instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears, Wear these for my sake. We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

Ros. Thou speakest wiser than thou art 'ware of.

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

Ros. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion

Is much upon my fashion.

Touch. And mine: but it grows something stale with me. Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man

If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

Touch. Holla, you clown!

Ros.

Cor. Who calls?

Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

Touch. Your betters, sir.

Cor. Else are they very wretched.
Ros.

Good even to you, friend.

Peace, I say.

Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
Ros. I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
And faints for succour.

Cor.
Fair sir, I pity her,
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her:

But I am shepherd to another man,

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:

My master is of churlish disposition,

And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality:

Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed
Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on; but what is, come see,

And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

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

Cor. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

That little cares for buying anything.

Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,

Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

I like this place,

Cel. And we will mend thy wages.
And willingly could waste my time in it.

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

Ami.

SCENE V. Another part of the Forest.

Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others.

But winter and rough weather.

Jaq. More, more, I pr'ythee, more.

[Exeunt.

Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more.

Ami. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you. Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanza: call you 'em stanzas? Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

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

Ami. More at your request than to please myself.

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

Ami. Well, I'll end the song.-Sirs, cover the while: the duke will drink under this tree :-he hath been all this day to look you.

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

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

Ami. And I'll sing it.

Jaq. Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see

Gross fools as he.

An if he will come to Ami.

Ami. What's that ducdame?

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

Ami. And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is prepared. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE VI.-Another part of the Forest.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.

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

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

:

SCENE VII.—Another part of the Forest.

A Table set.

Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and others. Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast; For I can nowhere find him like a man.

1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go, seek him; tell him I would speak with him.
1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.

Enter JAQUES.

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company?

What! you look merrily.

Jaq. A fool, a fool!-I met a fool i' the forest, A motley fool;-a miserable world!—

As I do live by food, I met a fool,

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
Good-morrow, fool, quoth I: No, sir, quoth he,
Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, It is ten o'clock:

Thus we may see, quoth he, how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial.-O noble fool!

A worthy fool!-Motley's the only wear.
Duke S. What fool is this?

Jaq. O worthy fool!-One that hath been a courtier,

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,--

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm'd

With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms.-O that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S. Thou shalt have one.

Jaq
It is my only suit,
Provided that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly,

They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
The why is plain as way to parish church:

He that a fool doth very wisely hit

Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd

Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

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

Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all the embossed sores and headed evils
That thou with license of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the weary very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name
When that I say, The city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in and say that I mean her,

When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?

Or what is he of basest function,

That says his bravery is not on my cost,

Thinking that I mean him,-but therein suits

His folly to the metal of my speech?

There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,

Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,