If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,

(As I do trust I am not) then, dear uncle, Never, so much as in a thought unborn, Did I offend your highness.

Duke F.

Thus do all traitors;

If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.

Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.

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

Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's

enough.

Ros. So was I, when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I, when your highness banish'd him.
Treason is not inherited, my lord;

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,

What's that to me? My father was no traitor.
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much,
To think my poverty is treacherous.

Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke F. Ay, Celia; we stay'd her for your sake, Else had she with her father ranged along.

Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay;
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse.1
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her: if she be a traitor,
Why so am I: we still have slept together,

SHAK.

1 Compassion.

IV.

R

Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.

Duke F. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

Her very silence, and her patience

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;

And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous,

When she is gone: then open not thy lips;

Firm and irrevocable is my doom

Which I have pass'd upon her: she is banish'd.

Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege:

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F. You are a fool.--You, niece, provide

yourself;

If you outstay the time, upon mine honor,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt Duke F. and Lords.
Cel. O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
Ros. I have more cause.

Cel.

Thou hast not, cousin.

Pr'ythee, be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke Hath banish'd me his daughter ?

Ros.

That he hath not.

Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.

Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me, how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us:
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber 1 smirch 2 my face;
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-axe3 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.

Umber is a dusky, yellow-colored earth, brought from Umbria, in Italy.

• Swaggering.

2 Soil.

3 Cutlass.

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 call'd?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state;

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

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.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The forest of Arden.

Enter DUKE SENIOR, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of foresters.

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in

exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we 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 counsellers
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.

Ami. I would not change it. 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,1 the poor dappled fools,Being native burghers of this desert city,— Should, in their own confines, with forked heads 2 Have their round haunches gored.

1 Lord.

Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp

2 Barbed arrows.

i It gives me pain.