ACT IV. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden.
[Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.]
I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
They say you are a melancholy fellow.
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
Those that are in extremity of either are abominable
fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse
Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.
Why then, 'tis good to be a post.
I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is
emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the
courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is
ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's,
which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is
a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted
from many objects: and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my
travels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a most
A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be
sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's;
then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes
and poor hands.
Yes, I have gained my experience.
And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to
make me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel for
Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.
Farewell, monsieur traveller: look you lisp and wear strange
suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out
of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making
you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have
swam in a gondola.
Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while?
You a lover! — An you serve me such another trick, never come
in my sight more.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a
minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the
thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said
of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I'll
warrant him heart-whole.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I
had as lief be wooed of a snail.
Of a snail!
Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries
his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you
make a woman: besides, he brings his destiny with him.
Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding to
your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents
the slander of his wife.
Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.
And I am your Rosalind.
It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of
a better leer than you.
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour,
and like enough to consent. — What would you say to me now, an
I were your very very Rosalind?
I would kiss before I spoke.
Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were
gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss.
Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for
lovers lacking, — God warn us! — matter, the cleanliest shift is
How if the kiss be denied?
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I
should think my honesty ranker than my wit.