Says, very wisely, It is ten o'clock.
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine;
And after an 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.1
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 crammed
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;2

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,
3 Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomized

E'en 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,1 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 very, very means do ebb?3
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 neighbor ?
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 mettle of my speech?
There then; how then, what then?

wherein

Let me see

My tongue hath wronged him; if it do him right,
Then he hath wronged himself; if he be free,

Why, then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaimed of any man. But who comes here?

Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.

Jaq.

Why, I have eat none yet.

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke S. Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy

distress;

Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

Orl. You touched my vein at first. The thorny

point

Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility; yet I am inland bred,1
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;
He dies, that touches any of this fruit,

Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason, I

must die.

Duke S. What would you have? Your gentleness

shall force,

More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl. I almost die for food; and let me have it.
Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you.

I thought, that all things had been savage here;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment. But, whate'er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have looked on better days;
If ever been where bells have knolled to church;

If ever sat at any good man's feast;

If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear,

1 Inland here, and elsewhere in this play, is opposite to outland, or upland. Orlando means to say that he had not been bred among clowns.

VOL. II.

37

And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days;
And have with holy bell been knolled to church;
And sat at good men's feasts; and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered:
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command1 what help we have,
That to your wanting may be ministered.

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old, poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limped in pure love; till he be first sufficed,-
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,-
I will not touch a bit.

Duke S.

Go find him out, And we will nothing waste till you return. Orl. I thank ye; and be blessed for your good [Exit.

comfort!

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy; This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.2

All the world's a stage,

Jaq. And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits, and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school; and then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow; then, a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth; and then, the justice,
In fair, round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern1 instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big, manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

Re-enter ORLANDO, with ADAM.

Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable

burden,

And let him feed.
Orl.

I thank you most for him.

Adam. So had you need;

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Duke S. Welcome; fall to. I will not trouble you

As yet, to question you about your fortunes.

Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

AMIENS sings.

SONG.

I.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind;
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;