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And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms,

In good set terms,--and yet a motley fool.

"Good-morrow, fool," quoth I: "No, sir," quoth he, "Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune." And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock:

Thus may we see," quoth he, "how the world wags: "Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,

And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ;
And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,

An hour by his dial.-O, noble fool!

A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

Duke S. What fool is this?

Jaq. O, worthy fool!-One that hath been a cour


And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents.

In mangled forms.-O, that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S. Thou shalt have one.

Jaq. It is my only suit; Provided, that you weed your better judgments Of all opinion that grows rank in them, That I am wise. I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please; for so fools have: And they that are most galled with my folly,

They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?
The why is plain as way to parish church:
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob1; if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd,

Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley: give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do, but good? Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin: For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all th' embossed sores, and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Would'st thou disgorge into the general world.
Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride,

That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the weary very means do ebb2?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say, the city-woman bears

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1 NOT TO seem senseless of the bob:] The old copies read, seem senseless of the bob ;" which appears wrong, not merely as regards the meaning, but the measure: both are completed by the insertion of "Not to," supplied by Theobald; though they may not be the very words accidentally omitted by the compositor, or which had dropped out in the press.

2 Till that the WEARY very means do ebb?] The old copies give this line literatim as follows:

"Till that the wearie verie meanes do ebbe ?"

which Pope altered thus, Malone and other modern editors following him :-"Till that the very very means do ebb ?"

A clear sense can be made out of the passage as it stands in the old text, and we therefore reprint it; but the compositor may have misread wearie for "wearing," and transposed cery; and if we consider Jaques to be railing against pride and excess of apparel, the meaning may be, that "the very wearing means,” or means of wearing fine clothes, "do ebb." To read "very, very," with Pope and others, is poor, and unlike Shakespeare.

The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in, and say, that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,

That says, his bravery is not on my cost,
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits

His folly to the mettle of my speech?

There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man.-But who comes here?

Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.


Why, I have eat none yet.

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.

Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?

Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy dis


Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

That in civility thou seem'st so empty?

Orl. You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show

Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred3,
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:
He dies, that touches any of this fruit,

Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason,

I must die.

Duke S. What would you have? Your gentleness

shall force,

More than your force move us to gentleness.


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- yet am I INLAND bred,] The word occurs again in Act. iii. sc. 2, "who was in his youth an inland man.' "Inland was generally used in our old writers in opposition to upland, which meant rustic and unpolished.

Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it.

Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:

I thought, that all things had been savage here,
And therefore put I on the countenance

Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are,
That, in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time,
If ever you have look'd on better days,

If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,
If ever sat at any good man's feast,

If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,
And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd;
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be minister'd.

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love: till he be first suffic'd,
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.

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And we will nothing waste till you return.

Orl. I thank ye; and be bless'd for your good com



Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy : This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful pageants, than the scene

Wherein we play in.

All the world's a stage,
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 woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. 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 instances1;

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.

Re-enter ORLANDO, with ADAM.

Duke S. Welcome.


And let him feed.



Set down your venerable

I thank you most for him.

and MODERN instances ;] i. e. common instances. The use of the word in this sense is frequent.

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