The thrifty hire I sav’d under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold,
All this I give you, let me be your servant.
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you,
I’ll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.
Orl.
O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion,
And having that do choke their service up
Even with the having. It is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we’ll go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We’ll light upon some settled low content.
Adam.
Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
From [seventeen] years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well, and not my master’s debtor.
Exeunt.
¶
Scene IV
Enter Rosalind for Ganymed, Celia for Aliena, and Clown, alias Touchstone.
Ros. O Jupiter, how [weary] are my spirits!
Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.
Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man’s apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat; therefore courage, good Aliena.
Cel. I pray you bear with me, I cannot go no further.
Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you. Yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you, for I think you have no money in your purse.
Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I. When I was at home, I was in a better place, but travellers must be content.
Enter Corin and Silvius.
Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a young man and an old in solemn talk.
Cor.
That is the way to make her scorn you still.
Sil.
O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!
Cor.
I partly guess; for I have lov’d ere now.
Sil.
No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow.
But if thy love were ever like to mine—
As sure I think did never man love so—
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Cor.
Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil.
O, thou didst then never love so heartily!
If thou rememb’rest not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov’d;
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise,
Thou hast not lov’d;
Or if thou hast not broke from company
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov’d.
O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!
Exit.
Ros.
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of [thy wound],
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
Touch. And I mine. I remember when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopp’d hands had milk’d; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, “Wear these for my sake.” We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
Ros. Thou speak’st wiser than thou art ware of.
Touch. Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.
Ros.
Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion
Is much upon my fashion.
Touch. And mine, but it grows something stale with me.
Cel.
I pray you, one of you question yond man,
If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.
Touch.
Holla! you clown!
Ros.
Peace,