All the world's a stage,

Faques.
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:
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 woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow: then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, 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 lin❜d,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part: the sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, 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.

Enter ORLANDO, with ADAM.

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Duke Senior. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden, And let him feed.

Orlando. I thank you most for him.

Adam.

So had you need:

I scarce can speak to thank you

for myself.

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Duke Senior. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you As yet, to question you about your fortunes.

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

Song.

Amiens.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

Heigh-ho! sing, etc.

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Duke Senior. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son, As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,

And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd and living in your face,

Be truly welcome hither. I am the duke

That lov'd your father: the residue of your fortune,
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.--
Support him by the arm.—Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.

E

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[Exeunt.

SCENE I. A Room in the Palace.

Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and OLIVER.

Duke Frederick. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be : But were I not the better part made mercy,

I should not seek an absent argument

Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it :

Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is;

Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living

Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.

Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine
Worth seizure do we seize into our hands,

Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth

Of what we think against thee.

Oliver. O that your highness knew my heart in this! I never lov'd my brother in my life.

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Duke Frederick. More villain thou.-Well, push him out of doors;

And let my officers of such a nature

Make an extent upon his house and lands:
Do this expediently, and turn him going.

SCENE II. The Forest.

Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.

[Exeunt.

Orlando. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I 'll character,
That every eye which in this forest looks

Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

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[Exit.

Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE. Corin. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?

Touchstone. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now,

in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

Hast

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Corin. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature Snor art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

Touchstone. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

Corin. No, truly.

Touchstone. Then thou art damned.

Corin. Nay, I hope,

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Touchstone. Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg all on one side.

Corin. For not being at court? Your reason.

Touchstone. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

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Corin. Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands that courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.

Touchstone. Instance, briefly; come, instance.

Corin. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you know, are greasy.

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