There is a man haunts the forest, abuses our young plants with carving 'Rosalind'
on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and
elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name
of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger
I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to
have the quotidian of love upon him.
I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you tell me
your remedy.
There is none of my uncle's marks upon you:
he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage
of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
What were his marks?
A lean cheek, which you have not, a blue eye and
sunken, which you have not, an unquestionable spirit, which you have not, a beard neglected,
which you have not; but I pardon you for that,
for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue: then your hose should be ungartered,
your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your
shoe untied and every thing about you demonstrating
a careless desolation; but you are no such man;
you are rather point-device in your accoutrements
as loving yourself than seeming the lover of
any other.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you
love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to
do than to confess she does: that is one of the
points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences.
But, in good sooth, are you he
that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein the name of Rosalind
is so admired?
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of
Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves
as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and
the reason why they are not so punished and cured
is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers
are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Did you ever cure any so?
Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me
his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to
woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth,
grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing
and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles,
for every passion something and for no passion truly
any thing, as boys and women are for the most
part cattle of this colour; would now like him,
now loathe him; then entertain him, forswear him;
now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my
suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour
of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream
of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic.
And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon
me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's
heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.
I would not be cured, youth.
I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind
and come every day to my cote and woo me.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will:
Tell me where it is.
Go with me to it and I'll show it you and by the way
you shall tell me where in the forest you live.
Will you go?
With all my heart, good youth.
Nay, you must call me Rosalind.
Come, sister, will you go?