do you hear,
    forester?

  ORLANDO. Very well; what would you?

  ROSALIND. I pray you, what is't o'clock?

  ORLANDO. You should ask me what time o' day; there's no clock in
    the forest.

  ROSALIND. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing
    every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot
    of Time as well as a clock.

  ORLANDO. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as
    proper?

  ROSALIND. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with
    divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time
    trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still
    withal.

  ORLANDO. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

  ROSALIND. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the
    contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the
    interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems
    the length of seven year.

  ORLANDO. Who ambles Time withal?

  ROSALIND. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath
    not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study,
    and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one
    lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other
    knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles
    withal.

  ORLANDO. Who doth he gallop withal?

  ROSALIND. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly
    as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

  ORLANDO. Who stays it still withal?

  ROSALIND. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term
    and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.

  ORLANDO. Where dwell you, pretty youth?

  ROSALIND. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of
    the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

  ORLANDO. Are you native of this place?

  ROSALIND. As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.

  ORLANDO. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in
    so removed a dwelling.

  ROSALIND. I have been told so of many; but indeed an old religious
    uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland
    man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love.
    I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I
    am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as he
    hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.

  ORLANDO. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid
    to the charge of women?

  ROSALIND. There were none principal; they were all like one another
    as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his
    fellow-fault came to match it.

  ORLANDO. I prithee recount some of them.

  ROSALIND. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are
    sick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our young
    plants with carving 'Rosalind' on their barks; hangs odes upon
    hawthorns and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the
    name of Rosalind. If I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give
    him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love
    upon him.

  ORLANDO. I am he that is so love-shak'd; I pray you tell me your
    remedy.

  ROSALIND. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me
    how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you
    are not prisoner.

  ORLANDO. What were his marks?

  ROSALIND. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken,
    which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not;
    a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that,
    for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue.
    Then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your
    sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe untied, and every thing about you
    demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you
    are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself
    than seeming the lover of any other.

  ORLANDO. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

  ROSALIND. Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love
    believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess
    she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give
    the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that
    hangs the verses on the trees wherein Rosalind is so admired?

  ORLANDO. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I
    am that he, that unfortunate he.

  ROSALIND. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

  ORLANDO. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

  ROSALIND. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as
    well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why
    they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so
    ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing
    it by counsel.

  ORLANDO. Did you ever cure any so?

  ROSALIND. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his
    love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me; at which
    time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate,
    changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish,
    shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every
    passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and
    women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like
    him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now
    weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his
    mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to
    forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook
    merely monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take
    upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart,
    that there shall not be one spot of love in 't.

  ORLANDO. I would not be cured, youth.

  ROSALIND. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and
    come every day to my cote and woo me.

  ORLANDO. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.

  ROSALIND. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and, by the way,
    you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

  ORLANDO. With all my heart, good youth.

  ROSALIND. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you
    go?                                                   Exeunt

Orlando runs through the Forest of Ardenne, mad with love. He hangs poems that he has composed in Rosalind's honor on every tree, hoping that passersby will see her "virtue witnessed everywhere". Corin and Touchstone enter, but are too engrossed in a conversation about the relative merits of court and country life to pay attention to Orlando's verses. Corin argues that polite manners at court are of no consequence in the country. Touchstone asks him to provide evidence to support this thesis and then challenges the shepherd's reasoning. Rosalind enters, disguised as Ganymede. She reads one of Orlando's poems, which compares her to a priceless jewel. Touchstone mocks the verse, claiming that he could easily churn out a comparable succession of rhymes. He does so with couplets that liken Rosalind to a cat in heat, a thorny rose, and a prostitute who is transported to the pillory on a cart. Rosalind rebukes Touchstone for his meddling. Just then, Celia enters disguised as the shepherdess Aliena. She, too, has found one of Orlando's verses and reads it aloud. The women agree that the verses are terribly written, yet Rosalind is eager to learn the identity of their author. Celia teases her friend, hesitating to reveal this secret until Rosalind is nearly insane with anticipation. When Celia admits that Orlando has penned the poems, Rosalind can hardly believe it. Like a smitten schoolgirl, she asks a dozen questions about her intended lover, wanting to know everything from where he is to what he looks like. As Celia does her best to answer these questions, despite Rosalind's incessant interruptions, Orlando and Jaques enter. Hiding, the women eavesdrop on their conversation. Orlando and Jaques clearly do not care for one another's company and exchange a series of barbed insults. Jaques dislikes Orlando's sentimental love, declaring it the worst possible fault, while Orlando scoffs at Jaques's melancholy. Eager to part, Jaques walks off into the forest, leaving Orlando alone. Rosalind decides to confront Orlando. She approaches him as the young man Ganymede, and speaks of a man that has been carving the name Rosalind on the trees. Orlando insists that he is the man so "love-shaked" and begs her for a "remedy". She claims to recognize the symptoms of those who have fallen under the spell of true love, and assures Orlando that he exhibits none of them. He is, she says, too neatly dressed to be madly in love. She promises to cure him if he promises to woo Ganymede as though Ganymede were Rosalind. As Ganymede, Rosalind vows to make the very idea of love unappealing to Orlando by acting the part of a fickle lover. Orlando is quite sure he is beyond cure, but Rosalind says, "I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cot, and woo me". With all his heart, Orlando agrees


SCENE III.

The forest

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind

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

  AUDREY. Your features! Lord warrant us! What features?

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

  JAQUES. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a
    thatch'd house!

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

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

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

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

  TOUCHSTONE. I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou art honest;
    now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst
    feign.

  AUDREY. Would you not have me honest?

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

  JAQUES. [Aside] A material fool!

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

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

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

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

  JAQUES. [Aside] I would fain see this meeting.

  AUDREY. Well, the gods give us joy!

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

                       Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT

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

  MARTEXT. Is there none here to give the woman?

  TOUCHSTONE. I will not take her on gift of any man.

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

  JAQUES. [Discovering himself] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.

  TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master What-ye-call't; how do you, sir?
    You are very well met. Goddild you for your last company. I am
    very glad to see you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be
    cover'd.

  JAQUES. Will you be married, motley?

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

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

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

  JAQUES. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

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

  MARTEXT. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all
    shall flout me out of my calling.                       Exit

Touchstone and a goatherd named Audrey wander through the forest, while Jaques follows behind them, eavesdropping. Touchstone laments that the gods have not made Audrey "poetical". Were she a lover of poetry, she would appreciate the falsehoods of which all lovers are guilty and would be dishonest, a quality that Touchstone prefers she possess. His reason behind encouraging her dishonesty is that to have beauty and honesty together, as he claims he does in Audrey, is "to have honey a sauce to sugar". Nevertheless, Touchstone has arranged to marry Audrey in the forest with Sir Oliver Martext, a vicar from a nearby village, officiating. Touchstone determines that many wives cheat on their husbands, but claims that the horns of cuckoldry are nothing of which to be ashamed. Oliver Martext arrives to perform the wedding ceremony and insists that someone "give the woman" so that the ceremony is "lawful". Jaques offers his services but convinces Touchstone that he should marry in a proper church. The clown counters that a nonchurch wedding will make for an ill marriage and that an ill marriage will make it easier for him to abandon his wife, but in the end he acquiesces. Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey leave the rather bewildered vicar alone in the forest

Act III, scenes iii-v Although we learn of the romance between Audrey and Touchstone rather late in the game, the relationship is important to the play for many reasons. First, it produces laughs because of the incongruities between the two lovers. Touchstone delights in words and verbiage. He obsesses over them, wrings multiple--and often bawdy--meanings from them, and usually ends up tangling himself and others in them. That he chooses to wed Audrey, a simple goatherd who fails to comprehend the most basic vocabulary--the words "features," "poetical," and "foul" are all beyond her grasp--ensures the laughable absurdity of their exchange . Indeed, the play offers few moments more outrageous than Audrey's declaration of virtue: "I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul" .  The rustic romance between Audrey and Touchstone also provides a pointed contrast with the flowery, verbose love of Silvius for Phoebe or Orlando for Rosalind. Whereas Phoebe and Silvius are caught up in the poetics of love--with the man in agonizing pursuit of an unattainable but, to his mind, perfect lover--the attraction between Touchstone and Audrey is far from idealized. Indeed, if Audrey cannot grasp the meaning of the word "poetical," there is little hope that she will be able to fulfill the part dictated to her by literary convention. Ideals have little to do with Touchstone's affections for Audrey. By his own admission, the clown's passions are much easier to understand. In explaining to Jaques his decision to marry Audrey, Touchstone says, "As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires" . Here, Touchstone equates his sexual desire to various restraining devices for animals. Sexual gratification, or "nibbling," to use Touchstone's phrase, will keep his otherwise untamed passions in check . Although Silvius and Phoebe's and Touchstone and Audrey's are two very different kinds of love relationships, taken together they form a complete satire of the two major influences on the play---pastoralism and courtly love. In pastoral literature, city dwellers take to the country in order to commune with and learn valuable lessons from its inhabitants. Audrey represents a truly rural individual, uncorrupted by the politics of court life, but she is, in all respects, far from ideal. In her supreme want of intelligence, Audrey shows the absurd unreality of the pastoral ideal of eloquent shepherds and shepherdesses. Silvius aspires to such eloquence and nearly achieves it, and his poetic plea for Phoebe's mercy conforms to the conventions of the distraught but always lyrically precise lover. But Phoebe exposes the absurdity of Silvius's lines by dragging romance into the harsh, unforgiving light of reality. When taken literally, his insistence that his lover's eyes are his "executioner"  seems hopelessly lame when Phoebe demands, "Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee" .  If Audrey and Touchstone's and Phoebe and Silvius's relationships stand at opposite ends of the romance continuum, then -Rosalind, in her courtship of Orlando, struggles to find a more livable middle ground. Although Phoebe wisely points out the literal flaws in Silvius's verse, she cannot help falling into the same trap herself regarding Ganymede. In the entire play, only Rosalind can appreciate both the ideal and the real. Although she possesses the unflinching vision required to chastise Phoebe for her cruelty and Silvius for his blindness to it, she cannot help but indulge in the absurdity of romantic love, allowing herself to have a fit over Orlando's tardiness. This inconsistency may explain why Rosalind is such a seductive, winning character: in her ability to experience and appreciate all emotions, she appeals to everyone.


SCENE IV.

The forest

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

  ROSALIND. Never talk to me; I will weep.

  CELIA. Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears
    do not become a man.

  ROSALIND. But have I not cause to weep?

  CELIA. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

  ROSALIND. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

  CELIA. Something browner than Judas's.
    Marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

  ROSALIND. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.

  CELIA. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.

  ROSALIND. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of
    holy bread.

  CELIA. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of
    winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of
    chastity is in them.

  ROSALIND. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and
    comes not?

  CELIA. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

  ROSALIND. Do you think so?

  CELIA. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but
    for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as covered
    goblet or a worm-eaten nut.

  ROSALIND. Not true in love?

  CELIA. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.

  ROSALIND. You have heard him swear downright he was.

  CELIA. 'Was' is not 'is'; besides, the oath of a lover is no
    stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer
    of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke,
    your father.

  ROSALIND. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him.
    He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as
    he; so he laugh'd and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when
    there is such a man as Orlando?

  CELIA. O, that's a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave
    words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite
    traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that
    spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble
    goose. But all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides.
    Who comes here?

                         Enter CORIN

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

  CELIA. Well, and what of him?

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

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

Orlando has failed to show up for his morning appointment with Ganymede, the disguised Rosalind, and she is distraught. She wants desperately to weep. Rosalind compares Orlando's hair to that of the infamous betrayer of Christ, Judas. Celia insists that Orlando's hair is browner than Judas's, and Rosalind agrees, slowly convincing herself that her lover is no traitor. Celia, however, then suggests that in matters of love, there is little truth in Orlando. A lover's oath, Celia reasons, is of no more account than that of a bartender. Corin enters and interrupts the women's conversation. He explains that the young shepherd, Silvius, whose complaints about the tribulations of love Rosalind and Celia witness earlier, has decided to woo and win Phoebe. Corin invites the women to see the "pageant" of a hopeless lover and the scornful object of his desire, and Rosalind heads off to see the scene play out. Indeed, she determines to do more than watch--she plans to intervene in the affair


SCENE V.

Another part of the forest

Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE

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

          Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance

  PHEBE. I would not be thy executioner;
    I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
    Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye.
    'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
    That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
    Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
    Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
    Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;
    And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.
    Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;
    Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
    Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
    Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
    Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
    Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,
    The cicatrice and capable impressure
    Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,
    Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
    Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes
    That can do hurt.

  SILVIUS. O dear Phebe,
    If ever- as that ever may be near-
    You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
    Then shall you know the wounds invisible
    That love's keen arrows make.

  PHEBE. But till that time
    Come not thou near me; and when that time comes,
    Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
    As till that time I shall not pity thee.

  ROSALIND. [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your
      mother,
    That you insult, exult, and all at once,
    Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty-
    As, by my faith, I see no more in you
    Than without candle may go dark to bed-
    Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
    Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
    I see no more in you than in the ordinary
    Of nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life,
    I think she means to tangle my eyes too!
    No faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
    'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
    Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
    That can entame my spirits to your worship.
    You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
    Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
    You are a thousand times a properer man
    Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you
    That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children.
    'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
    And out of you she sees herself more proper
    Than any of her lineaments can show her.
    But, mistress, know yourself. Down on your knees,
    And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love;
    For I must tell you friendly in your ear:
    Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
    Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer;
    Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
    So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

  PHEBE. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
    I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

  ROSALIND. He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fall
    in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee
    with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look
    you so upon me?

  PHEBE. For no ill will I bear you.

  ROSALIND. I pray you do not fall in love with me,
    For I am falser than vows made in wine;
    Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
    'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.
    Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard.
    Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,
    And be not proud; though all the world could see,
    None could be so abus'd in sight as he.
    Come, to our flock.        Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN

  PHEBE. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
    'Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?'

  SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe.

  PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?

  SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

  PHEBE. Why, I arn sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

  SILVIUS. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be.
    If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
    By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
    Were both extermin'd.

  PHEBE. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?

  SILVIUS. I would have you.

  PHEBE. Why, that were covetousness.
    Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;
    And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
    But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
    Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
    I will endure; and I'll employ thee too.
    But do not look for further recompense
    Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

  SILVIUS. So holy and so perfect is my love,
    And I in such a poverty of grace,
    That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
    To glean the broken ears after the man
    That the main harvest reaps; loose now and then
    A scatt'red smile, and that I'll live upon.

  PHEBE. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

  SILVIUS. Not very well; but I have met him oft;
    And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
    That the old carlot once was master of.

  PHEBE. Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
    'Tis but a peevish 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, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him.
    He'll make a proper man. The best thing in him
    Is his complexion; and faster 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 so-so; and yet 'tis well.
    There was a pretty redness in his lip,
    A little riper and more lusty red
    Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
    Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
    There be some women, Silvius, 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 rememb'red, scorn'd at me.
    I marvel why I answer'd not again;
    But that's all one: omittance is no quittance.
    I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
    And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius?

  SILVIUS. Phebe, with all my heart.

  PHEBE. I'll write it straight;
    The matter's in my head and in my heart;
    I will be bitter with him and passing short.
    Go with me, Silvius.                                  Exeunt

Silvius has confessed his love to Phoebe, but his words fall on hostile ears. As the scene opens, he pleads with her not to reject him so bitterly, lest she prove worse than the "common executioner," who has enough decency to ask forgiveness of those he kills. Rosalind and Celia, both still disguised, enter along with Corin to watch Phoebe's cruel response. Phoebe mocks Silvius's hyperbolic language, asking why he fails to fall down if her eyes are the murderers he claims them to be. Silvius assures her that the wounds of love are invisible, but Phoebe insists that the shepherd not approach her again until she too can feel these invisible wounds. Rosalind steps out from her hiding place and begins to berate Phoebe, proclaiming that the shepherdess is no great beauty and should consider herself lucky to win Silvius's love. Confronted by what appears to be a handsome young man who treats her as harshly as she treats Silvius, Phoebe instantly falls in love with Ganymede. Rosalind, realizing this infatuation, mocks Phoebe further. Rosalind and Celia depart, and Phoebe employs Silvius, who can talk so well of love, to help her pursue Ganymede. Phoebe claims that she does not love Ganymede and wonders why she failed to defend herself against such criticism. She determines to write him "a very taunting letter," and orders Silvius to deliver it


ACT IV. SCENE I.

The forest

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES

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

  ROSALIND. They say you are a melancholy fellow.

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

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

  JAQUES. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

  ROSALIND. Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

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

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

  JAQUES. Yes, I have gain'd my experience.

                        Enter ORLANDO

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

  ORLANDO. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

  JAQUES. Nay, then, God buy you, an you talk in blank verse.

  ROSALIND. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp and wear
    strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be
    out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making
    you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have
    swam in a gondola. [Exit JAQUES] Why, how now, Orlando! where
    have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such
    another trick, never come in my sight more.

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

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

  ORLANDO. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

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

  ORLANDO. Of a snail!

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

  ORLANDO. What's that?

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

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

  ROSALIND. And I am your Rosalind.

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

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

  ORLANDO. I would kiss before I spoke.

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

  ORLANDO. How if the kiss be denied?

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

  ORLANDO. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

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

  ORLANDO. What, of my suit?

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

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

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

  ORLANDO. Then, in mine own person, I die.

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

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

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

  ORLANDO. Then love me, Rosalind.

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

  ORLANDO. And wilt thou have me?

  ROSALIND. Ay, and twenty such.

  ORLANDO. What sayest thou?

  ROSALIND. Are you not good?

  ORLANDO. I hope so.

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

  ORLANDO. Pray thee, marry us.

  CELIA. I cannot say the words.

  ROSALIND. You must begin 'Will you, Orlando'-

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

  ORLANDO. I will.

  ROSALIND. Ay, but when?

  ORLANDO. Why, now; as fast as she can marry us.

  ROSALIND. Then you must say 'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.'

  ORLANDO. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

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

  ORLANDO. So do all thoughts; they are wing'd.

  ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have
    possess'd her.

  ORLANDO. For ever and a day.

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

  ORLANDO. But will my Rosalind do so?

  ROSALIND. By my life, she will do as I do.

  ORLANDO. O, but she is wise.

  ROSALIND. Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser,
    the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out
    at the casement; shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole; stop
    that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

  ORLANDO. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say 'Wit,
    whither wilt?' ROSALIND. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your
    wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.

  ORLANDO. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

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

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

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

  ORLANDO. I must attend the Duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be
    with thee again.

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

  ORLANDO. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

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

  ORLANDO. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my
    Rosalind; so, adieu.

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

  CELIA. You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate. We must
    have your doublet and hose pluck'd over your head, and show the
    world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

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

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

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

  CELIA. And I'll sleep.                                  Exeunt

Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Jaques approaches Rosalind, who is still in her disguise as Ganymede, wishing to become better acquainted. Rosalind criticizes Jaques for the extremity of his melancholy. When Jaques claims that "'tis good to be sad and say nothing," Rosalind compares such activity to being "a post". Jaques defends himself, outlining for Rosalind the unique composition of his sadness, but Rosalind gets the better of him and he departs. Orlando arrives an hour late for his lesson in love. As agreed, he addresses Ganymede as if the young man were his beloved Rosalind and asks her to forgive his tardiness. Rosalind refuses, insisting that a true lover could not bear to squander "a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love". She goes on to suggest that Orlando's love is worse than a snail's, for though a snail comes slowly, he carries his house on his back. Eventually, though, Rosalind relents and invites Orlando to woo her. The lesson begins: when he says that he desires to kiss her before speaking, she suggests that he save his kiss for the moment when conversation lags. What, Orlando worries, should he do if his kiss is denied. Rosalind reassures him that a denied kiss would only give him "new matter" to discuss with his lover. When Rosalind refuses his affections, Orlando claims he will die. She responds that, despite the poet's romantic imagination, no man in the entire history of the world has died from a love-related cause. Rosalind then changes her mood, assuming a "more coming-on disposition". She accepts and returns Orlando's declarations of love and urges Celia to play the part of a priest and marry them. Rosalind reminds Orlando that women often become disagreeable after marriage, but Orlando does not believe this truism of his love. He begs leave in order to dine with Duke Senior, promising to return within two hours. Rosalind teasingly chastises him for parting with her but warns him not to be a minute late in keeping his promise. After Orlando departs, Celia berates Rosalind for so badly characterizing the female sex. Rosalind responds by exclaiming how vast her love for Orlando has grown. Only Cupid, she says, can fathom the depth of her affection

Act IV, scenes i-ii When Rosalind chastises Jaques for his oppressively melancholy ramblings, her words serve as a general criticism of the extremes to which the characters go in the play. Jaques admits that he is indeed the "melancholy fellow" of whom Rosalind has heard tell, and Rosalind upbraids him by saying, "Those that are in extremity of either  are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards" . Here, Rosalind speaks out not only against Jaques's willful sadness, but against the myriad excesses found around her. From Silvius's whimpering devotion to Phoebe's hauteur, to the crudely physical attraction of Audrey and Touchstone, to Jaques's melancholy, every type of extreme behavior in As You Like It is subject to mockery.  It is a testament to the clarity of Rosalind's vision that she does not spare herself or Orlando from this condemnation of extremes. When Orlando claims that he will die of love, Rosalind disproves him with one of the play's most famous and delightful speeches. Her insistence that literature has misrepresented and unduly romanticized the world's greatest lovers is a stringent antidote to Orlando's mewling, and supports Touchstone's earlier observation that "the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry it may be said, as lovers, they do feign" . After dismantling Orlando's model of love, Rosalind goes on to assail the men who follow the model, claiming that the greatest romantics are transformed by marriage into inattentive, uncaring dictators. In addition to the jesting, there is a serious element of self-preservation in Rosalind's famous observation that "men are April when they woo, December when they wed" . When, on two occasions, Orlando is late for their appointment, Rosalind fears that her lover's devotion might not be steadfast, but she also knows that the thrill of romance is short-lived. Over time, love weathers and even dulls, an unhappy but inevitable truth that only Rosalind stops to consider: "the sky changes," she admits, "when  are wives" . Rosalind might be construed as a spoilsport, out to ruin everyone else's fun by exposing the crumbling foundations of their love fantasies, but there is much more to her than this simplistic interpretation. Certainly, even her closest confidante Celia misunderstands her, claiming that Rosalind, in her attempts to drain the excess of Orlando's romanticism, has succeeded in disparaging the entire female sex. Rosalind's goal is less to represent the female gender than to show Orlando that, just as there is no such thing as a perfect and heroic love, there is also no such thing as an ideal and ideally worthy woman. By stripping Orlando and herself of the ideals that preoccupy him, Rosalind prepares them both for love in the real world, for a love that strikes a balance between the transcendent and the familiar, and for a love that blends the loftiness of Silvius's poetry with the baseness of Touchstone's desires. Thus, Rosalind's attacks on Orlando's idea of love are not an attack on love itself. After all, Rosalind herself is clearly and deeply in love. Her attempts to furnish Orlando with a more realistic understanding of love are a means of ensuring that their relationship will thrive in a world less enchanted than Ardenne.


SCENE II.

The forest

        Enter JAQUES and LORDS, in the habit of foresters

  JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer?

  LORD. Sir, it was I.

  JAQUES. Let's present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror; and
    it would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head for a
    branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?

  LORD. Yes, sir.

  JAQUES. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise
    enough.

                    SONG.

      What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
      His leather skin and horns to wear.
                              [The rest shall hear this burden:]
           Then sing him home.

      Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;
      It was a crest ere thou wast born.
           Thy father's father wore it;
           And thy father bore it.
      The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
      Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.                   Exeunt

Jaques and some of Duke Senior's loyal followers kill a deer and decide to present it to the duke. They plan to set the animal's horns upon the hunter's head as a crown of victory. Jaques asks the men to sing a song that fits the occasion. They launch into a tune about cuckoldry, which is symbolized by a man with horns on his head. The song proclaims that cuckoldry is timeless and borne by all men, and thus it is not something of which to be ashamed


SCENE III.

The forest

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA

  ROSALIND. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock?
    And here much Orlando!

  CELIA. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath
    ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth- to sleep. Look, who
    comes here.

                      Enter SILVIUS

  SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth;
    My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this.
    I know not the contents; but, as I guess
    By the stern brow and waspish action
    Which she did use as she was writing of it,
    It bears an angry tenour. Pardon me,
    I am but as a guiltless messenger.

  ROSALIND. Patience herself would startle at this letter,
    And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all.
    She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;
    She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,
    Were man as rare as Phoenix. 'Od's my will!
    Her love is not the hare that I do hunt;
    Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
    This is a letter of your own device.

  SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents;
    Phebe did write it.

  ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool,
    And turn'd into the extremity of love.
    I saw her hand; she has a leathern hand,
    A freestone-colour'd hand; I verily did think
    That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;
    She has a huswife's hand- but that's no matter.
    I say she never did invent this letter:
    This is a man's invention, and his hand.

  SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers.

  ROSALIND. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style;
    A style for challengers. Why, she defies me,
    Like Turk to Christian. Women's gentle brain
    Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
    Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect
    Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

  SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet;
    Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

  ROSALIND. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.
                                                         [Reads]

            'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
            That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?'

    Can a woman rail thus?

  SILVIUS. Call you this railing?

  ROSALIND. 'Why, thy godhead laid apart,
             Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?'

    Did you ever hear such railing?

            'Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
            That could do no vengeance to me.'

    Meaning me a beast.

            'If the scorn of your bright eyne
            Have power to raise such love in mine,
            Alack, in me what strange effect
            Would they work in mild aspect!
            Whiles you chid me, I did love;
            How then might your prayers move!
            He that brings this love to the
            Little knows this love in me;
            And by him seal up thy mind,
            Whether that thy youth and kind
            Will the faithful offer take
            Of me and all that I can make;
            Or else by him my love deny,
            And then I'll study how to die.'

  SILVIUS. Call you this chiding?

  CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd!

  ROSALIND. Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love
    such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument, and play false
    strains upon thee! Not to be endur'd! Well, go your way to her,
    for I see love hath made thee tame snake, and say this to her-
    that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not,
    I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a
    true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes more company.
                                                    Exit SILVIUS

                         Enter OLIVER

  OLIVER. Good morrow, fair ones; pray you, if you know,
    Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
    A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?

  CELIA. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom.
    The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream
    Left on your right hand brings you to the place.
    But at this hour the house doth keep itself;
    There's none within.

  OLIVER. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
    Then should I know you by description-
    Such garments, and such years: 'The boy is fair,
    Of female favour, and bestows himself
    Like a ripe sister; the woman low,
    And browner than her brother.' Are not you
    The owner of the house I did inquire for?

  CELIA. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.

  OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both;
    And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
    He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

  ROSALIND. I am. What must we understand by this?

  OLIVER. Some of my shame; if you will know of me
    What man I am, and how, and why, and where,
    This handkercher was stain'd.

  CELIA. I pray you, tell it.

  OLIVER. When last the young Orlando parted from you,
    He left a promise to return again
    Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,
    Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
    Lo, what befell! He threw his eye aside,
    And mark what object did present itself.
    Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,
    And high top bald with dry antiquity,
    A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
    Lay sleeping on his back. About his neck
    A green and gilded snake had wreath'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 slip away
    Into a bush; under which bush's shade
    A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
    Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,
    When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis
    The royal disposition of that beast
    To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead.
    This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
    And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

  CELIA. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;
    And he did render him the most unnatural
    That liv'd amongst men.

  OLIVER. And well he might so do,
    For well I know he was unnatural.

  ROSALIND. But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,
    Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

  OLIVER. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so;
    But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
    And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
    Made him give battle to the lioness,
    Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling
    From miserable slumber I awak'd.

  CELIA. Are you his brother?

  ROSALIND. Was't you he rescu'd?

  CELIA. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

  OLIVER. 'Twas I; but 'tis not I. I do not shame
    To tell you what I was, since my conversion
    So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

  ROSALIND. But for the bloody napkin?

  OLIVER. By and by.
    When from the first to last, betwixt us two,
    Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,
    As how I came into that desert place-
    In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke,
    Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
    Committing me unto my brother's love;
    Who led me instantly unto his cave,
    There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
    The lioness had torn some flesh away,
    Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,
    And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
    Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound,
    And, after some small space, being strong at heart,
    He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
    To tell this story, that you might excuse
    His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
    Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd youth
    That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
                                               [ROSALIND swoons]

  CELIA. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

  OLIVER. Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

  CELIA. There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede!

  OLIVER. Look, he recovers.

  ROSALIND. I would I were at home.

  CELIA. We'll lead you thither.
    I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

  OLIVER. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man!
    You lack a man's heart.

  ROSALIND. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think
    this was well counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how
    well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho!

  OLIVER. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimony in
    your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.

  ROSALIND. Counterfeit, I assure you.

  OLIVER. Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.

  ROSALIND. So I do; but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by
    right.

  CELIA. Come, you look paler and paler; pray you draw homewards.
    Good sir, go with us.

  OLIVER. That will I, for I must bear answer back
    How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

  ROSALIND. I shall devise something; but, I pray you, commend my
    counterfeiting to him. Will you go?                   Exeunt

Rosalind and Celia, still in disguise, briefly discuss Orlando's tardiness. Two hours have passed, and he has not returned, as promised, to resume his love lessons. Silvius interrupts in order to deliver a letter to Ganymede. It is from Phoebe and, after he turns it over, Silvius warns the disguised Rosalind that its tone is harsh. Phoebe, he admits, looked very angry when she penned it. Rosalind scans the letter and reports that Phoebe judges Ganymede to be a young man without looks or manners. She then accuses Silvius of writing the letter himself, which he vehemently denies. Rosalind asserts that no woman could have written such a rude and defiant letter. To prove herself, she reads the letter aloud, but it turns out to be full of unabashedly romantic declarations, comparing Ganymede to a god who has destroyed Phoebe's heart. Baffled, Silvius asks if this language is what Ganymede calls chiding. Celia offers her pity to the shepherd, but Rosalind says he deserves none for loving such a woman as Phoebe. She sends Silvius back to Phoebe with the message that Ganymede will never love Phoebe unless Phoebe loves Silvius. As Silvius leaves, Oliver enters. He asks for directions to Ganymede and Aliena's cottage. Then, looking over the pair, who are still in disguise, he asks if they are the brother and sister who own that property. When they admit that they are, Oliver remarks that his brother Orlando's description of the pair was very accurate. To Ganymede, Oliver delivers a bloody handkerchief on Orlando's behalf. Rosalind asks what has happened. Oliver tells a lengthy story: soon after leaving Ganymede, Orlando stumbled upon a ragged man asleep in the forest, who was being preyed upon by a "green and gilded snake" . Orlando succeeded in scaring the snake away, only to see a hungry lioness emerge from the underbrush. Orlando approached the ragged man, and recognized him as his brother. Orlando's first impulse was to let Oliver, who treated him so abominably, perish in the lion's jaws, but his nobler nature would not allow it. He fought off the lion, wounding his shoulder but ultimately saving Oliver's life. Orlando's kind and selfless gesture have transformed Oliver into a new man, and the elder brother confesses that he is ashamed of his former self. He continues, saying that he and Orlando made amends and went to see the duke. There, Orlando fainted, having lost a great deal of blood in his fight with the lioness. Before passing out completely, he charged Oliver to deliver an apology to Ganymede in the form of a bloodstained handkerchief. Upon hearing this story, Rosalind faints dead away. Celia and Oliver help her recover, and Oliver remarks that young Ganymede "lack a man's heart" . Rosalind begs Oliver to impress upon Orlando how well she "counterfeited" a suitable reaction to his injury, in accordance with their lessons . Oliver protests that her reaction must be genuine, for her face is flushed. Rosalind, however, assures him that she was merely playing a part.

In Act IV, scene iii, the play takes two important steps toward its resolution. First, Rosalind begins to tire of the game she plays. Her disguise as Ganymede allows her a number of freedoms that she could not enjoy as a woman: she can leave court, travel safely into the forest, express sexual desire, and initiate a romantic courtship. But her disguise also has its limitations. After all, it disables her from consummating her relationship with Orlando, and Rosalind does not relish the idea of acting out the indefinitely protracted desire depicted in Petrarch's love poetry. If Orlando were willing to test the bounds of their fiction and have sex with Ganymede, he would discover Rosalind's true identity. Even if Orlando already suspects that Ganymede is Rosalind, as some critics suggest he must, he could not very well pursue a sexual relationship with her unless they were properly married. To do so would be to compromise Rosalind's virtue and denigrate her incomparably delightful character. Besides, Rosalind's disguise is meant to be temporary yet powerful, just like the temporary yet critical move to Ardenne. As noted previously, Elizabethans placed a great importance upon outward markers of identity such as dress and behavior. A cross-dressing woman presents a very amusing spectacle temporarily, but the ruse cannot be maintained indefinitely. Such a sustained subversion of the social order would bring chaos, and Shakespeare takes care to remind us that a woman in man's clothing is still a woman, returning to his Elizabethan audience's expectations of gendered behavior. For example, upon hearing of Orlando's trial with the lioness, Rosalind faints, prompting Oliver to remark that she lacks "a man's heart" , to which she responds, "So I do; but, i'faith, I should have been a woman by right" . This call and response signals to the audience that the game is still a game, that Ganymede is little more than a pair of pants, and that Rosalind, though smart enough to avoid temporarily her proper place in society, is ultimately willing to resume it. The arrival of Oliver offers a second movement toward resolution. When the previously evil Oliver steps foot in Ardenne, he is transformed into the loving brother he never was before. This transformation speaks to the mutability of the human experience: people can change and, as As You Like It insists, can change for the better. Certainly this transformation has much to do with the movement from court into the country. Once removed from the politics and pressures of life at court, the obstacles, greed, and petty jealousies that separate the brothers dissolve. Although the play at several points satirizes the pastoral mode for its simplicity and unreality, here it indulges in the pastoral fantasy that nature can heal the wounds inflicted by the artificial and corrupt hierarchies of the man-made world.


ACT V. SCENE I.

The forest

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY

  TOUCHSTONE. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

  AUDREY. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old
    gentleman's saying.

  TOUCHSTONE. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext.
    But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to
    you.

  AUDREY. Ay, I know who 'tis; he hath no interest in me in the
    world; here comes the man you mean.

                         Enter WILLIAM

  TOUCHSTONE. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth,
    we that have good wits have much to answer for: we shall be
    flouting; we cannot hold.

  WILLIAM. Good ev'n, Audrey.

  AUDREY. God ye good ev'n, William.

  WILLIAM. And good ev'n to you, sir.

  TOUCHSTONE. Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy
    head; nay, prithee be cover'd. How old are you, friend?

  WILLIAM. Five and twenty, sir.

  TOUCHSTONE. A ripe age. Is thy name William?

  WILLIAM. William, sir.

  TOUCHSTONE. A fair name. Wast born i' th' forest here?

  WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I thank God.

  TOUCHSTONE. 'Thank God.' A good answer.
    Art rich?

  WILLIAM. Faith, sir, so so.

  TOUCHSTONE. 'So so' is good, very good, very excellent good; and
    yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise?

  WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

  TOUCHSTONE. Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying:
'The
    fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be
    a fool.' The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a
    grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning
    thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do
    love this maid?

  WILLIAM. I do, sir.

  TOUCHSTONE. Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

  WILLIAM. No, sir.

  TOUCHSTONE. Then learn this of me: to have is to have; for it is a
    figure in rhetoric that drink, being pour'd out of cup into a
    glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your
    writers do consent that ipse is he; now, you are not ipse, for I
    am he.

  WILLIAM. Which he, sir?

  TOUCHSTONE. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you
    clown, abandon- which is in the vulgar leave- the society-which
    in the boorish is company- of this female- which in the common is
    woman- which together is: abandon the society of this female; or,
    clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest;
    or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into
    death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee,
    or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction;
    will o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and
    fifty ways; therefore tremble and depart.

  AUDREY. Do, good William.

  WILLIAM. God rest you merry, sir.                         Exit

                          Enter CORIN

  CORIN. Our master and mistress seeks you; come away, away.

  TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. I attend, I attend.
                                                          Exeunt

Touchstone and Audrey wander through the forest discussing their postponed marriage. Audrey claims that the priest was qualified to perform the ceremony, regardless of Jaques's opinion. Switching topics, Touchstone mentions that there is a youth in the forest who loves Audrey. Just then, William, the youth in question, appears. Touchstone asks William if he is witty, and William responds that he is. Touchstone then asks if William is in love with Audrey. Again, the young man responds affirmatively. When Touchstone asks William if he is educated, William admits that he is not, and Touchstone sets out to teach him a lesson. o have is to have," he says, meaning that Audrey, to whom he is engaged, is not available to other men. He orders William to leave, employing an exhaustive list of synonyms so that the simple lad is sure to understand him. William exits, just as Corin enters to fetch the couple on Rosalind's behalf

Act V, scenes i-iii In the encounter between Touchstone and William, the sophistication of the court overwhelms the simplicity and ignorance of the country. But though Touchstone clearly defeats William in the country boy's attempt to win Audrey, his performance strikes us as farcical rather than triumphant. Touchstone may not be as ignorant as the uneducated country boy, but his inflated rhetoric makes him appear the more foolish of the two. Touchstone dazzles William with his city wit, for the lad lacks the means to see the ridiculousness of Touchstone's threats. But, to audiences watching Touchstone's tirade, the style and sophistication of the city may lose its luster.  In Act V, scene iii, Touchstone goes on to deflate the spiritually idealized brand of love. As the duke's pages sing a ballad that compares love to springtime, indulging every cliche from sweet lovers to trilling birds, Touchstone dismisses the song as senseless. His criticism recalls Rosalind's dismissal of literature's greatest lovers in Act IV, scene i, but it fails to convince. Whereas Rosalind's criticism seems imbued with a wide-ranging and generous understanding of the world, Touchstone's opinion seems narrow and begrudging. Although Touchstone is fundamentally correct in denying that love and budding springtime are one and the same, he remains blind to the song's undeniable beauty. Spring may not, in truth, be only a matter of "green cornfield" and a "hey ding-a-ding ding," but the song captures something of the truth--the nonsense, irrationality, and sheer beauty of being in love . One cannot expect Touchstone to see this splendor, given his rather myopic focus on the mechanics of sex. Again, his insight is most valuable as a contrast to that of Rosalind, who could well enjoy the page's song even as she absorbs its silliness.  Quick, irrational love is contagious in the Forest of Ardenne, as evidenced by Oliver's head-over-heels involvement with the disguised Celia. At court, Oliver would have no cause to notice, let alone fall in love with, a common shepherdess, but in Ardenne the injustices of class are cast aside for the sake of romance. Oliver's happy union brings about a swift end to Rosalind's game: she cannot stand to see her beloved Orlando jealous and unhappy, and so determines to hang up Ganymede's trousers. Her plan is quite clear as she strikes a marriage bargain with Phoebe, and we see the inevitability of a slew of weddings on the horizon. Some critics condemn the play at this point for what they see as a return to the normative social order that it has, thus far, delighted in subverting. As the close of the final act draws near, it is no surprise that the boys end up with the girls, and that life at court resumes, presumably, with its rigid class structures in place--in short, that all returns to normal.


SCENE II.

The forest

Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER

  ORLANDO. Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you should
    like her? that but seeing you should love her? and loving woo?
    and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoy
    her?

  OLIVER. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty
    of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden
    consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she
    loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It
    shall be to your good; for my father's house and all the revenue
    that was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and here live
    and die a shepherd.

  ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow.
    Thither will I invite the Duke and all's contented followers.
    Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

                        Enter ROSALIND

  ROSALIND. God save you, brother.

  OLIVER. And you, fair sister.                             Exit

  ROSALIND. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear
    thy heart in a scarf!

  ORLANDO. It is my arm.

  ROSALIND. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a
    lion.

  ORLANDO. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.

  ROSALIND. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon
    when he show'd me your handkercher?

  ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that.

  ROSALIND. O, I know where you are. Nay, 'tis true. There was never
    any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar's
    thrasonical brag of 'I came, saw, and overcame.' For your brother
    and my sister no sooner met but they look'd; no sooner look'd but
    they lov'd; no sooner lov'd but they sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd but
    they ask'd one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but
    they sought the remedy- and in these degrees have they made pair
    of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else
    be incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of

    love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them.

  ORLANDO. They shall be married to-morrow; and I will bid the Duke
    to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into
    happiness through another man's eyes! By so much the more shall I
    to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I
    shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.

  ROSALIND. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for
    Rosalind?

  ORLANDO. I can live no longer by thinking.

  ROSALIND. I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking.
    Know of me then- for now I speak to some purpose- that I know you are
    a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should
    bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you
    are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some
    little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and
    not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do
    strange things. I have, since I was three year old, convers'd
    with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable.
    If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries
    it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her.
    I know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not
    impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set
    her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any
    danger.

  ORLANDO. Speak'st thou in sober meanings?

  ROSALIND. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I
    am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your
    friends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to
    Rosalind, if you will.

                     Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE

    Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.

  PHEBE. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness
    To show the letter that I writ to you.

  ROSALIND. I care not if I have. It is my study
    To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.
    You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;
    Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

  PHEBE. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

  SILVIUS. It is to be all made of sighs and tears;
    And so am I for Phebe.

  PHEBE. And I for Ganymede.

  ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.

  ROSALIND. And I for no woman.

  SILVIUS. It is to be all made of faith and service;
    And so am I for Phebe.

  PHEBE. And I for Ganymede.

  ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.

  ROSALIND. And I for no woman.

  SILVIUS. It is to be all made of fantasy,
    All made of passion, and all made of wishes;
    All adoration, duty, and observance,
    All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
    All purity, all trial, all obedience;
    And so am I for Phebe.

  PHEBE. And so am I for Ganymede.

  ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind.

  ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman.

  PHEBE. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

  SILVIUS. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

  ORLANDO. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

  ROSALIND. Why do you speak too, 'Why blame you me to love you?'

  ORLANDO. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.

  ROSALIND. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish
    wolves against the moon. [To SILVIUS] I will help you if I can.
    [To PHEBE] I would love you if I could.- To-morrow meet me all
    together. [ To PHEBE ] I will marry you if ever I marry woman,
    and I'll be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if
    ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To
    Silvius] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and
    you shall be married to-morrow. [To ORLANDO] As you love
    Rosalind, meet. [To SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;- and as I
    love no woman, I'll meet. So, fare you well; I have left you
    commands.

  SILVIUS. I'll not fail, if I live.

  PHEBE. Nor I.

  ORLANDO. Nor I.                                         Exeunt

Orlando finds it hard to believe that Oliver has fallen so quickly and so completely in love with Aliena. Oliver vows that he has and pledges to turn over the entirety of his father's estate to Orlando once he and Aliena are married. Orlando gives his consent and orders a wedding prepared for the following day. Oliver leaves just as Rosalind, still disguised as Ganymede, arrives. Orlando confesses that though he is happy to see his brother in love, he is also pained to be without his Rosalind. Rosalind asks--with a hint of a sexual double entendre--if Ganymede cannot fill Rosalind's place, and Orlando admits that he has tired of wooing a young man in his lover's stead. Assuring Orlando that she can work magic, Rosalind promises that he will marry as he desires when Oliver takes Aliena for a bride. Just then, Phoebe and Silvius appear. Phoebe accuses Ganymede of "ungentleness," and Rosalind encourages her to devote her attentions to Silvius. The lovers take turns professing their various loves until Rosalind tells them to stop howling like "Irish wolves against the moon". She promises that Ganymede will marry Phoebe on the following day if Ganymede will ever marry a woman and makes everyone promise to meet the next day at the wedding. They all agree. The group parts until Oliver's wedding


SCENE III.

The forest

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY

  TOUCHSTONE. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audre'y; to-morrow will we
    be married.

  AUDREY. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no
    dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come
    two of the banish'd Duke's pages.

                            Enter two PAGES

  FIRST PAGE. Well met, honest gentleman.

  TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song.

  SECOND PAGE. We are for you; sit i' th' middle.

  FIRST PAGE. Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or
    spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues
    to a bad voice?

  SECOND PAGE. I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies
    on a horse.

                      SONG.
        It was a lover and his lass,
          With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
        That o'er the green corn-field did pass
          In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
        When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
        Sweet lovers love the spring.

        Between the acres of the rye,
          With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
        These pretty country folks would lie,
          In the spring time, &c.

        This carol they began that hour,
          With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
        How that a life was but a flower,
          In the spring time, &c.

        And therefore take the present time,
          With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
        For love is crowned with the prime,
          In the spring time, &c.

  TOUCHSTONE. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great
    matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.

  FIRST PAGE. YOU are deceiv'd, sir; we kept time, we lost not our
    time.

  TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such
    a foolish song. God buy you; and God mend your voices. Come,
    Audrey.                                               Exeunt

Touchstone looks forward to his marriage to Audrey on the following day. Audrey admits her excitement as well, but she hopes that her desire to be married does not compromise her chastity. The couple meets two of Duke Senior's pages. Touchstone, in a good mood, asks for a song. The pages oblige, singing of springtime and the blossoming of love. When the song ends, Touchstone claims that the song made little sense and that the music was out of tune. The pages disagree, but Touchstone is unmoved by their arguments: to him, the song was hopelessly foolish