ACT V

ACT V

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

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.

Enter William.

Here comes the man you mean.

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 covered. 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 sayst 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 poured 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’errun 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 seek you. Come away, away.

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

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. Another part of 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.

Enter Rosalind.

ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be tomorrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my 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 showed me your handkercher?

ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that.

ROSALIND. O, I know where you are. Nay, ’tis true. There was never anything 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 looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked 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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow 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, tomorrow 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, conversed 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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.

Enter Silvius and Phoebe.

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

PHOEBE. 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 followed by a faithful shepherd. Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

PHOEBE. 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 Phoebe.

PHOEBE. 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 Phoebe.

PHOEBE. 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 observance, And so am I for Phoebe.

PHOEBE. And so am I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman.

PHOEBE. [To Rosalind.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

SILVIUS. [To Phoebe.] 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 Phoebe.] I would love you if I could.—Tomorrow meet me all together. [to Phoebe.] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married tomorrow. [to Orlando.] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married tomorrow. [to Silvius.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married tomorrow. [to Orlando.] As you love Rosalind, meet. [to Silvius.] As you love Phoebe, 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.

PHOEBE. Nor I.

ORLANDO. Nor I.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. Another part of the Forest

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

TOUCHSTONE. Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey, tomorrow 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.

Enter two Pages.

Here come two of the banished Duke’s 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

PAGES. [Sing.] It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green cornfield 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, the only pretty ring time,
    When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.

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, the only pretty ring time,
    When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.

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, the only pretty ring time,
    When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding.
Sweet lovers love the spring.

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

FIRST PAGE. You are deceived, 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 be wi’ you, and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey.

[Exeunt.]