I think he be transformed into a beast,
For I can nowhere find him like a man.
I think he must have changed into a beast, because I can't find him anywhere looking like a man.
I think he turned into an animal or something, because I can't find him looking human anywhere.
where is he i can't find him man or beast
My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
My lord, he just left a moment ago. He was here earlier, in good spirits, listening to a song.
He was just here, sir. He was in a good mood, listening to someone sing.
he was just here good mood listening to music
If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go seek him, tell him I would speak with him.
If he, full of discord, is turning musical, the planets themselves will soon be out of harmony. Go find him and tell him I want to speak with him.
If he — a guy who's basically got sadness running through his veins — is enjoying music, then something cosmically wrong is happening. Go find him and tell him I want to talk to him.
if he's musical if he's enjoying anything the universe is broken find him i need to talk to him
He saves my labour by his own approach.
He saves me the trouble by coming here himself.
Perfect — he's coming right now.
there he is
Why, how now, monsieur? What a life is this
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily.
Well, Monsieur Jaques, what kind of life is this where your poor friends have to beg for your company? You look cheerful.
Jaques. So what's going on? You're making us chase you around. You look happy for once.
why do we have to hunt you down why won't you hang out why are you smiling
A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ th’ forest,
A motley fool. A miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool,
Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,
And railed 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 we may 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.
A fool, a fool! I met a fool in the forest, a jester. What a miserable world! I swear by the food I live on, I met a fool who lay down and stretched himself in the sun and criticized Lady Fortune in proper speech, in measured phrases, and yet he was a jester in motley. 'Good morning, fool,' I said. 'No, sir,' he said, 'don't call me a fool until heaven has given me fortune.' And then he pulled out a sundial from his pocket and, looking at it with an empty eye, said very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock. Thus we may see,' he said, 'how the world moves. It was nine o'clock just an hour ago, and after one more hour it will be eleven. And so from hour to hour we mature and grow, and then from hour to hour we decay and rot, and that is how stories are made.' When I heard the jester moralize like this about time, my lungs burst out laughing like a rooster crowing, that fools should be so deep in thought, and I laughed without stopping for a whole hour by his sundial. O noble fool! A worthy fool! Motley is the only fashion to wear.
A fool! A fool! I met a fool in the forest, wearing jester's clothes. What a pathetic world. I'm telling you, I met this fool who was lying in the sun yelling at Lady Fortune, going on and on in proper language, full of himself, and he's still just a fool in colors. So I said, 'Hey fool.' And he goes, 'Don't call me that till luck shows up.' So he pulls out this watch from his pocket and he looks at it like he's thinking real hard and he says, 'It's ten o'clock. See how the world works? It was nine an hour ago and it'll be eleven in an hour. So every hour we get older and every hour we rot, and that's the story of everything.' I'm listening to this fool philosophize about time and I just start laughing like a rooster, because here's this fool being all deep and philosophical, and I'm laughing for an entire hour straight by his watch. Amazing fool! A brilliant fool! Wearing the motley is the only way to live.
i met a fool lying in the sun raging at fortune wearing colors pulls out a watch 'it's ten o'clock' 'we ripen and rot' my lungs burst laughing for an hour fools are the only truth
What fool is this?
What kind of fool is this?
Who is this guy?
who
O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier,
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 crammed
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
O worthy fool! One who was once a courtier and says that if women are young and beautiful, they have the gift to know it. And in his brain, which is as dry as old ship's biscuit after a voyage, he has crammed strange truths with careful observation, which he expresses in broken and muddled forms. How I wish I were a fool! I would sacrifice anything for a jester's coat.
A worthy fool! One who used to work at court and he swears if ladies are hot and young, they know it. And his head — it's dried out like old ship's bread after weeks at sea — he's packed it with all these observations and weird truths that come out all jumbled. God, I wish I could be a fool! I'd give anything for that motley coat.
a courtier if women are young and fair they know it his brain dried out stuffed with observation i want to be a fool i want that coat
Thou shalt have one.
You'll have one.
You can have one.
okay
It is my only suit,
Provided that you weed your better judgements
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 bob. If not,
The wise man’s folly is anatomized
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.
It is my only wish, provided you remove from your mind all the wisdom that has grown rank and wild there, so that I am not seen as wise. I must have freedom — as much as the wind has, to blow on whoever I please, because that's what fools have. And those people who are most hurt by my mockery will be the ones who must laugh. And why, sir, must they laugh? The answer is as plain as the road to church. If a fool hits a wise man smartly, that wise man must, even though it hurts, laugh rather than appear offended. Otherwise the wise man's folly is exposed by the very laughter of the fool. Put me in my coat. Give me permission to speak my mind, and I will completely cleanse the infected body of this world with my medicine, if people will bear to hear it.
That's all I want — but on one condition: you have to get rid of the idea that I'm smart. You have to let people think I'm dumb. And I need total freedom — like the wind, I can blow on anybody I want, because that's what fools get to do. And the people I attack the hardest? They have to laugh at me. Why do they have to laugh? It's obvious. If a fool makes a smart crack about a wise person, that wise person can't let on it hurt — they have to laugh or look dumb. If they don't laugh, then everyone sees through them. So give me the coat. Let me say whatever I want. I'll be medicine for this sick world — but only if people are willing to swallow it.
make me a fool let people think i'm dumb let me say whatever i want let me blow where the wind blows those i hurt must laugh or they look like fools i'm medicine for the world
Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.
Stop. I can see exactly what you'd do with that.
Enough. I know what you'd do with that.
i know what you'd do
What, for a counter, would I do but good?
What would I do? For a trifle, only good.
What? I'd do nothing but good.
i'd do good things
The 'seven ages of man' was not Jaques's invention — it was a standard medieval and Renaissance topos, derived from the classical theory of planetary phases governing human life. Medieval illustrated manuscripts depicted the stages: infant, schoolboy, lover, soldier, statesman, old man, and decrepitude. What Shakespeare does is take this well-known scheme and run it through Jaques's corrosive sensibility. Each stage is reduced to its most absurd version: the soldier is a braggart, the judge is a glutton, the old man is a figure of comedy in his ill-fitting clothes. And the end is not peaceful completion but pure negation. But the play then brings in Adam — who is in the last age and is anything but 'mere oblivion.' He has lived the speech and outlived it.
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 license of free foot hast caught
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
That is most wicked — criticizing sin through sin. Because you yourself have lived a libertine life, indulging every sensual appetite, and all the infected sores and serious evils that you've caught through your freedom of movement — you want to vomit all of that into the world.
That's evil. You'd criticize sin by sinning. You've lived like a libertine yourself — you've done every sensual thing you could. And all the diseases and damage you picked up from your freedom — you want to puke that poison all over everybody.
you've been a libertine you've done everything you've caught every disease and now you want medicine that's just poison
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 ebb?
What woman in the city do I name
When that I say the city-woman bears
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 wronged him. If it do him right,
Then he hath wronged himself. If he be free,
Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies
Unclaimed of any man. But who comes here?
Who shouts about pride if they can't point out a specific person? Doesn't it flow as hugely as the sea until its own currents make it ebb? What woman in the city do I name when I say city women wear the clothes of princes on worthless bodies? Who can come forward and say I'm talking about her, when there's so many like her? Or what man of low rank would claim I'm talking about him when he matches the description I'm making? And if he does, it's his own folly that put him there. So then, where's the harm? What have I done? Let me see if my words have harmed anyone. If they've done right by him, then he harmed himself. If he's blameless, then my accusations fly around like wild geese — nobody claims them. But who is coming now?
Who's complaining about pride if they can't prove I'm talking about them? Pride spreads like the ocean until it runs out of steam, right? Which woman am I naming when I talk about women wearing fancy clothes they don't deserve? If she thinks I'm talking about her, maybe she should look at her neighbors — I could be describing any of them. And if some guy thinks I'm talking about him, well, his stupidity put him in that position, not my words. So where's the damage? What did I actually do to him? If my words fit him perfectly, then yeah, he's the problem, not me. If he didn't do anything wrong, then my accusations just float around — nobody owns them. But I see someone coming.
i don't name anyone i'm not pointing pride spreads like ocean i could describe anyone if my words fit that's on you if they don't they're just wind
Forbear, and eat no more.
Stop, and don't eat anymore.
Stop. No eating.
stop no eating
Why, I have eat none yet.
Well, I haven't eaten anything yet.
I haven't eaten yet, thanks.
i haven't eaten
Nor shalt not till necessity be served.
And you won't, until I've had enough.
Yeah, and you won't till I say so.
you're not eating till i say so
Of what kind should this cock come of?
What kind of rooster does this attitude come from?
What bird did that attitude come out of?
what kind of rooster is this
Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress?
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem’st so empty?
Are you acting this boldly because of your suffering, or are you just rude and ignorant, showing no manners at all?
Are you desperate, or are you just some rude bastard with no manners?
desperate or just rude
You touched my vein at first. The thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show
Of smooth civility; yet am I inland bred
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say!
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answered.
You've touched my weakness. My desperation has stripped away my good manners. But I was born and raised in civilization and I do know some courtesies. I beg you, stop! Whoever touches this food will die until my need is met.
Okay, yeah, you hit the nerve. I'm desperate and it's made me rude. But I was raised in a real home — I know how to act. But look, I'm serious — anyone who touches this food dies. Till I say so.
you're right i'm desperate but i was raised better i know manners but nobody eats till i get what i need
An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.
If you won't answer me with reason, then I'll die.
If you're not going to give me a logical answer, I guess I'll just die.
no reason i die thats it
What would you have? Your gentleness shall force
More than your force move us to gentleness.
What do you want? Your gentleness will convince us to be gentle more than your force could.
What do you need? Being nice to us is going to work better than a sword ever could.
what do you need gentleness wins not force
I almost die for food, and let me have it.
I'm almost starving. Let me have food.
I'm dying of hunger. Feed me.
i'm starving
Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Sit down and eat. You're welcome at our table.
Sit down. Eat. You're welcome here.
sit down eat welcome
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 looked on better days,
If ever been where bells have knolled to church,
If ever sat at any good man’s feast,
If ever from your eyelids wiped 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.
Are you being kind? Forgive me, I beg you. I thought everything here was savage and therefore I put on a fierce manner. But I am from civilization and know some courtesy. But whoever you are, living here in this lonely, unreachable forest in the shade of these sad trees, lost in time — if you have ever seen better days, if bells have ever called you to church, if you have ever sat at a good man's table, if you have ever wiped a tear from your eye and known what it is to pity and be pitied — then let gentleness be my strong weapon. In this hope I bow and put away my sword.
You're actually being nice? I'm sorry, I apologize. I thought this place was all wilderness, so I played the tough guy. But I'm not. I come from civilization. But whoever you are, stuck here in this impossible, sad forest, wasting away — if you've ever had a good life, if you've ever been to church, if you've ever eaten with good people, if you've ever cried and felt sorry for someone and had them feel sorry for you — then understand why I'm desperate. I came here violent because I thought I had to. But you've shown me different. I'm putting down my sword.
you're kind yes yes i was raised better i know courtesy but i thought everything was savage so i came as a savage i'm sorry i'm putting down my sword
Orlando bursting into the feast with drawn sword is the most direct test of Duke Senior's philosophy. Senior has been arguing that exile is sweet, nature is honest, adversity builds character. Now adversity is literally pointing a weapon at him. His response — 'your gentleness shall force more than your force move us to gentleness' — is the play's central moral proposition in action. He does not call guards. He does not punish Orlando for the intrusion. He feeds him and asks his story. This scene is where Senior proves that his philosophy is not just talk — which is what separates him from Frederick, who would have had Orlando arrested or killed.
True is it that we have seen better days,
And have with holy bell been knolled to church,
And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered.
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have
That to your wanting may be ministered.
It's true. We have seen better days and have been called to church by holy bells and sat at good men's tables and wiped tears born of holy pity from our eyes. So sit down in peace and take whatever help we can give you to meet your needs.
We have. We've had good days. We've been to church. We've eaten with good people. We've cried for real reasons. So sit down. We're going to help you. Whatever you need.
yes we've had it all we've cried we know what you feel come eat we'll help
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
Limped in pure love. Till he be first sufficed,
Oppressed with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.
Then wait a little while. Like a mother deer, I'm going to find my baby and feed him. There is an old, poor man who has followed me here with difficulty, limping out of love. Until he is fed first, suffering from both age and hunger, I won't touch a bite.
Just hold on a second. There's this old guy, right? He's been limping after me this whole way because he loves me. He's starving. I can't eat until he's fed. I just can't.
wait old man followed me limping can't eat can't can't
Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.
Go find him and we will not touch a thing until you return.
Go. Find him. We're not touching anything till you get back.
go find him we'll wait
I thank ye, and be blest for your good comfort.
Thank you, and be blessed for your kindness.
Thank you. God bless you.
thank you god bless you
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy.
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.
You see that we are not alone in suffering. This great and universal theatre shows us more tragic scenes than the one we ourselves are playing in.
We're not the only ones suffering out there. This whole world is a stage showing more sad stories than the one we're living in.
we're not alone the world shows more sad stories than ours
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 schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. 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 lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, 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 everything.
All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely actors; they have their exits and entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his life being seven ages. First, the infant, crying and vomiting in the nurse's arms; then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel and bright morning face, moving slowly like a snail, unwilling to school. And then the lover, sighing like a furnace, with a sad ballad written for his beloved's eyebrow. Then the soldier, full of strange oaths and bearded like a leopard, jealous of his honor, quick to quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, in a round belly filled with good capon, with severe eyes and a formal beard, full of wise old sayings and recent examples; and so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts into the lean and slippered old man, with glasses on his nose and a pouch at his side, his youthful hose well kept, a world too wide for his shrunk leg, and his great manly voice turning back to a childish sound, whistling and squeaking. The last scene of all, that ends this strange, eventful story, is second childhood and pure oblivion, without teeth, without eyes, without taste, without anything.
The whole world's a stage, and everyone's just an actor. You come on, you go off, and in your life you play maybe seven different parts. First you're a baby, crying and throwing up in your mom's arms. Then you're a whiny kid with a backpack, moving slow as a snail, not wanting to go to school. Then you're a lover, sighing all day, writing sad love letters to your girlfriend's eyebrow. Then you're a soldier, swearing a lot, acting tough, getting in fights over nothing, willing to die for some idea about honor. Then you're a judge, a fat guy who eats well, looking serious, saying wise things and examples from history. The next phase you're old, wearing slippers, reading glasses, your old pants too big for your legs, your deep voice turning back into a kid's squeak. And the last scene? You disappear. Gone. No teeth. No eyes. No feeling. Nothing at all.
all the world is a stage every person plays a part baby schoolboy lover soldier judge old man old age nobody no teeth no eyes no taste no nothing sans everything
Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,
And let him feed.
Welcome. Set down your old and honored friend and let him eat.
Welcome. Put him down. Let him eat.
welcome eat
I thank you most for him.
I thank you most for him.
Thank you for being kind to him.
thank you for him
So had you need;
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
You're welcome. I can barely speak to thank you for myself.
No problem. I'm just barely able to talk to thank you myself.
can barely speak to thank you
Welcome, fall to. I will not trouble you
As yet to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some music, and good cousin, sing.
Welcome, eat. I won't question you yet about who you are. Give us some music, and dear friend, sing.
Come on, eat. I'm not going to grill you about your life right now. Sing for us, would you?
eat we're not asking just sing
AMIENS. (_Sings_.)
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude.
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot.
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Blow, blow, you winter wind, / You aren't as cruel / As human ingratitude. / Your bite isn't as sharp / Because you can't be seen, / Even if your breath is rough. / Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, to the green holly. / Most friendship is pretending, most loving is mere foolishness. / Then hey-ho, the holly! / This life is actually pretty joyful. / Freeze, freeze, you bitter sky, / You don't sting as much / As forgotten kindness. / Though you freeze the water solid, / Your sting isn't as sharp / As a friend who's been forgotten. / Hey-ho, sing hey-ho, to the green holly. / Most friendship is pretending, most loving is mere foolishness. / Then hey-ho, the holly! / This life is actually pretty joyful.
Blow all you want, winter wind — / you're not as cruel / as someone who doesn't say thank you. / Your bite's not the worst / since at least you're not pretending to care, / even if you're freezing cold. / Hey-ho, the holly's still green. / Most friendship is performance, most love is a joke. / Hey-ho, the holly! / Life's actually not bad. / Go ahead and freeze, bitter sky — / you don't hurt as much / as someone who forgot a favor. / Even if you turn the water to ice, / that's not as bad / as a friend who forgot you. / Hey-ho, the holly's still green. / Most friendship is performance, most love is a joke. / Hey-ho, the holly! / Life's actually not bad.
winter is cruel but humans are worse at least the cold doesn't pretend to be your friend hey-ho the holly life is still good
If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,
As you have whispered faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limned and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke
That loved your father. The residue of your fortune
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.
Support him by the arm. [_To Orlando_.] Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.
If you are indeed the good Sir Rowland's son, as you have told us with sincere words and as my eye can confirm by the likeness written and alive in your face, then truly welcome. I am the Duke who loved your father. Go to my cave and tell me the rest of your fortune. Good old man, you are as welcome as your master. Take him by the arm. Give me your hand, and let me know your full story.
If you're really Sir Rowland's son, like you said and like I can see in your face — then seriously, welcome. I'm the Duke who loved your father. Let's go to my tent and you can tell me everything. And you, old man, welcome too. Take him by the arm. Come on, give me your hand and tell me what happened to you.
you're rowland's son i see it i loved your father welcome tell me everything come
The Reckoning
The scene that contains 'All the world's a stage' — but that speech arrives two-thirds of the way in, earned by everything before it. First Jaques is on a high: he met a fool in the forest who was wise, and he wants to be a licensed fool himself, free to say anything. Duke Senior correctly points out that Jaques has been too corrupt himself to be a credible moral satirist. Then Orlando crashes in with his sword drawn, demanding food. Senior responds with perfect gentleness: there's enough for everyone, sit down. Orlando, astonished, lowers his sword and goes to fetch Adam. While he's gone, Senior reflects that suffering is universal — and Jaques launches into the seven ages of man, ending on 'sans everything.' Orlando returns carrying Adam. The feast wraps in song. This scene is AYLI's formal center.
If this happened today…
A dinner party at an exile's camp in a national park. Someone is philosophizing about how suffering builds character. A stranger runs in with a weapon demanding food. The host says: 'Sit down, there's plenty.' The stranger blinks, embarrassed, explains he was trying to feed a dying old man. The host says: 'Bring him.' Then the philosopher, slightly upstaged, delivers a twenty-minute TED talk about how everyone is just an actor running out of time. The old man arrives. Everyone eats.