Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love.
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
Hang here, witness to my love. And you, threefold-crowned queen of night, watch with your pure eyes from your distant sphere as my life orbits around your huntress's name. Rosalind, these trees will be my books, and I will carve my thoughts into their bark, so that every eye that comes into this forest will see your virtue displayed everywhere. Run, Orlando, run — carve onto every tree the beauty, the purity, and the inexpressible woman.
Here, poem, prove I love her. Moon goddess, look down from up there with your pure eyes and watch how her name controls my whole life. Rosalind — these trees are my library now. I'll write her virtues into the bark so anyone who walks through here will see proof of her goodness everywhere. Go on, Orlando, carve her on every tree — beautiful, pure, and completely beyond words.
hang verses on trees print her name everywhere so the whole forest knows beauty so perfect it can't be described
And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?
And how do you find this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?
So what do you think — how's shepherd life treating you?
what do you think of this life
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in
respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it
is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it
is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me
well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a
spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more
plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in
thee, shepherd?
Truly, shepherd, considered on its own terms, it's a good life. But considered as a shepherd's life, it's worthless. In one respect it's solitary, which pleases me. In another respect it's isolated, which is utterly vile. In the fields—I like it well. But it's not in court, so it's tedious. As a sparse life, it suits my nature. But as there's no abundance, it offends my appetite. Do you have any philosophy in you, shepherd?
Well, shepherd, here's the thing. Looked at by itself, it's actually fine. But as a shepherd's life? Worthless. It's lonely, which I like. But it's private, which is revolting. Out in the fields is pleasant. But it's not at court, so it's dull. The simplicity works for me. But there's no abundance, which doesn't work for my stomach. Have you got any actual wisdom in there, shepherd?
it's good and bad depending on how you look at it which is to say it's meaningless
No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is;
and that he that wants money, means, and content is without three good
friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that
good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is
lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may
complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.
I know only that the more a person gets sick, the worse off they are; and that someone who lacks money, means, and contentment is without three good friends; that rain's property is to wet things, and fire's to burn; that good pasture makes sheep fat; and that the reason for night is the absence of the sun; that someone who has learned neither wisdom by nature nor through education can blame their upbringing or comes from a very dull family.
I just know that when you're sick, you feel worse, and when you have no money or resources or happiness, you're missing out on three good friends. I know rain makes things wet, fire burns, good grass makes fat sheep, and night happens because there's no sun. And if someone hasn't picked up any smarts naturally or through learning, then either they had bad parenting or they come from a really dim family.
sick = worse no money = no friends rain wets, fire burns good grass = fat sheep no sun = night no smarts from nature or school = bad family or bad upbringing
Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?
Someone like you is a natural philosopher. Have you ever been to court?
You're a natural philosopher then. Have you ever been to the court?
you're basically a natural philosopher have u been to court?
No, truly.
No, truly.
No, truly.
No, truly.
Then thou art damned.
Then you're damned.
Then you're doomed.
u are damned
Nay, I hope.
No, I hope.
No, I'm hoping otherwise.
no i hope not
Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
You truly are damned, like an egg cooked badly on one side only.
You're actually damned, like an egg that's only fried on one side.
u r damned like a half-cooked egg
For not being at court? Your reason.
For not being at court? Give me your reason.
For not going to court? What's your logic?
not being at court = damned? why tho?
Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw’st good manners; if
thou never saw’st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and
wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state,
shepherd.
Because if you never went to court, you never saw good manners; if you never saw good manners, then your manners must be wicked, and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. You're in a dangerous position, shepherd.
If you've never been to court, you've never seen proper manners. If you've never seen proper manners, then you've got bad manners. Bad manners are sinful, and sin leads to damnation. You're in serious trouble, friend.
no court = no good manners no manners = bad manners bad manners = sin sin = damnation u r in danger
Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the court are as
ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most
mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court but you
kiss your hands. That courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were
shepherds.
Not at all, Touchstone. Those manners that are good at court look ridiculous in the country, just as the behavior of the country looks most mockable at the court. You told me that at court you don't salute by greeting but by kissing your hands. That courtesy would be dirty if courtiers were shepherds.
Not true, Touchstone. The manners that work great at court look silly in the country, and country behavior looks ridiculous at court. You told me people at court don't greet each other by talking but by kissing their hands. That'd be gross if courtiers were shepherds.
court manners = silly in country country behavior = ridiculous at court court people kiss hands not greet that'd be gross for shepherds
Instance, briefly. Come, instance.
Give me an example, briefly. Come on, an example.
Give me an example then. Come on, one example.
gimme an example quick
Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells, you know, are
greasy.
Well, we're always handling our sheep, and their wool coats, you know, are greasy.
Well, we're constantly working with sheep, and their fleece gets all greasy.
we handle sheep all day their fleece is greasy
Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? And is not the grease of a
mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better
instance, I say. Come.
But don't your courtier's hands sweat? And isn't sheep grease as wholesome as a man's sweat? That's shallow. A better example, I say. Come.
But don't courtiers' hands get sweaty? And isn't sheep grease just as clean as human sweat? That's lame reasoning. Give me a better example.
don't courtiers sweat? sheep grease = human sweat that's weak better example plz
Besides, our hands are hard.
Besides, our hands are calloused.
Plus our hands are hard and rough.
also our hands r hard
Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder
instance, come.
Your lady friend will feel them all the sooner. That's weak too. A stronger example, come on.
Your girlfriend will notice them pretty quick then. That's still weak. Come up with something better.
she'll feel that right away still weak tho better example
And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would
you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.
And besides, they're often covered over with the healing substances we use on our sheep; would you want us to kiss tar? Courtiers' hands are perfumed with civet.
And anyway, our hands are usually coated with the medical stuff we put on sheep; you want us to kiss tar? Court people's hands smell like civet.
our hands have sheep medicine on them u want us kissing tar? courts use civet perfume
Most shallow man! Thou worm’s meat in respect of a good piece of flesh
indeed! Learn of the wise and perpend. Civet is of a baser birth than
tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.
You're very shallow! You're worm food compared to a respectable person, truly! Learn from the wise and consider this: civet is lower in origin than tar—it's the disgusting discharge of a cat. Improve your example, shepherd.
You're really clueless! You're basically worm food compared to any decent person! Pay attention to what smart people know: civet comes from a cat's nasty secretions, which is even grosser than tar. Come up with a better example, buddy.
u r shallow af u r worm food not a real person civet = cat butt juice worst than tar better example!!
You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.
You're too clever for me. I give up.
You're too witty for me. I'm done.
ur too smart 4 me im out
Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in
thee, thou art raw.
Will you give up damned? God help you, simple shepherd! God cut open your thinking—you're rough and unprepared.
Will you quit while you're damned? Help you, you simple guy! God, you need to think more clearly—you're raw and unpolished.
quit while damned? god help u u r raw
Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no
man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, content
with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and
my lambs suck.
Sir, I'm a real laborer. I earn what I eat, I get what I wear, I owe no one hatred, I envy no one's happiness, I'm glad for other people's good luck, I'm content even with my own suffering; and my greatest pride is seeing my sheep graze and my lambs nursing.
Sir, I'm a real working man. I earn every bit of food I eat, I get my own clothes, I don't hate anyone, I don't envy anyone else's luck, I'm happy when good things happen to others, I'm okay with my own struggles; and what I'm proudest of is watching my sheep graze and my baby lambs eat.
i work for what i have i eat what i earn i wear what i get i don't hate or envy i'm happy for others proud of my sheep and lambs
That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams
together and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle;
to be bawd to a bell-wether and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth
to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If
thou be’st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no
shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape.
That's another sinful behavior in you—putting ewes and rams together and trying to make your living from animal breeding; acting as a pimp for a bell-wether sheep and selling off a young ewe to a twisted old cuckolded ram, way outside any reasonable pairing. If you don't get damned for this, the devil won't want any shepherds. I don't see how you escape.
That's another messed-up thing you do—putting male and female sheep together and making money off them breeding. You're basically pimping out sheep, getting a young ewe to hook up with some old, twisted, cheated ram—totally unfair pairing. If you don't get damned for this, the devil wouldn't want any shepherds at all. There's no way you get out of this one.
putting sheep together 4 money = sin u r pimping sheep young ewe + old ram = unfair devil wants u damned u can't escape
Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.
Here comes young Master Ganymede, my employer's brother.
Here comes the young Master Ganymede, my boss's brother.
here comes ganymede the boss's brother
_From the east to western Inde
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures fairest lined
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalind._
From the East Indies to the Western world No jewel is like Rosalind. With her value lifted on the wind, Through all the world spreads Rosalind. All the pictures with the finest beauty Are only darkness next to Rosalind. Let no face stay in memory But the lovely face of Rosalind.
From east to west across the world there's no jewel like Rosalind. her worth rides on the wind rosalind travels everywhere. all the most beautiful paintings are just black compared to rosalind. forget every other face just remember rosalind.
no jewel compares anywhere rosalind worth travels everywhere paintings dark next to her no face matters but hers
I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and
sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.
I can rhyme you poetry nonstop for eight years, leaving out only dinner, supper, and sleeping time. It has the rhythm of butter sellers going to market.
I could keep making poems like that for eight years straight, except for eating and sleeping. It's got the beat of old market ladies walking to sell butter.
i could rhyme 4 8 yrs no dinner sleep or supper it's butter seller rhythm
The debate between Touchstone and Corin is one of Shakespeare's clearest explorations of the gap between verbal cleverness and actual wisdom. Touchstone uses scholastic method — dividing a proposition and examining it from multiple angles — to make Corin's life look paradoxical and damnable. Corin responds with plain common sense: things are what they demonstrably are.
The joke is that Touchstone is funnier and less right. His 'both sides' argument about the shepherd's life (good in itself but bad as a shepherd's life; pleasant in solitude but vile in its privacy) proves nothing — it's exactly the 'false gallop of verses' he accuses Orlando of: impressive motion going nowhere. Meanwhile Corin's 'I earn what I eat' is one of the play's most genuinely admirable speeches.
Shakespeare doesn't resolve this debate in Corin's favor by having him win the argument. He resolves it by making Touchstone's victory feel hollow. The forest is full of people who think cleverness is the same as wisdom, and the play quietly, persistently demonstrates that it isn't. Corin never persuades Touchstone — but he never needs to. He's already living the answer.
Out, fool!
Out, fool!
Out, fool!
Out, fool!
For a taste:
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So be sure will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lined,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find
Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself
with them?
A taste of it: If a male deer lacks a female, Let him find Rosalind. If the cat follows instinct, Rosalind surely will too. Winter coats must have lining, So must slender Rosalind. Those who harvest must gather and bind, Then load Rosalind in the cart. The sweetest nut has the sourest shell, Rosalind is exactly that kind of nut. Whoever wants the sweetest rose Must find love's thorn, and Rosalind. This is very bad verse rhythm. Why are you exposing yourself to these poems?
Here's a sample: if a guy deer needs a girl go find rosalind. if cats follow nature rosalind will too. winter clothes need lining so does skinny rosalind. harvesters tie and bind then cart off rosalind. sweetest nut has the roughest shell rosalind is exactly like that. want the sweetest rose? you'll get love's thorn and rosalind. these verses are terrible. why are you filling your head with this trash?
guy needs girl = find rosalind cats follow nature = rosalind does too winter = lining = rosalind sweet nut = sour shell = rosalind sweet rose = thorn = rosalind these r bad verses stop reading them
Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.
Stop, you fool. I found these on a tree.
Quit it, you silly guy. I found these carved on a tree.
stop fool i found them on a tree
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
This tree produces bad poetry.
Well, this tree's making pretty terrible poems.
this tree makes bad fruit
I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar. Then
it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere
you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.
I'll improve your poem by grafting it with a medlar fruit. Then it will be the earliest fruit in the region, because you'll be rotten before you're half-ripe—and that's exactly how the medlar fruit works.
I'll graft your poem with a medlar—a fruit that rots before it's even ripe. Then you'll have the earliest fruit in the whole area, since you'll be rotten before you're halfway there.
i'll graft ur poem with medlar medlar rots before it's ripe u'll be rotten first earliest fruit around
You have said, but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.
You've spoken, but whether wisely or foolishly, let the forest decide.
You've made your point, but whether it's smart or dumb, let the woods judge.
u said it forest will judge if it's smart
Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.
Quiet, here comes my sister reading. Move away.
Shh, my sister's coming over reading something. Get out of the way.
be quiet my sister's coming reading move
_Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No!
Tongues I’ll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the streching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
Some, of violated vows
’Twixt the souls of friend and friend.
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence’ end,
Will I “Rosalinda” write,
Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charged
That one body should be filled
With all graces wide-enlarged.
Nature presently distilled
Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra’s majesty;
Atalanta’s better part,
Sad Lucretia’s modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devised,
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts
To have the touches dearest prized.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave._
Why should this empty place exist? Because it's empty of people? No! I'll hang words on every tree That say thoughtful things. Some speak of how short human life is, Runs its confused journey, So that the span of time Ends all a person's years; Some tell of broken promises Between the hearts of friend and friend. But on the most beautiful branches, Or at the end of every statement, I will write "Rosalinda," Teaching all readers The perfect example of every person Heaven would show in small form. So heaven ordered nature That one body hold All beauty lavishly displayed. Nature right then poured out Helen's face, but not her cruel heart, Cleopatra's grandeur; Atalanta's better qualities, Sad Lucretia's sense of shame. So Rosalind with many gifts Was created by heaven's design, With many faces, eyes, and hearts To show the most valued touches. Heaven decided she would have these gifts, And I'll live and die serving her.
Why should this empty forest exist? Just because nobody lives here? No! I'm going to write on every tree Words that sound smart. Some will talk about how short life is, How we wander around confused, So even the tiniest span of time Adds up to all your years; Some will be about broken promises Between best friends' hearts. But on the prettiest branches, Or at the very end of every line, I'll write "Rosalinda," So everyone who reads knows She's the perfect example of everything good Heaven would shrink down to show. So heaven told nature To put every quality Into one person's body. Nature immediately gave her Helen's beautiful face, but not her mean heart, Cleopatra's power; Atalanta's best side, Lucretia's quiet shame. So Rosalind with all these gifts Was made by heaven's council, With every kind of face, eye, and heart Showing the most beautiful things. Heaven wanted her to have all this, And I'll spend my life serving her.
empty forest why exist? if it's empty? no i'll write on trees smart words some about short life some about broken promises but every line ends "rosalinda" she's heaven's perfect gift all beauty in one person i'll serve her til i die
O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of love have you wearied
your parishioners withal, and never cried “Have patience, good people!”
Oh most gentle Jupiter, what a tedious sermon about love have you bored your believers with, and never once said "Be patient, good people!"
Oh man, what a long-winded love sermon you've put your friends through, and you never even told them to chill out and be patient!
u made a boring love sermon never said "be patient" stfu about it
How now! Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.
What's going on! Everyone back up. Shepherd, go off some distance. Go with him, you there.
Hey! Everyone step back. Shepherd, go over there. You, go with him.
everyone back up shepherd move away u go with him
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag
and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
Come on, shepherd, let's retreat with honor, not with full supplies, but at least with our bags and pouches.
Come on, shepherd, let's get out of here with our heads up. Not with all our gear, but we can take our bags and stuff.
let's get out dignified not w everything but w our bags
Didst thou hear these verses?
Did you hear those poems?
Did you hear all that poetry?
u hear those poems?
O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them
more feet than the verses would bear.
Yes, I heard them all, and more besides, because some of them had more syllables than the verses could properly hold.
Yeah, I heard every one, plus some extras, because some of them had way too many syllables for the verse structure.
heard em all plus extra syllables they were broken
That’s no matter. The feet might bear the verses.
That doesn't matter. The syllables could support the verses.
That's okay. The syllables could carry the lines.
doesn't matter syllables can carry it
Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the
verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
But those syllables were broken and couldn't stand up on their own without the verse structure, so they just sat awkwardly in the lines.
But those syllables were messed up and couldn't work on their own without the verse lines, so they just sat there limping.
syllables were broken couldn't stand alone so they limped thru the verse
But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and
carved upon these trees?
But did you hear it without being amazed at how your name was being carved and hung on these trees?
But could you even listen without being shocked that your name was all over these trees?
u not shocked name on all the trees?
I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for
look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since
Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
I stopped being amazed about six days before you got here, because look what I found on a palm tree. I've never been written about so much since the time of Pythagoras, when I was a rat reborn in Ireland—which I can barely remember.
I got over the shock about a week before you showed up. Look, I found this on a palm tree. I haven't been mentioned this much since that time Pythagoras said I was reborn as an Irish rat—which honestly I can barely recall.
got over it 6 days ago found this on a palm been written about more even as reborn irish rat can't remember that tho
Trow you who hath done this?
Do you know who did this?
Do you have any idea who did this?
who did this?
Is it a man?
Is someone masculine responsible for this?
Is a guy the one who did it?
a guy did this?
And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?
And he's wearing a chain you once had around your neck. Are you changing color?
And he's got that chain you used to wear around his neck. You looking pale?
he's wearing ur chain u changing color? nerves getting to u?
I prithee, who?
Who is it, please?
Come on, who is it?
tell me who
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains
may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.
Lord, Lord, it's hard for friends to meet; but mountains can move when earthquakes shake them, so people can meet even after being separated.
Oh man, it's so rare for friends to run into each other. But hey, earthquakes can move mountains, so people can bump into each other even when they're far apart.
so hard 4 friends 2 meet mountains move with earthquakes so u can meet
Nay, but who is it?
But tell me the person's identity.
But seriously, who actually is it?
but who tho?
Is it possible?
Is it possible?
Is it possible?
Is it possible?
Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
No, please, with the most earnest begging, tell me who it is.
No seriously, I'm begging you, just tell me who it is.
plz tell me who is it i'm begging
O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again
wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
Oh wonderful, wonderful, most wonderfully wonderful, and wonderful again, beyond all belief and shouting!
Oh amazing, amazing, incredibly amazing, and amazing again, more than you could even cheer about!
amazing amazing amazing amazing! more than u can shout about!
Good my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a
man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay
more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly,
and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour
this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of
narrow-mouthed bottle—either too much at once or none at all. I prithee
take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.
Good grief! Do you really think, even though I'm dressed like a man with doublet and hose, that I have a man's nature inside? One moment more of delay is like discovering a new continent. Please tell me who it is quickly, speak faster. I wish you'd stammer so you'd pour this man's name out of your mouth like wine from a narrow-necked bottle—either too much at once or nothing. Please take the cork from your mouth so I can drink your news.
Seriously! Do you actually think that just because I'm wearing a man's outfit with a doublet and hose, that's how I think inside? Every extra second is like finding a brand new continent. Please, tell me who it is fast. Speak quicker. I wish you'd mess up your words so this guy's name would just pour out of you like wine from a tight bottle—either way too much or nothing at all. Just let it out so I can hear what you're saying.
i'm dressed like a man but i'm not inside tell me NOW quick quick each second = new continent let it out i need to know
So you may put a man in your belly.
That way you could swallow a man.
That way you'd actually take a man inside you.
then u can swallow a man
Orlando's poems are objectively bad. The 'Rosalind' rhyme scheme ('Ind / Rosalind / wind / Rosalind') is mechanical to the point of self-parody. Touchstone needs only thirty seconds to generate six variations on the same pattern. This is deliberate.
Shakespeare was one of the greatest poets in the English language. He knew perfectly well how to write a good sonnet. The badness of Orlando's verse is a characterization choice: Orlando is sincere to the point of being artless. He has genuine feeling and no craft. The poems are earnest and they're awful — and that combination is more charming than polished verse would be.
This also sets up Rosalind's first test of him. When she dismisses Touchstone's parody as a 'false gallop,' she's implicitly defending the genuine feeling behind Orlando's bad poems against Touchstone's technically superior mockery. Orlando's verses are bad poetry and real love. Touchstone's are better poetry and no love at all.
The scene asks which matters more. Rosalind's decision to woo Orlando in the next hundred lines answers the question.
Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or
his chin worth a beard?
Is he made by God? What kind of man is he? Is his head worth wearing a hat, or his chin worth growing a beard?
Is he a real man? What's he like? Is his head good-looking enough for a hat, or his face good-looking enough for a beard?
is he real? what kinda guy? head = hat-worthy? chin = beard-worthy?
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
No, he has only a little beard.
No, he's barely got any beard.
just a little beard
Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the
growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
Well, God will send more if the man will be grateful for it. Let me wait for the growth of his beard, if you don't delay me from knowing about his chin.
Well, God'll give him more beard if he's grateful. I'll wait for his beard to grow if you just tell me about his chin already.
god sends more if he's grateful i'll wait for beard growth just tell me about his chin
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your
heart both in an instant.
It's young Orlando, the one who threw the wrestler to the ground and stole your heart in that same instant.
It's that young guy Orlando—the one who defeated the wrestler and made you fall in love with him in one second.
it's orlando the one who beat the wrestler and stole ur heart
Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true maid.
No, stop joking! Speak seriously and honestly.
Stop it with the jokes! Tell me straight and true.
stop messing w me tell me straight no jokes
I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.
Truly, cousin, it's him.
For real, cuz, it's him.
real talk cuz it's him
Orlando?
Orlando?
Orlando?
Orlando?
Orlando.
Orlando.
Orlando.
Orlando.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he
when thou saw’st him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he?
What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he
with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.
Oh no, what am I going to do with this man's outfit I'm wearing? What did he do when you saw him? What did he say? How did he look? What was he wearing? What is he doing here? Did he ask about me? Where is he staying? How did your meeting end? And when will you see him again? Answer me in just one word.
Oh man, what am I supposed to do dressed as a guy? What was he doing when you found him? What did he say? How did he look? What was he wearing? What's he doing out here? Did he mention me? Where's he staying? How did you two part ways? When will you see him next? Give me one word for all that.
what do i do dressed as a guy? what was he doing? what'd he say? how'd he look? where is he? did he ask 4 me? when u see him again? one word answer
You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first. ’Tis a word too great for
any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is
more than to answer in a catechism.
You'd have to borrow Gargantua's enormous mouth first. That's too much for any ordinary mouth. To answer yes and no to all these questions would be harder than answering a religious instruction list.
You'd have to borrow a giant's mouth for that. It's too much for a normal person's mouth. Answering yes or no to all those questions would be more complicated than going through a whole religious lesson.
need giant mouth 4 that its 2 much answering all = harder than religion
But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel? Looks
he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
But does he know that I'm in this forest dressed like a man? Does he look as fresh and healthy as he did the day he wrestled?
But does he even know I'm out here in the woods dressed as a guy? Does he look as good as he did on the day he wrestled?
does he know i'm here? in this forest dressed like a guy? he look as good as wrestling day?
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a
lover. But take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good
observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.
It's as hard to figure out what a lover's thinking as it is to count individual atoms. But get a taste of how I found him, and pay close attention. I found him under a tree, like a fallen acorn.
Understanding what a lover's thinking is about as impossible as counting atoms. But wait till you hear how I found him—really pay attention. He was lying under a tree like a dropped acorn.
understanding lovers is impossible, like counting atoms. but listen to how i found him. he was under a tree like a dropped acorn
It may well be called Jove’s tree when it drops forth such fruit.
It might rightly be called Jupiter's tree when it drops such beautiful fruit.
That tree could definitely be called Jupiter's tree if it's dropping fruit like that.
that's jupiter's tree dropping such good fruit
Give me audience, good madam.
Listen to me, good madam.
Pay attention, will you?
listen to me
Proceed.
Proceed.
Proceed.
Proceed.
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.
He was lying stretched out like a wounded soldier.
He was lying out like an injured knight.
stretched out like wounded knight
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
Though it's sad to see such a sight, it looks beautiful on the ground.
Even though it's painful to see him like that, it actually suits the landscape.
sad to c him like that but looks good on ground
Cry “holla!” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets unseasonably. He was
furnished like a hunter.
Tell your tongue to stop! I'm asking you. It's getting ahead of itself. He was dressed like a hunter.
Tell your tongue to shut up! I'm asking. It's going too fast. He was dressed as a huntsman.
stop your tongue it's rambling he dressed like hunter
O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.
Oh no! He comes to break my heart.
Oh no! He's going to destroy my heart.
omg he's gonna break my heart
I would sing my song without a burden. Thou bring’st me out of tune.
I want to tell my story without interruption. You're throwing me off.
I'm trying to tell my story straight. You're messing me up.
ur distracting me from my story
Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say
on.
Don't you know I'm a woman? When I think, I have to speak. Go ahead, say more.
You know I'm a woman, right? I can't help but say what I'm thinking. Come on, keep going.
i'm a woman i speak when i think keep going
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
You're throwing me off my rhythm. Wait, is he coming here?
You're getting me all flustered. Hold up, is he coming here now?
u got me flustered he coming here?
’Tis he! Slink by, and note him.
It's him! Sneak away and watch him.
That's him! Get out of sight and watch what he does.
found him watch quietly
I thank you for your company but, good faith, I had as lief have been
myself alone.
I appreciate you keeping me company, but honestly, I would have preferred to be alone.
Thanks for the company, but I'd really rather be by myself right now.
thanks 4 company but id rather be alone
And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your
society.
Same here, but for politeness, I also thank you for the friendship.
Same, but I'm being polite by thanking you too.
same here but being polite thanks
God be wi’ you, let’s meet as little as we can.
God be with you. Let's see each other as little as possible.
Goodbye. Let's avoid each other as much as we can.
see u never go away
I do desire we may be better strangers.
I'd like us to be better acquaintances—as strangers.
I hope we end up being total strangers instead.
lets be strangers not acquainted
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks.
Please, don't carve any more love poems into these trees' bark.
Stop carving love poems into the trees, will you?
stop carving poems on trees
I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.
Please, don't damage any more of my verses by reading them in such a bad way.
Stop ruining my poems by reading them so badly.
stop reading my poems so bad
Rosalind's Time speech ('Time travels in divers paces with divers persons') is a serious philosophical observation packaged as conversational play. The insight is modern and precise: time is not uniform; it expands and contracts depending on the experiential state of the person inside it.
The four examples are brilliantly chosen. The waiting bride (betrothed but not yet married) lives in expanded time — a week of waiting feels like seven years. The comfortable rich man lives in contracted time — comfortable and painless, time slides past. The thief walking to the gallows lives in accelerated dread — even the slowest pace feels too fast when the destination is death. The vacationing lawyer lives outside time entirely — between obligations, time doesn't register.
Rosalind is almost certainly describing her own situation as she speaks: she is the waiting bride, in the interval between her private certainty of love and its public acknowledgment. But she can't say so. The speech is autobiographical disguised as philosophy.
The Time speech also does structural work. It prepares the audience for the strange temporality of the wooing game that's about to begin: a game in which neither party is fully in the real world, in which a therapeutic fiction will carry them through to marriage. In Arden, time really does work differently.
Rosalind is your love’s name?
Is the lady named Rosalind the object of your romantic feelings?
The girl you're in love with is Rosalind?
ur love's name rosalind?
Yes, just.
Yes, just.
Yes, just.
Yes, just.
I do not like her name.
I don't like her name.
I don't care for that name.
i dont like that name
There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
Nobody was thinking about pleasing you when she was given her name.
Nobody was worried about your opinion when she got named.
no one asked ur opinion when she got named
What stature is she of?
What is her height or stature?
How tall is she?
how tall?
Just as high as my heart.
Exactly as tall as my heart is deep.
She's as tall as my heart runs deep.
as deep as my heart
You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with
goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?
You've got clever answers ready. Have you learned to memorize these smooth lines from the wives of goldsmiths?
You're full of smooth answers. Did you memorize all these lines from goldsmiths' wives?
ur smooth w answers learn from goldsmiths' wives?
Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have
studied your questions.
Not at all; instead, I answer you with the kind of flat, obvious responses you'd find in cheap wall tapestries, from which you've studied your own questions.
Nope, I'm answering you with the kind of basic, obvious lines you'd find on cheap wall hangings—which is where you learned your questions from.
nah i answer like cheap tapestries that's where u learned ur questions
You have a nimble wit. I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you
sit down with me? And we two will rail against our mistress the world
and all our misery.
You're sharp and clever. I'd swear your quick mind came from Atalanta herself—the fastest runner ever. Come sit with me, and we'll spend time complaining about how cruel the world is and all the suffering it brings us.
You're really sharp and witty. Honestly, your brain must be as fast as Atalanta was—like, the legendary fastest runner. Want to sit down with me and just vent about how messed up the world is and how much everything sucks?
you're super quick let's sit and complain about how much the world sucks
I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know
most faults.
I won't criticize anyone else in the world—only myself, because I know better than anyone what my own faults are.
I'm not going to call out anyone else. I only blame myself, because I know my own flaws better than anyone could.
i'm only mad at myself i know my own faults best
The worst fault you have is to be in love.
Your greatest flaw is being in love.
Your biggest problem is that you're in love.
your worst problem? you're in love
’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.
That's a fault I won't give up, even in exchange for your finest quality. I'm tired of this conversation with you.
That's not a fault I'm willing to trade for any virtue you have. Honestly, I'm sick of talking to you.
being in love is worth it i'm done with you
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
I swear, I was looking for a fool, and I found you instead.
I was literally searching for a fool, and then I found you.
i was looking for a fool wel congratulations you found one
He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.
He's drowning in the brook. Just look in there and you'll see the fool.
He's in the brook. Look down into the water and you'll see your fool reflected back at you.
the fool's in the brook look in the water
There I shall see mine own figure.
There I'll see my own reflection.
Yeah, I'll see myself reflected back.
i'll see myself
Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
Which I consider to be either a fool or nothing—a zero.
Which is either a fool or just nothing—like you don't even exist.
you're either dumb or just nothing
I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love.
I won't stay here with you any longer. Goodbye, my good Mr. Love.
I'm done talking to you. See you later, Mr. Love.
i'm outta here bye mr. love
I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.
I'm relieved you're leaving. Farewell, good Mr. Sadness.
Good riddance. Take care, Mr. Melancholy.
glad you're leaving bye mr. sad dude
I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the
knave with him.
Do you hear, forester?
I'll talk to him like an impudent servant boy, and pretending to be that boy, I'll trick him with wit. Do you hear me, forest dweller?
I'm going to talk to him like I'm some sassy servant kid, and in that disguise I'll have fun messing with him. You listening, forest guy?
i'll act like a sassy servant and mess with him hey, forest guy, you listening?
Very well. What would you?
All right. What do you want?
Sure. What do you want from me?
ok what do you want
I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
Please, what time is it?
Hey, what time is it?
do you have the time
You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest.
You should ask me what time of day it is. There's no clock in the forest.
You should ask what time of day it is, not what o'clock it is. There's no actual clock out here in the forest.
ask what time of day not what o'clock no clocks in the forest
Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute
and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a
clock.
Then there's no real lover in the forest. Otherwise, a lover would sigh every minute and groan every hour, and that would reveal how slowly time passes as well as any clock could.
So there are no real lovers around here. Because if there were, all the sighing they'd do every minute and the groaning every hour would be just as good as a clock for measuring time.
no real lovers here or they'd sigh every minute groan every hour like a clock
And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?
And why didn't you say the swift foot of time? Wouldn't that have been just as fitting?
Wait, why didn't you say the swift foot of time? Wouldn't that make just as much sense?
why the lazy foot? swift foot would work too right
By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.
I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time
gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
No, not at all, sir. Time moves at different speeds for different people. I'll explain which people experience time as a gentle amble, which as a trot, which as a gallop, and which feel time completely stand still.
No, definitely not. Time doesn't move the same for everyone—it's different depending on who you are. I can tell you exactly who gets a slow, peaceful passage of time, who gets a medium pace, who gets it flying by, and who barely notices it passing.
nope time moves different speeds for different people i'll show you who gets what
I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
I ask you, which people experience time as a trot?
So tell me, who experiences time at a trotting pace?
so who gets the trot
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her
marriage and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a
se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven
year.
Well, time trots quickly with a young bride between getting engaged and the actual wedding day. If there's only a week between them, time moves so fast that it feels like seven years.
Time really moves at a trot with a young bride-to-be, between her engagement and her wedding day. If it's just a week, time goes so fast it feels like seven years.
time trots with a bride between engagement & wedding. if it's just a week, it feels like 7 years
Who ambles time withal?
Who experiences time as a gentle amble?
And who gets the gentle, leisurely pace of time?
who gets the amble
With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout;
for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives
merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean
and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious
penury. These time ambles withal.
With a priest who doesn't know Latin and a rich man who doesn't suffer from gout. The priest sleeps easily because he has no capacity for study, so he doesn't suffer the burden of scholarly learning. The rich man lives happily because he feels no pain, so he doesn't bear the heavy weight of poverty. Time moves gently and easily for both of these men.
A priest who doesn't know Latin and a rich guy without gout experience time easily. The priest doesn't stress because he can't really study anyway—no pressure from learning. The rich guy is happy because he has no pain and doesn't worry about money. Time just floats by peacefully for guys like them.
priests without latin rich guys without gout they both sleep easy no pain no stress time just ambles by
Who doth he gallop withal?
Who experiences time at a gallop—very quickly?
So who feels time flying by really fast?
who gets the gallop
The 'cure' Rosalind offers Orlando is the most audacious move in the play. She proposes that he come to her cottage every day and woo her — calling her Rosalind — as a therapeutic exercise to break his obsession. She claims to have cured a previous patient by performing all of love's inconstancy until he gave up.
But Rosalind IS Rosalind. There is no therapeutic distance. Every time Orlando says her name, he's saying it to her face. Every sincere declaration of love he makes to 'Ganymede' is received by the woman he loves, who is taking careful note.
This puts Rosalind in a position of extraordinary control — and extraordinary vulnerability. She knows everything; he knows nothing. She's designed the game; he thinks he's playing a different one. She can monitor his sincerity, test his constancy, observe him at his most earnest without the performance pressure of being recognized.
But there's a cost: she has to listen to him love her without being able to respond as herself. The joke and the ache are simultaneous.
Shakespeare gives Rosalind this power deliberately — she is the playwright of her own story in a way that no other Shakespearean heroine fully is. The scene ends with her in total command of the narrative, and yet she's already in the trap she's built for him.
With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can
fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
With a criminal on the way to execution. Even though he moves as slowly as any person can walk, he feels like he's getting there far too quickly.
A criminal being led to the gallows. No matter how slowly he walks, it feels like he's arriving way too fast.
time gallops for thieves going to the gallows feels too fast no matter what
Who stays it still withal?
Who experiences time as completely standing still?
And who feels like time just stops completely?
who gets time to stand still
With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and
then they perceive not how time moves.
With lawyers during their vacation time. They sleep between legal terms, and while they sleep they don't notice how time passes.
Lawyers on vacation. They basically sleep the whole time between court sessions, so they don't really notice time going by.
lawyers on vacation they sleep between terms time just stops for them
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Where do you live, pretty young man?
So where do you live, handsome?
where do you live pretty boy
With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest,
like fringe upon a petticoat.
With this shepherdess—my sister—here at the edge of the forest, like the decorative fringe sewn onto the bottom of a skirt.
I live with my sister, who's a shepherdess, here on the outskirts of the forest—like we're the fringe on the edges.
with my sister out at the edge of the forest like fringe on a skirt
Are you native of this place?
Are you originally from this place?
Did you grow up here?
from around here
As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Like the rabbit you might see, I live where I was born.
Like a rabbit, I was born here and I've stayed here.
like a rabbit i was born here
Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a
dwelling.
Your way of speaking is too refined, too educated—better than you could have picked up living in such an isolated place.
You talk way too fancy for someone who lives out here in the middle of nowhere.
you talk too fancy for someone living way out here
I have been told so of many. But indeed an old religious uncle of mine
taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man, one that knew
courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read
many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be
touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their
whole sex withal.
Many people have told me that. But truly, an old uncle of mine—a man of the church—taught me to speak. In his youth he was an educated man, someone who understood courtly life and love affairs so well that he fell in love there. I've listened to him give many lectures against love, and I'm grateful I'm not a woman, because he blamed their whole sex with so many ridiculous faults for love and passion.
Yeah, people say that a lot. But honestly, I had this old priest uncle who taught me how to speak properly. When he was younger he was this sophisticated courtly guy who knew all about love and romance—too well, actually, because he fell in love and got burned. Now he lectures about how terrible love is, and I'm just grateful I'm not a woman because he basically thinks women are all silly and crazy and falling in love all the time.
my old priest uncle taught me he knew love too well fell hard now he lectures against it glad i'm not a woman too many faults he says
Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge
of women?
Can you recall any of the main faults he blamed women for having?
Can you remember what specific flaws he said women have?
what faults did he say women have
There were none principal. They were all like one another as halfpence
are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to
match it.
There were no single main fault. They were all alike, the way coins of the same value all look the same. Each fault seems huge and terrible on its own, until another fault comes along that matches it and makes it seem less extreme.
There wasn't really one main fault. They were all basically the same, like identical pennies. Each flaw looked huge by itself until another identical flaw showed up to match it.
no one main fault they're all alike like matching coins each seems huge till the next shows up
I prithee recount some of them.
I ask you, tell me some of them.
Come on, give me some examples.
tell me some examples
No. I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is
a man haunts the forest that 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.
No. I won't waste my medicine except on sick people. There's a man in the forest who damages young trees by carving "Rosalind" into their bark, who hangs love poems on hawthorn bushes and sad poems on brambles—all of it treating the name Rosalind like it's sacred. If I could find this love-struck dreamer, I'd give him some honest advice, because it looks like he's got love fever—the kind that comes back every day.
Nope. I only give my medicine to people who are actually sick. There's this guy hanging around the forest who's carving "Rosalind" all over the trees, hanging poems on bushes—love poems on hawthorns, sad poems on brambles—like he's worshipping the name. If I ever ran into this lovesick loser, I'd definitely give him some good advice, because he's clearly got love fever that won't quit.
not wasting my wisdom on healthy people this guy carves rosalind on trees hangs poems everywhere so obsessed i'd fix him if i could
I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you tell me your remedy.
I'm the one who's been shaken by love so badly. I'm asking you, tell me how you'd help me.
Yeah, that's me—love has completely wrecked me. So please, what's your cure?
that's me love wrecked me how would you fix it
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.
You don't show any of my uncle's signs of being in love. He taught me how to recognize a man in love, and in that cage of symptoms I'm certain you're not trapped.
You don't show any signs of being in love—at least not the real signs my uncle taught me to recognize. You're not actually caught in that trap.
you don't have the marks of real love i can tell
What were his marks?
What signs did he describe?
What are the signs?
what signs
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 everything 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.
A thin face from losing weight—you don't have that. Pale, sunken eyes—you don't have those either. A spirit that can't ask questions or think clearly—you don't have that. An unkempt beard—you don't have that either, though I'll forgive you because your facial hair is thin and fine, like the kind that only a second son gets as his inheritance. A true lover's clothes should all be undone: stockings loose, hat unbuttoned, sleeves hanging open, shoes untied, everything showing complete careless neglect of appearance. But you're not like that at all. You're precisely put-together in every detail, like you care more about looking good than actually being in love with someone else.
A gaunt face from not eating—you don't have that. Dark, sunken eyes—nope. That kind of distracted, absent look—not on you. And a scraggly beard—you definitely don't have that, though honestly I can't blame you since your facial hair is pretty sparse anyway. A real lover would have everything falling apart: pants not held up, hat off, shirt unbuttoned, shoes untied, looking like he literally doesn't care how he appears. But you? You're perfectly dressed and groomed. You look like you care more about how good you look than about actually being in love.
you don't look starved no sunken eyes no crazy look no beard your clothes are perfect showing off more than showing love
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Beautiful young man, I wish I could make you believe that I truly love you.
Pretty boy, I really wish I could convince you that I'm actually in love.
i wish you'd believe i really love you
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 Rosalind is so admired?
Make me believe it? You'd have better luck making the woman you love believe it—and I'm confident she's more ready to hide her own feelings than to admit she has them. That's one of the ways women betray what they truly feel. But honestly now, are you the one who hangs poems on the trees, the ones that praise Rosalind so much?
Make me believe it? You'd have an easier time convincing the woman you actually love—and honestly, she'd rather hide that she loves you back anyway. Women are always doing that, pretending they don't feel what they obviously feel. But anyway, is that you hanging all those poems on the trees about Rosalind?
convince me? you can't even convince her she's hiding it too that's what women do are you the one carving rosalind poems
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he,
that unfortunate he.
I swear to you, young man, by the beautiful hand of Rosalind, that I am that person—that unlucky lover.
I'm telling you the truth, kid—by Rosalind's hand, I'm the one, the poor guy who's in love with her.
i swear by rosalind i'm that guy that unfortunate lover
But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
But are you as deeply in love as your poems suggest?
So are you actually as in love as those poems make it sound?
are you really that in love or just good at writing poems
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Neither verse nor logic can possibly express how much I'm in love.
There's no poem and no explanation that could express how deep my love is.
no poem can say how much i love her
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.
Love is nothing but insanity, and I'm telling you it deserves to be treated just like any other madness: locked in a dark room and beaten with whips. The only reason people with love-madness aren't treated this way is because the madness is so common that even the people who should be curing it are themselves in love. But I do claim I can cure it with good advice.
Love is basically just crazy, and honestly it deserves the same treatment we give to crazy people—locked up and whipped. The only reason we don't do that is because it's such a common kind of crazy that even the people supposed to be curing it are themselves in love. But I'm pretty good at curing it with the right advice.
love is madness deserves lockup and whips but everyone's doing it even the doctors i can fix it tho
Did you ever cure any so?
Have you ever actually cured anyone of love this way?
Have you actually done it? Have you cured anyone?
you ever actually cure anyone
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 anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this
colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then
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.
Yes, one man, and here's how I did it. I told him to pretend I was his beloved, his mistress, and every day he came to court me. When he did, I would act like a foolish, moody youth—I'd grieve, act weak and emotional, be changeable, sometimes yearning and sometimes cold, proud, fanciful, imitative, shallow, and inconsistent; full of tears one moment and smiles the next. For every emotion there was something, but nothing sincere, the way most boys and women behave—like livestock with this particular defect. I'd like him one moment and hate him the next. Then I'd welcome him, then reject him. I'd weep for him, then spit at him. In this way I drove my lover so far from his mad state of being in love that he swung all the way over into another kind of madness: he rejected the whole world and went off to live alone like a monk. And that's how I cured him. This is the method I'll use with you, and I promise I'll clean your heart as completely as a healthy sheep's heart, so that there won't be a single trace of love left in it.
Yeah, I did. I had this guy imagine I was his beloved, and every day he'd come try to woo me. And I'd act like this moody, flaky teenager—crying, then smiling, wanting him, then hating him, being all proud and dramatic and fake. I was hot and cold, serious and silly, a total mess every time he showed up. Like, one minute I'd like him, the next I'd reject him. I'd cry for him, then mock him. I pushed him so far away from being in love that he just said forget it and went off to live like a monk in the woods. That cured him right up. And I can do the same thing to you—I'll get all this love nonsense out of your heart completely.
yeah i cured a guy i told him to court me then i played hot and cold crying laughing rejecting him so he gave up went to live like a monk i'll do that to you too guarantee it
I would not be cured, youth.
I don't want to be cured, young man.
Actually, I don't want to be cured.
don't cure me
I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day
to my cote and woo me.
I would cure you, if only you'd call me Rosalind and come to my cottage every day and court me.
Well, I'll cure you anyway if you come call me Rosalind and show up at my place every day to court me.
i'll cure you if you call me rosalind come to my place every day and court me
Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
By my love and my loyalty to it, I swear I will. Tell me where your cottage is.
I swear by my love, I'll do it. Just tell me where to find it.
i swear i will tell me where you live
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?
Come with me there and I'll show you. And on the way, you can tell me where in the forest you live. Will you come?
Come on, I'll show you the way. And you can tell me where you're set up in the forest. You coming?
come with me i'll show you tell me where you live let's go
With all my heart, good youth.
I will, with all my heart, good young man.
Absolutely, I'd be happy to.
absolutely
Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?
No, you have to call me Rosalind. Come on, sister, are you coming with us?
Hold on, call me Rosalind from now on. Come on sis, let's go!
call me rosalind sis let's go
The Reckoning
This is the scene where all three threads of the play finally occupy the same forest clearing. Orlando arrives first, embarrassingly, pinning verses to trees. Touchstone arrives to deflate pastoral romanticism with cold logic. Then Rosalind arrives — and the moment she learns Orlando is in the forest, she barely functions. By the scene's end she has arranged her own wooing, in disguise, knowing exactly who he is while he knows nothing. The dramatic irony is total: the cure she offers is the disease she already has, and the therapeutic fiction she invents will carry them both straight through to marriage.
If this happened today…
Your ex is apparently in your city for a work trip and has been leaving notes on neighborhood bulletin boards saying how great you are. Your roommate reads one aloud, laughing. Then she starts teasing you — she knows who wrote them — and takes seven agonizing minutes to confirm what you already suspect. So you find him at the coffee shop, pretend you've never met, and offer to do couples therapy roleplay to help him get over his ex. The ex is you. He never figures it out. You're absolutely in control the whole time and also completely falling apart.