---

Скачать книгу

---

me, his daughter?

       Ros.

      That he hath not.

       Cel.

      No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love

      Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.

      Shall we be sund’red? shall we part, sweet girl?

      No, let my father seek another heir.

      Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

      Whither to go, and what to bear with us,

      And do not seek to take your change upon you,

      To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;

      For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

      Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee.

       Ros.

      Why, whither shall we go?

       Cel.

      To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

       Ros.

      Alas, what danger will it be to us,

      Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!

      Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

       Cel.

      I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,

      And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

      The like do you. So shall we pass along

      And never stir assailants.

       Ros.

      Were it not better,

      Because that I am more than common tall,

      That I did suit me all points like a man?

      A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,

      A boar-spear in my hand, and—in my heart

      Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will—

      We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,

      As many other mannish cowards have

      That do outface it with their semblances.

       Cel.

      What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

       Ros.

      I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page,

      And therefore look you call me Ganymed.

      But what will you [be] call’d?

       Cel.

      Something that hath a reference to my state:

      No longer Celia, but Aliena.

       Ros.

      But, cousin, what if we assay’d to steal

      The clownish fool out of your father’s court?

      Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

       Cel.

      He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me;

      Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away,

      And get our jewels and our wealth together,

      Devise the fittest time and safest way

      To hide us from pursuit that will be made

      After my flight. Now go [we in] content

      To liberty, and not to banishment.

       Exeunt.

       ¶

      ACT II

      Scene I

       Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three 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 not 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.

       Ami.

      I would not change it. 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.

       1. 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 sequest’red stag,

      That from the hunter’s 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 th’ extremest verge of the swift brook,

      Augmenting it with tears.

       Duke S.

      But what said Jaques?

      Did

---

Скачать книгу