The Forest of Arden. |
|
Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other Lords, like Foresters. |
Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, |
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet |
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods |
More free from peril than the envious court? |
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, |
The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang |
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, |
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, |
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say |
'This is no flattery: these are counsellors |
That feelingly persuade me what I am.' |
Sweet are the uses of adversity, |
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, |
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; |
And this our life exempt from public haunt, |
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, |
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. |
I would not change it. |
Ami. Happy is your Grace, |
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune |
Into so quiet and so sweet a style. |
Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? |
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, |
Being native burghers of this desert city, |
Should in their own confines with forked heads |
Have their round haunches gor'd. |
First Lord. Indeed, my lord, |
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that; |
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp |
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you. |
To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself |
Did steal behind him as he lay along |
Under an oak whose antique root peeps out |
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; |
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag, |
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, |
Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord, |
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans |
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat |
Almost to bursting, and the big round tears |
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose |
In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, |
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, |
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, |
Augmenting it with tears. |
Duke S. But what said Jaques? |
Did he not moralize this spectacle? |
First Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. |
First, for his weeping into the needless stream; |
'Poor deer,' quoth he, 'thou mak'st a testament |
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more |
To that which had too much:' then, being there alone, |
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends; |
''Tis right,' quoth he; 'thus misery doth part |
The flux of company:' anon, a careless herd, |
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him |
And never stays to greet him; 'Ay,' quoth Jaques, |
'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; |
'Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look |
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?' |
Thus most invectively he pierceth through |
The body of the country, city, court, |
Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we |
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, |
To fright the animals and to kill them up |
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place. |
Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation? |
Sec. Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting |
Upon the sobbing deer. |
Duke S. Show me the place. |
I love to cope him in these sullen fits, |
For then he's full of matter. |
Sec. Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. [Exeunt. |
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