ACT I. SCENE III. A Room in the Palace.
[Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.]
Why, cousin; why, Rosalind; — Cupid have mercy! — Not a word?
Not one to throw at a dog.
No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw
some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.
Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should
be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.
But is all this for your father?
No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how full
of briers is this working-day world!
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very
petticoats will catch them.
I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.
Hem them away.
I would try, if I could cry hem and have him.
Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite of
a fall. — But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in
good earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall
into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?
The duke my father loved his father dearly.
Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly?
By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated
his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?
Let me love him for that; and do you love him because
I do. — Look, here comes the duke.
With his eyes full of anger.
[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with Lords.]
Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.
I do beseech your grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
If with myself I hold intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;
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.
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.
Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:
Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.
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.
Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Ay, Celia: we stay'd her for your sake,
Else had she with her father rang'd along.
I did not then entreat to have her stay;
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse:
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,
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.
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.
Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege:
I cannot live out of her company.
You are a fool. — You, niece, provide yourself:
If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
[Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK and Lords.]