I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
I'm asking you, young man, let's get to know each other better.
Hey, you seem nice—want to actually talk and get to know each other?
let's get to know each other better
They say you are a melancholy fellow.
People tell me you're a sad person.
I hear you're the serious, brooding type.
you seem depressed all the time
I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
I am indeed sad, and I prefer being sad to laughing.
Yeah, I am. And honestly, I like being sad way more than being happy.
i prefer sadness to happiness
Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and
betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
People who go too far in either direction—being too sad or too happy—are awful and expose themselves to criticism worse than drunk people do.
But people who take it to extremes either way are terrible, and they humiliate themselves more than a drunk person would.
extremes of emotion are worse than being drunk
Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
Why, it's good to be sad and stay silent.
Well, there's something good about being sad and just keeping quiet.
being sad and quiet is fine
Why then, ’tis good to be a post.
Then it's good to be a post—a silent, wooden thing.
Then you're basically saying it's good to be a fence post—just standing there saying nothing.
so you're a wooden fence post
I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the
musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud;
nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is
politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all
these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,
extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my
travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous
sadness.
I don't have a scholar's sadness, which comes from rivalry; nor a musician's, which is whimsical; nor a courtier's, which is arrogant; nor a soldier's, which is ambitious; nor a lawyer's, which is calculating; nor a lady's, which is fussy; nor a lover's, which is all of these combined. But my sadness is my own, made up of many different things, taken from many experiences, and really it comes from thinking deeply about my travels, and all that thinking wraps me up in a very peculiar sadness.
I'm not sad like a scholar is—they're sad from competition. Or like a musician, who's sad in a weird, artistic way. Or like a courtier, stuck-up about being sad. Or a soldier, who's sad from ambition. Or a lawyer, sad in a sneaky way. Or a lady, sad in a prissy way. Or a lover, who's sad from all these things at once. My sadness is totally different—it's this unique mix I've built up from all my travels and all the thinking I do about them. I just get wrapped up in this strange, beautiful sadness.
my sadness isn't like anyone else's it's my own special mix from all my travels and thinking
A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you
have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and
to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
A traveler! By my faith, you have very good reason to be sad. I'm worried you've sold your own property to see other people's property. So you've seen a lot but have nothing—that's having beautiful vision but being poor.
You're a traveler! Well, that explains why you're so sad. I bet you've sold everything you owned to travel around looking at other people's stuff. You see everything but have nothing to show for it—rich in experiences, broke in the wallet.
you traveled everywhere and saw nothing broke yourself to see other people's stuff visionary but poor
Yes, I have gained my experience.
Yes, I have gained my experience from traveling.
Yeah, I've learned a lot from all my travels.
at least i gained experience
And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me
merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.
And your experiences have made you sad. I would rather have a fool around to make me happy than have experience that makes me sad—especially not having to travel for it.
And now look at you—all that experience just made you depressed. Honestly, I'd rather hang out with a funny idiot to cheer me up than travel around getting sadder and sadder.
experience made you sad i'd rather have a fool to cheer me up
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Good day and all happiness to you, dear Rosalind!
Hey Rosalind! Happy to see you!
hey rosalind
Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
No, then, goodbye to you, if you're going to talk in blank verse.
That's my cue to leave—you two are getting all poetic and serious.
ok i'm outta here
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits;
disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your
nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are,
or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.
Goodbye, Monsieur Traveler. Make sure you lisp and wear strange clothes; deprive yourself of all the advantages of your own country; be ashamed of where you come from, and nearly scold God for giving you the face you have, or I will hardly believe you have traveled in a gondola.
Bye, Monsieur Traveler. You better affect an accent and wear weird clothes; throw away all the benefits of your home country; hate where you're from, and practically curse God for your face—otherwise I won't believe you've been to Venice.
goodbye traveler affect accent wear weird clothes hate ur country scold god for ur face or i wont believe u
Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover!
An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
Well, Orlando, where have you been all this time? You, a lover! If you ever pull a stunt like this again, don't show your face to me anymore.
So Orlando, where have you been? A lover like you! If you ever miss an appointment like this again, I don't want to see you.
where've you been? can't believe you did this never again or we're done
The Petrarchan convention — which dominated European love poetry for two hundred years before Shakespeare — treated the beloved as a fixed, transcendent ideal and the lover as perpetually ardent. Laura doesn't change. Beatrice doesn't age. The lover worships across an infinite distance, and the poem is the worship. Marriage, in this system, is almost an irrelevance; it is the longing that matters.
Rosalind's 'Men are April when they woo, December when they wed' is one of the most concise rejections of this convention in the language. She doesn't say love doesn't exist. She says it changes. Men change. Women change. The sky changes when they are wives. This is not cynicism — it is the insistence that real love has to survive the change, has to choose reality over idealization, has to keep working when the April warmth is gone and December has moved in.
The extraordinary thing about the speech is where it's being spoken and to whom. Rosalind is delivering this lecture to the man she loves, in the middle of a wooing scene she has stage-managed, immediately after agreeing to love him 'Fridays and Saturdays and all.' She is telling him, as directly as she dares while still wearing the mask: I will not be what your poems say I am. I will be this. All of it. Are you in?
Orlando's response — 'But will my Rosalind do so?' — shows he's already half-won over. He asks about 'his' Rosalind as though she's a distinct person. He still doesn't know she's standing in front of him. The speech is both a warning and an offer: I am showing you the real thing. Take it.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
My beautiful Rosalind, I'm here within an hour of when I promised to come.
Rosalind, I'm here—just barely made it on time.
i made it in time
Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a
thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute
in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped
him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
Break a promise of an hour in love matters? Whoever will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break only a small part of one of those thousand parts in matters of love, it may be said of him that Cupid has given him approval, but I guarantee he remains unaffected by love.
Break an hour-long promise? Someone who can split time into a thousand pieces and still only lose a tiny fraction of a tiny fraction of a minute in love—sure, Cupid might have touched him, but I promise you he's not actually in love.
break an hour promise? divides minute to 1000 parts breaks one tiny piece cupid touched him but hes not in love
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Forgive me, dear Rosalind.
I'm sorry, Rosalind.
sorry
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be
wooed of a snail.
No, if you're going to be so late, don't bother coming to see me anymore. I'd just as soon be courted by a snail.
If you're going to be late, don't even bother showing up. I'd have better luck dating a snail.
if you're late again don't come back i'd rather date a snail
Of a snail?
Of a snail?
Of a snail?
Of a snail?
Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his
head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he
brings his destiny with him.
Yes, of a snail, because though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better marriage settlement, I think, than you give to a woman. Besides, he brings his fate with him.
Yeah, a snail. Because even though he's slow, he's got his own house on his head—better security than you give to a wife. Plus he's got his future already figured out.
yeah a snail he carries his house better dowry than u give plus he brings his fate
What’s that?
What’s that?
What’s that?
What’s that?
Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives
for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his
wife.
Horns—which men like you end up being grateful to your wives for giving you. But a snail comes prepared with his armor and doesn't have to worry about his wife shaming him.
You know, horns—the kind of thing you'd end up thanking your wife for. But a snail's got his own built-in protection and doesn't have to worry about his wife shaming him.
snails got their own armor no wife drama for them
Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.
Virtue doesn't make horns on men, and my Rosalind is virtuous.
My Rosalind is good and faithful, so I have nothing to worry about.
my rosalind is virtuous
And I am your Rosalind.
Well then, I'm the Rosalind you're talking about.
And I'm yours.
i'm your rosalind
It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer
than you.
He likes to call you Rosalind, but he has another Rosalind with a better appearance than you.
He can call you Rosalind if he wants, but he's got another Rosalind back home who looks way better.
he's got a prettier rosalind at home
Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough
to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very
Rosalind?
Come on, court me, court me, because right now I'm in a festive mood and likely to say yes. What would you say to me now if I were actually your Rosalind?
Go ahead, flirt with me—I'm in a good mood and might actually go for it. So what would you say to me if I was your real girlfriend?
convince me i'm in a good mood say something romantic
I would kiss before I spoke.
I would kiss you before I said anything.
I'd kiss you first, no need for words.
id just kiss you
Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack
of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when
they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn
us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
No, you'd do better to speak first, and when you run out of things to say, then you can kiss. Very good speakers, when they're stuck, they spit; and for lovers who are at a loss for words—God help us—the cleanest way out is to kiss.
No way—you should try talking first. And when you get stuck and can't think of anything to say, then you kiss. It's like when great speakers run out of material, they spit; but lovers without anything to say, well, kissing is the polite way to cover it up.
talk first when you get stuck then kiss
How if the kiss be denied?
What if the kiss is refused?
What if she doesn't let you kiss her?
what if no kiss
Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
Then she makes you beg for it, and that gives you something new to talk about.
Then she makes you work for it, and boom—you've got new stuff to say.
then you gotta beg which gives you something to say
Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
Who could be at a loss for words, standing in front of his beloved mistress?
How could I run out of things to say when I'm standing right here looking at you?
how could i not have words for you
In Elizabethan England, the distinction between a 'proper' marriage and a 'handfasting' was more porous than modern audiences might assume. A handfasting — an exchange of vows before witnesses, with the joining of hands — was legally and religiously binding as a betrothal. It didn't require a church or a priest. It required consent, witnesses, and spoken words.
What happens in Act 4, Scene 1 meets every criterion. Rosalind and Orlando join hands. Celia serves as witness. The words spoken — 'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife' / 'I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband' — are the exact formula of the marriage vow. Rosalind notes this herself: 'There's a girl goes before the priest.' She knows the ceremony she is performing is real, or near-real, in ways that make her uncomfortable even as she pushes through it.
Shakespeare builds the scene so that the fiction is the thinnest possible wrapper around a genuine event. The audience is watching a real wedding inside a pretend one, and the pretend wedding is the occasion for a real vow. Rosalind's 'I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband' is not Ganymede playing a character. It is Rosalind using the game as permission to say what she actually means.
This is the play's central gambit: the theatrical frame gives people permission to tell the truth. The disguise doesn't conceal Rosalind's love; it creates the conditions under which she can declare it. The mock-wedding is real because the love behind it is real. Everything else is paperwork.
Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my
honesty ranker than my wit.
Indeed, you should be stuck for words if I were your mistress, or else I'd think I'm more honest than I am clever.
Well, you should get tongue-tied if I was your girlfriend, otherwise I'd think I was just boring and not sharp.
if you had a girlfriend you'd run out of things to say
What, of my suit?
What, lacking words for your romantic pursuit?
You mean with my attempt to win you over?
in my pursuit of you
Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your
Rosalind?
Not lacking in clothes, but lacking in your romantic pursuit. Am I not your Rosalind?
I'm not talking about your outfit, I'm talking about your approach to me. And aren't I your Rosalind?
not your clothes your whole pursuit i'm your rosalind
I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
I'm happy to say you are Rosalind because I like talking about her.
I like saying you're Rosalind because I get to talk about her.
i like talking about you
Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.
Well, in her actual person, I say I won't have you.
But as the real Rosalind, I'm saying no.
as the real rosalind no
Then, in mine own person, I die.
Then, as myself, I die.
Then I guess I'm dead.
then i die
No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years
old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person,
_videlicet_, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a
Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of
the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer
night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont
and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish
chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all
lies. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but
not for love.
No, faith, die by someone else's hand. The world is almost six thousand years old, and in all that time no man has actually died for love. Troilus had his brains beaten in with a club, but he managed to arrange his death anyway, and he's a model of love. Leander would have lived many years even if Hero became a nun, but on one hot summer night he waded into the sea to swim and got a cramp and drowned. The foolish historians of that age blamed it on love for Hero. But that's all lies. Men have died, worms have eaten them, but not one died for love.
No, don't actually die yourself. The world's six thousand years old and nobody has ever actually died for love. Troilus got his skull smashed in, but that wasn't from love. Leander jumped in the water to swim and got a cramp and drowned. The old writers said he died for love because of Hero, but that's nonsense. People die and worms eat them, but nobody dies of love.
nobody dies for love troilus got murdered leander got a cramp it's all mythology men don't die for love
I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her
frown might kill me.
I wouldn't want my real Rosalind to think this way, because I'm telling you her frown would kill me.
I hope the real Rosalind doesn't think like you—just her looking at me angry would destroy me.
her frown would kill me
By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your
Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I
will grant it.
By this hand, it won't even kill a fly. But come, now I'll be your Rosalind in a more encouraging mood, and ask me whatever you want, I'll give it to you.
My frown can't even hurt a fly. But okay, now I'm going to be your Rosalind and I'm in a good mood—ask me for anything and I'll say yes.
ok i'm in a good mood now ask me anything i'll say yes
Then love me, Rosalind.
Then go ahead and love me, Rosalind.
So love me.
love me
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
Yes, truly, I will, Fridays and Saturdays and every day.
Yeah, I will, including all the weekends.
yes fridays saturdays and all
And wilt thou have me?
And will you take me as your husband?
So you'll marry me?
you'll have me?
Ay, and twenty such.
Yes, and twenty like you too.
Yeah, and twenty more guys like you.
yes and twenty more like you
What sayest thou?
What do you say?
What do you think?
what do you say
Are you not good?
Do I need to ask if you're worth having?
Aren't you a good person?
are you good
I hope so.
I hope so.
I hope so.
I hope so.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you
shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do
you say, sister?
Why then, can one want too much of something good?—Come, sister, you'll be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?
So can you ever have too much of a good thing?—Come on, Celia, you're the priest now and you're going to marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, Celia?
can you want too much of something good celia marry us give me your hand orlando
The scene's last line is not spoken to Orlando, not wrapped in a game, not shielded by wit. Orlando has left. Celia is the only audience. The line is: 'I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come.'
For a scene that has been constructed almost entirely of performance — the lecture on lateness, the snail comparison, the April-December speech, the mock-wedding, the elaborate threat about promise-breaking — this bare statement is devastating in its simplicity. She cannot be without him. She will find shade, and she will wait, and she will sigh.
The 'sigh' is Elizabethan. Sighing in 1599 was medically serious — each sigh was believed to cost the heart a drop of blood. When Rosalind says she will 'sigh till he come,' she is not being poetic or theatrical. She is describing a physical compulsion, a bodily response to absence that she can neither control nor dismiss.
What makes the line remarkable is what it follows. For the entire scene, Rosalind has been brilliantly, exhaustingly in control. She has managed the wooing, directed the ceremony, delivered the lectures, and maintained the disguise throughout. None of it has been effortless — we can feel the effort — but she has kept the frame intact. And then Orlando walks out, and the frame falls away in a single sentence. She cannot be out of his sight. That's it. That's the whole truth of the scene, and of the play, and she says it while he's still barely out of earshot.
Pray thee, marry us.
Please, marry us.
Come on, marry us.
marry us
I cannot say the words.
I don't have the right words for this ceremony.
I don't know what to say.
dunno the words
You must begin “Will you, Orlando—”
You must start with "Will you, Orlando—"
Start like this: "Will you, Orlando—"
say will you orlando
Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
Okay.—Will you, Orlando, take this Rosalind as your wife?
Alright, here goes: Do you want to marry this Rosalind, Orlando?
will you marry rosalind orlando
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.
Ay, but when?
Ay, but when?
Ay, but when?
Ay, but when?
Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
Right now, as fast as she can marry us.
Right now, as soon as Celia can say the words.
right now
Then you must say “I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”
Then you'll need to tell her "I take you, Rosalind, as my wife."
Then you say "I take Rosalind as my wife."
say i take rosalind for wife
I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
I take you, Rosalind, to be my wife.
I take Rosalind as my wife.
you're my wife now
I might ask you for your commission. But I do take thee, Orlando, for
my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a
woman’s thought runs before her actions.
I could ask you for proper authorization, but I do take you, Orlando, for my husband. A girl's imagination runs ahead of the priest's words, and certainly a woman's mind runs faster than her actions.
I could make you do this properly, but yeah, I take you as my husband. Women think things through before they do them, so I've already done this in my head.
i take you as my husband women think it through first
So do all thoughts. They are winged.
All thoughts do so. They have wings.
Yeah, thoughts fly ahead.
all thoughts have wings
Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.
Now tell me how long you would want me after we're married.
So how long do you think you'll want me after we're actually married?
how long will you want me after marriage
For ever and a day.
Forever and a day.
Forever.
always no matter what
Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when
they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids,
but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee
than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot
against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires
than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and
I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a
hyena, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.
Just say 'a day,' not 'a day forever.' No, Orlando, men are spring when they woo, winter when they marry. Girls are May as maidens, but the sky changes when they're wives. I will be more jealous than a barnyard rooster, louder than a parrot in rain, more changeable than an ape, more impulsive than a monkey. I will cry for nothing, like a fountain statue, and do it when you want to be happy. I will laugh like a wild animal, and do it when you want to sleep.
Just say 'a day,' not forever. Men are springtime when they're wooing you, then winter after you marry them. Girls are lovely as single women, but everything changes once you're married. I'll be jealous like a rooster guarding his hen, loud as a parrot complaining about rain, as moody as a monkey, crying about nothing one minute and laughing like a hyena the next.
men are spring wooing winter when married i'll be jealous, moody crying, laughing that's marriage
But will my Rosalind do so?
But will my Rosalind act this way?
But will my real Rosalind actually be like that?
will my rosalind do that
By my life, she will do as I do.
On my life, she will do as I do.
She'll be just like me.
she'll do as i do
O, but she is wise.
Oh, but she is wise.
But she's smart.
but she's wise
The scene opens with the play's two most articulate characters in brief, sharp combat. Jaques confesses he would have preferred to be alone. Rosalind responds by calling him 'Master Touchstone' — the wrong name, whether deliberately or not — and asking about his shepherd's life with a blandness that conceals a scalpel.
Jaques's response is his most elaborate self-description in the play: his melancholy is 'compounded of many simples,' extracted from his travels, the product of 'sundry contemplation.' He describes it with the pride of a craftsman showing off fine work. His sadness is an achievement.
Rosalind dismantles this in a single image: 'rich eyes and poor hands.' She has diagnosed the problem exactly — he has looked at the world and taken nothing from it, given nothing to it, turned experience into pure interior decoration. The melancholy is beautiful and entirely useless.
Her follow-up — that she'd rather have a fool to make her merry than experience to make her sad — is more than a preference. It's a statement of the play's value system. The Forest of Arden is full of people who have been dispossessed (Rosalind, Orlando, Duke Senior and his court) or who have chosen exile (Jaques, Touchstone). The question the play asks is what you do with that dispossession. Do you cultivate your sadness into a philosophy, or do you laugh and love and plant your feet in the actual world?
Rosalind has already answered that question by the time Jaques walks in. She's going to wait for Orlando in the shade and sigh. The sighing is real. But she will also joke about it. That's the difference.
Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the
waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the
casement. Shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole. Stop that, ’twill
fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
Or she couldn't have the intelligence to do what I do. The smarter a woman is, the more independent she becomes. Lock up a woman's wit and it escapes through the window. Block that and it goes out through the keyhole. Stop that and it flies out with the chimney smoke.
Or she wouldn't be smart enough. Smarter women are more unpredictable. You can't contain a woman's wit. Close the door and it goes out the window. Block that and it escapes through the keyhole. Stop that and it drifts out through the chimney.
smart women are unstoppable you can't contain us we always escape
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, “Wit, whither
wilt?”
A man who had a wife with such wit might ask her wit, "Where are you going?"
A guy married to a woman that clever would be chasing after her wit asking "Where are you headed?"
her wit would go everywhere
Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit
going to your neighbour’s bed.
No, you'd have to save that question for when you catch your wife's wit on its way to your neighbor's bed.
Yeah, you'd have plenty of chances to ask when you find her wit sneaking over to your neighbor's house.
her wit would go to the neighbor's bed
And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
And what excuse could even her smartness come up with for that?
What kind of excuse could even intelligence come up with for cheating like that?
no excuse for that
Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her
without her answer unless you take her without her tongue. O, that
woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never
nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
She would say she came to find you there. You'll never catch her without an answer unless you cut out her tongue. Any woman who can't turn her own mistake into an opportunity for her husband shouldn't raise her own child, because she'll raise it like a fool.
She'd just say she went there to find you. You can't stop a smart woman from having an answer—you'd have to cut out her tongue. Any woman who can't turn her mistakes into ways to manipulate her husband shouldn't raise her own kids because she'll ruin them.
she'd say she was looking for you can't catch her without an answer women gotta use their wit
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
For these two hours, Rosalind, I must leave you.
I've got to go for two hours, Rosalind.
i gotta go for two hours
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
Oh, dear love, I cannot be without you for two hours.
I can't go two hours without you.
two hours is too long
I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee
again.
I must attend the Duke for dinner. I'll be back by two o'clock.
I've got to have dinner with the Duke, but I'll be back by two.
dinner with the duke back by 2
Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove. My friends
told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours
won me. ’Tis but one cast away, and so, come death! Two o’clock is your
hour?
Yes, go on your way. I knew what would happen. My friends told me and I believed them. Your smooth talk won me over. I'm just one girl lost, so let death come! Two o'clock is when you're coming back?
Yeah, go ahead. I knew this would happen—my friends warned me. Your sweet talk got me. I'm just another girl thrown away, so whatever. You're coming back at two o'clock, right?
go ahead i knew this would happen two o'clock right
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty
oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or
come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical
break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her
you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the
unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
By my honor, and seriously, and so help me God, and by all harmless oaths, if you break even a tiny bit of your promise or come even one minute late, I will think you the most pitiful oath-breaker, the most fake lover, and the most unworthy of being called Rosalind's lover among all the unfaithful men in the world. So watch out for my judgment, and keep your promise.
Seriously, I'm swearing on everything—if you're even a minute late or break your word at all, I'll think you're a pathetic liar and the worst boyfriend, totally unworthy of anyone. So keep your promise or you're dead to me.
swear you'll be on time don't be late if you break this i'm done
With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.
I'll hold this promise with as much devotion as if you were actually my true Rosalind. So, goodbye.
I'll keep this promise like you're my real girlfriend. Goodbye.
promise kept bye rosalind
Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let
time try. Adieu.
Well, Time is the ancient judge who examines all such wrongdoers, so let time be the test. Goodbye.
Time will tell if you're faithful or not, so we'll see. Goodbye.
time will tell bye
You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate! We must have your
doublet and hose plucked over your head and show the world what the
bird hath done to her own nest.
You've completely mocked our entire gender with your romantic talk! We should pull your clothes off over your head and show everyone what the bird has done to ruin her own nest.
You've totally made fun of all women with your sweet-talking act! We should strip you naked and show what that bird-woman did to mess up her own nest.
you insulted all women with your romantic act
O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many
fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath
an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
Oh cousin, cousin, cousin, my pretty little cousin, if only you knew how impossibly deep I am in love! But it can't be measured; my love has no bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
Oh Celia, Celia, I'm so deep in love it can't even be measured—it's like an ocean with no bottom.
i'm so deep in love no bottom to it like the ocean
Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs
out.
Or rather, bottomless—as fast as you pour love in, it drains right out.
Yeah, except no—it's like a hole where love goes in and just disappears.
love drains right out no bottom
No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought,
conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that
abuses everyone’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how
deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight
of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
No, let that wicked bastard of Venus, born of thinking, made of spite, and brought into being by madness, that blind rascal who hurts everyone because he's blind, let him judge how deep in love I am. I'm telling you, I cannot be away from Orlando's sight. I'll go find some shade and sigh until he comes.
No, let Cupid himself—that messed-up, blind kid born from thinking and madness—judge how deep I'm in love. I can't be away from Orlando. I'll just go hide in the shade and sigh until he shows up.
i can't be away from orlando i'll wait in the shade and sigh
And I’ll sleep.
And I’ll sleep.
And I’ll sleep.
And I’ll sleep.
The Reckoning
Everything in this scene is double. The wooing is a game and it's the most earnest wooing in the play. The wedding is pretend and it is entirely real. Rosalind speaks as Ganymede the whole time, and she means every word she says as herself. The mask never slips — it just becomes transparent. By the time Orlando leaves, Rosalind doesn't bother hiding anymore: 'I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando.' The performance is over. The feeling has been there the whole time, and she knows it.
If this happened today…
Imagine a woman who, after weeks of anonymous texting with a guy she's actually in love with, finally has him in person — but she's been pretending to be someone else the whole time, coaching him on what to say to 'her.' So now she has to stay in character, run the scene she invented, and simultaneously feel the full weight of the real thing happening underneath it. She keeps making jokes. She keeps being brilliant. She marries him with a ring pop in her friend's living room while her friend reads the vows from her phone. When he leaves, she texts her friend: 'I am completely done for.' That is Act 4, Scene 1.