Why, cousin, why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! Not a word?
Cousin, why? Rosalind, why? For heaven's sake, can't you say anything?
Come on, Rosalind. Seriously, not a word?
say something.
Not one to throw at a dog.
Not one word worth throwing at a dog.
Not even for a dog.
nothing.
No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs. Throw some of
them at me. Come, lame me with reasons.
No, your words are too valuable to waste on dogs. Give some of them to me. Come on, cripple me with explanations.
Your words are too good for dogs. Give me some. Come on, explain this to me—talk some sense into me.
give me words.
explain yourself.
Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should be lamed with
reasons and the other mad without any.
Then there would be two wounded cousins: one crippled by explanations and the other mad without any explanations at all.
Then we'd both be a mess: I'd be crippled from listening to reasons, and you'd be crazy from not giving any.
we'd both be broken.
one from talking, one from silence.
But is all this for your father?
Is all of this about your father?
Is this all about your dad?
is it about your father.
No, some of it is for my child’s father. O, how full of briers is this
working-day world!
No, some of it is for the father of my child—my future child. Oh, how full of difficulties and painful obstacles is this ordinary, working world!
No, some of it's about... the father of my child. God, this world is full of thorns and problems.
some is for my child's father.
the world is full of thorns.
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery. If we
walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.
They're just prickly burrs, cousin, tossed onto you as a joke. If we don't stick to the well-worn paths, even our dresses will catch them.
Those are just annoying little burrs, cousin—someone's joke. If we stray off the path even a little, they stick to our clothes.
they're just burrs.
annoying but harmless.
I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.
I could shake those off my coat; these burrs are embedded in my heart.
I could brush off the ones on my dress. The problem is the ones stuck in my heart.
i could brush them off.
these ones are in my heart.
Hem them away.
Stitch them away.
Sew them out.
sew them out.
I would try, if I could cry “hem” and have him.
I would try if I could just say the magical word and have him.
I would if I could say some magic word and have him appear.
if only words could summon him.
Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
Come on, wrestle with your feelings.
Come on, fight your own feelings.
fight your feelings.
O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
Oh, my feelings are stronger wrestlers than I am.
They're better wrestlers than I am—they're winning.
they're winning.
i can't fight them.
Ganymede wasn't a random name. In classical mythology, he was the beautiful Trojan youth abducted by Zeus to serve as cupbearer on Olympus — celebrated for his youth, his beauty, and his ambiguous status between mortal and divine. By Elizabethan times, the name had accumulated additional connotations: 'ganymede' in contemporary usage meant a boy kept for his looks, often with homoerotic implications. Shakespeare knew this. Rosalind choosing this name signals she's taking on more than a male costume — she's choosing a persona defined by desirability and ambiguity, which is precisely what drives the plot of Acts 3 and 4.
O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time, in despite of a fall.
But turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is
it possible on such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking
with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?
Oh, good luck to you! You'll keep trying despite your defeat. But setting aside these jokes and getting serious: is it really possible that so suddenly you've fallen into such a strong affection for Sir Rowland's youngest son?
Good luck with that. You'll keep trying even after you lose. But seriously now, quit joking—how did you fall for old Sir Rowland's youngest boy so fast?
is it really him.
you just met him.
The Duke my father loved his father dearly.
The Duke, my father, loved his father very much.
My father loved his father.
dad loved his father.
Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this
kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly;
yet I hate not Orlando.
Does it follow from that that you should love his son greatly? By that logic, I should hate him because my father hated his father—but I don't hate Orlando.
So you're supposed to love his son because of that? That doesn't make sense. By that logic, I should hate him because my dad hated his dad—but I don't.
that logic doesn't work.
i don't hate orlando.
No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.
No, please don't hate him—for my sake.
No, don't hate him. Please don't.
don't hate him.
please.
Why should I not? Doth he not deserve well?
Why shouldn't I? Doesn't he deserve it?
Why shouldn't I like him? He's great.
he deserves it.
Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do.—Look, here
comes the Duke.
Love him for my sake then, and you love him because I do. Look, the Duke is coming.
Just like him because I do. Oh no, here comes the Duke.
here comes the duke.
With his eyes full of anger.
And he looks absolutely furious.
He looks really angry.
he's angry.
Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
And get you from our court.
Take the safest, fastest route you can find, and get out of our court.
Go. Take whatever route is safest and get out of my court. Now.
leave quickest route out get out of my court
Me, uncle?
Me, Uncle?
Me?
me.
You, cousin.
Within these ten days if that thou be’st found
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.
And you, cousin. If within ten days you are found within twenty miles of this court, you die for it.
And you — my cousin. Ten days. If you come within twenty miles of this court, you're dead.
cousin ten days twenty miles you die if you come back
I do beseech your Grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.
If with myself I hold intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic—
As I do trust I am not—then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your Highness.
I beg you, Uncle, let me understand what I've done wrong. If I know myself at all, if I understand my own heart, if I'm not dreaming or losing my mind—and I'm sure I'm not—then I swear to you, I have never offended you in thought or deed.
Please, Uncle, let me know what I did. If I know myself, if I understand anything about how I feel, if I'm not crazy—and I'm not—then I've never done anything to hurt you. Never.
i don't know what i did.
i never offended you.
i swear it.
Thus do all traitors.
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
That's what all traitors say. If innocence were proven by words alone, every traitor would sound completely blameless. Know this: I don't trust you. That's all you need to hear.
Sure — that's exactly what traitors say. Anyone can sound innocent with words. I don't trust you. That's it.
that's what all traitors say words prove nothing i don't trust you that's all
Most productions of AYLI center on the Rosalind-Orlando romance, but Celia's 'I cannot live out of her company' is arguably the play's defining commitment. Celia doesn't just accompany Rosalind — she gives up her inheritance, her title, her safety, and her father. She asks for nothing in return and offers no conditions. Elizabethan stage convention would have made this relationship even more resonant: both roles would have been played by young men, performing a bond that Shakespeare treats with more constancy than most of the romantic attachments in the play.
Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.
Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
But your doubt doesn't make me guilty. Tell me what reason you have to suspect me.
Your suspicion doesn't prove anything. What's your evidence?
why do you suspect me.
Thou art thy father’s daughter, there’s enough.
You are your father's daughter. That's reason enough.
You're your father's daughter. That tells me everything I need to know.
your father's daughter that's all that's enough
So was I when your highness took his dukedom;
So was I when your highness banished him.
Treason is not inherited, my lord,
Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What’s that to me? My father was no traitor.
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
To think my poverty is treacherous.
I was my father's daughter when you took his dukedom. I was his daughter when you exiled him. But treason is not inherited, my lord. And even if it were passed down from parents to children, my father was no traitor. So please, don't mistake my poverty for treachery.
I was always his daughter—when you took his place and when you banished him. Treason isn't inherited. My father wasn't a traitor. So don't assume I am one just because I'm poor.
treason isn't inherited.
my father wasn't a traitor.
don't judge me by my poverty.
Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
My lord, I beg you, hear me.
Father, please listen to me.
please listen.
Ay, Celia, we stayed her for your sake,
Else had she with her father ranged along.
Yes, Celia, we kept her here for your sake. Otherwise she would have gone into exile with her father.
We only kept her around because of you. Otherwise she'd be gone with her father.
we kept her for you.
I did not then entreat to have her stay;
It was your pleasure and your own remorse.
I was too young that time to value her,
But now I know her. If she be a traitor,
Why, so am I. We still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learned, played, ate together,
And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.
I never asked you to keep her. That was your choice, your guilt. I was too young then to understand her worth. But now I do know her. If she's a traitor, then so am I. We've slept in the same bed, woken at the same time, studied together, played together, eaten together. Wherever we went, like Juno's swans, we went inseparable and coupled.
I didn't ask you to keep her. That was your decision, your conscience. I didn't understand her value back then. But I do now. If she's a traitor, I'm one too. We've done everything together—slept together, woken together, learned together, played together. We're inseparable. Like Juno's swans.
if she's a traitor.
so am i.
we're inseparable.
She is too subtle for thee, and her smoothness,
Her very silence, and her patience
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name,
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips.
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have passed upon her. She is banished.
She is too clever for you and her manner is too polished. Her silence and her patience make people pity her. You are a fool. She overshadows you. Once she is gone, you will shine brighter and seem more virtuous. So stay silent. My judgment is final and unchangeable. She is banished.
She's too smart for you. Her manners and her quiet make people feel sorry for her. You're stupid. She makes you look bad. When she's gone, you'll look better. So don't argue. I've decided. She's banished. End of discussion.
she makes you look bad.
when she's gone you'll shine.
that's final.
Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege.
I cannot live out of her company.
Then pronounce that sentence on me too, Father. I cannot live without her.
Then banish me too. I can't live without her.
banish me then.
i can't live without her.
You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself.
If you outstay the time, upon mine honour
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
You are a fool. Get yourself ready. If you stay past the deadline, I swear on my honor and my word as Duke, you will die.
You're an idiot. Get your things. If you're not gone by the deadline, you die. I swear it.
get ready to leave.
or die.
O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
Oh, my poor Rosalind. Where will you go? Will you find another father? I'll give you mine. Please, don't grieve more than I will.
Oh Rosalind. Where will you go? I'll be your father. Please don't be more sad than me.
where will you go.
i'll be your father.
I have more cause.
I have more cause to grieve.
I have more reason to be sad.
i have more cause.
Thou hast not, cousin.
Prithee be cheerful. Know’st thou not the Duke
Hath banished me, his daughter?
You don't have more reason than I do, cousin. Please be cheerful. Don't you realize the Duke has banished me—his own daughter?
You don't have more reason to be sad than I do. Listen, be happy—the Duke just banished me, his own daughter.
the duke banished me.
his own daughter.
i lost everything.
Frederick's case against Rosalind is worth studying because it has no case. He can't name an act she's done. When pressed, his entire charge reduces to bloodline: 'Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough.' What makes this chilling is that he's not irrational — he's too rational. Rosalind's popularity is real. Her dignity under pressure is real. These are genuine threats to a ruler whose grip on power depends on people not noticing how he got it. His decision to banish her is politically coherent. It's just evil.
That he hath not.
He hasn't done that.
He wouldn't do that.
no he wouldn't.
No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.
Shall we be sundered? 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.
He hasn't? Then Rosalind doesn't understand the love between us—the love that makes you and me one person. Will we be separated? Will we part, dear girl? No. Let my father find another heir. So figure out with me how we can escape, and where we'll go and what we'll carry. And don't try to shoulder this burden alone and leave me behind. By heaven, our shared sorrow is our bond—say what you want, I'm coming with you.
He hasn't? That would mean you don't understand how much I love you—that we're not really one person. Are we going to be separated? Are we going to part ways? No. Let my father find someone else to inherit. So figure out with me how to escape, where to go, what to bring. And don't try to be noble and suffer alone—I'm with you in this. I swear it. Whatever you decide, I'm coming too.
we're one.
we can't be separated.
tell me how to escape.
i'm coming with you.
i swear it.
Why, whither shall we go?
Well, where should we go?
So where do we go?
where do we go.
To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.
To find my uncle in the Forest of Arden.
To find my uncle in the Forest of Arden.
the forest of arden.
Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Oh no, what danger will we be in, as young women traveling so far? Beauty attracts thieves before gold does.
But that's so far to travel. We're young women—won't we be in danger? Beauty makes thieves act faster than gold does.
we're not safe.
beauty attracts thieves.
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.
I'll dress myself in poor, shabby clothes and stain my face with a dark brown dye. You do the same, and we'll pass through without anyone attacking us.
I'll wear old, cheap clothes and dirty my face with dark stain. You do the same and nobody will bother us.
wear poor clothes.
stain your face.
they won't recognize us.
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtal-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.
Actually, wouldn't it be better—since I'm taller than most women—if I dressed completely as a man? With a short curved sword on my hip, a boar-spear in my hand, and in my heart... well, I'll hide whatever woman's fear is there. We'll have a bold, martial appearance on the outside, just like many other cowardly men in male dress who fake confidence with their appearance.
Actually, since I'm unusually tall, wouldn't it be better if I dressed as a man? You know, with a sword, a spear, all the gear. Inside I might be scared, but on the outside we'll look tough and martial—like plenty of other cowardly men who just fake it with their appearance.
i should dress as a man.
i'm tall enough.
put on a sword and spear.
fake confidence.
What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
What name should I call you when you're a man?
What should I call you when you're dressed as a man?
what name.
I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page,
And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be called?
I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own servant—so call me Ganymede. But what will you be called?
I'll be Ganymede—the mythological beautiful boy. But what about you—what name do you want?
ganymede.
what about you.
Something that hath a reference to my state:
No longer Celia, but Aliena.
Something that reflects my new condition: no longer Celia, but Aliena—the stranger.
Something that fits my situation: not Celia anymore, but Aliena—the exile.
aliena.
no longer celia.
the exile.
But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal
The clownish fool out of your father’s court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
Cousin, what if we tried to persuade that silly fool from your father's court to come with us? Wouldn't he be a helpful companion on the journey?
Hey, what if we convinced Touchstone—that silly fool from court—to come with us? Wouldn't he make the journey easier?
what about touchstone.
he'd make us laugh.
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.
He'd follow me across the whole world. Let me handle winning him over. Let's go get our jewels and our money, figure out the best time and safest way to escape without being caught after my flight. Now we go toward freedom, not exile.
He'll go anywhere with me. Let me handle getting him. Let's get our jewelry and money, figure out when and how to leave so nobody catches us. We're not going into exile—we're going to freedom.
he'll come with us.
let's gather our things.
plan our escape.
toward freedom, not exile.
The Reckoning
The scene opens as girl-talk about Orlando, but Duke Frederick's entrance turns it lethal. His reasoning for Rosalind's banishment is no reasoning at all: 'Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough.' Rosalind's dignity in the face of it is remarkable — she argues clearly, without begging. Celia's response is even more remarkable: she doesn't just comfort Rosalind, she volunteers for exile. The second half of the scene belongs to the two of them plotting their escape, choosing names, planning a disguise — and it's luminous. This is the scene where AYLI becomes a comedy about possibility, not a tragedy about injustice.
If this happened today…
Imagine your cousin's dad — who runs the family company and controls your housing — suddenly fires you because your own father once worked somewhere he didn't like. No appeal, no due process, just 'your last name is the problem.' And then your cousin, who stands to inherit everything, says: 'I'm quitting too, and we're going on a road trip.' That's this scene. The injustice is real. The friendship is realer.