The like do you: so shall we pass along

And never stir assailants.

Ros.

Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,

That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,

A boar-spear in my hand; and in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will-
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,
As many other mannish cowards have

That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man? Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page; And therefore look you call me Ganymede.

But what will you be called?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state; No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros.

But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal

The clownish fool out of your father's court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

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

XCVII.

W. Shakespeare.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

ACT II. SCENE I.-The Forest of Arden.

Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three Lords, like foresters.

Duke S.

OW, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods

More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
'This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life exempt from public haunt

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones and good in every thing.

I would not change it.

Ami.

Happy is your grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ?

And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools,

Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should in their own confines with forked heads

Have their round haunches gored.

First Lord.

Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that,

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banished you.
To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself

Did steal behind him as he lay along

Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the which place a poor sequestered stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish, and indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.

But what said Jaques ?

Did he not moralize this spectacle?

First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream ; 'Poor dear,' quoth he, 'thou makest a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

To that which had too much :' then, being there alone,

Left and abandoned of his velvet friends,

"T is right:' quoth he 'thus misery doth part

The flux of company :' anon a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him

And never stays to greet him; 'Ay,' quoth Jaques,
'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion : wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants and what's worse,
To fright the animals and to kill them up

In their assigned and native dwelling-place.

Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation? Sec. Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com

menting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S.

Show me the place :

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he's full of matter.

First Lord, I'll bring you to him straight.

W. Shakespeare.

Orl.

XCVIII.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

ACT II. SCENE III.-Before OLIVER's house.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.

HO'S there?

Adam. What, my young master? O my gentle master!

O my sweet master! O you memory

Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bonny priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.

O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

Orl. Why, what's the matter?

A dam.

O unhappy youth ! Come not within these doors; within this roof

The enemy of all your graces lives:

Your brother-no, no brother; yet the son

Yet not the son, I will not call him son

Of him I was about to call his father

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie

And you within it if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off.

I overheard him and his practices.

This is no place; this house is but a butchery :
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go? Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food? Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce

A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ;

I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I saved under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame
And unregarded age in corners thrown :
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;
All this I give you. Let me be your servant :
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly let me go with you;
I'll do the service of a younger man

In all your business and necessities.

Orl. O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed !
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion,
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.