酷兔英语

章节正文

TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in

court, shepherd?
CORIN. No, truly.

TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damn'd.
CORIN. Nay, I hope.

TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, like an ill-roasted egg, all on
one side.

CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason.
TOUCHSTONE. 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.
CORIN. 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.

TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance.
CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you

know, are greasy.
TOUCHSTONE. 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.

CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard.
TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A

more sounder instance; come.
CORIN. And they are often tarr'd over with the surgery of our

sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are
perfum'd with civet.

TOUCHSTONE. 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.

CORIN. You have too courtly a wit for me; I'll rest.
TOUCHSTONE. Wilt thou rest damn'd? God help thee, shallow man! God

make incision in thee! thou art raw.
CORIN. 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.
TOUCHSTONE. 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 beest not damn'd for this,

the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how
thou shouldst scape.

CORIN. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.
Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper

ROSALIND. 'From the east to western Inde,
No jewel is like Rosalinde.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalinde.

All the pictures fairest lin'd
Are but black to Rosalinde.

Let no face be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalinde.'

TOUCHSTONE. 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.
ROSALIND. Out, fool!

TOUCHSTONE. For a taste:
If a hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalinde.
If the cat will after kind,

So be sure will Rosalinde.
Winter garments must be lin'd,

So must slender Rosalinde.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,

Then to cart with Rosalinde.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalinde.
He that sweetest rose will find

Must find love's prick and Rosalinde.
This is the very false gallop of verses; why do you infect

yourself with them?
ROSALIND. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.

TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
ROSALIND. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff 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.
TOUCHSTONE. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest

judge.
Enter CELIA, with a writing

ROSALIND. Peace!
Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside.

CELIA. '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 charg'd
That one body should be fill'd

With all graces wide-enlarg'd.
Nature presently distill'd

Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra's majesty,

Atalanta's better part,
Sad Lucretia's modesty.

Thus Rosalinde of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd,

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.'

ROSALIND. O most gentle pulpiter! What tedious homily of love have
you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have

patience, good people.'
CELIA. How now! Back, friends; shepherd, go off a little; go with

him, sirrah.
TOUCHSTONE. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat;

though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE

CELIA. Didst thou hear these verses?
ROSALIND. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them

had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
CELIA. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.

ROSALIND. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves
without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

CELIA. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be
hang'd and carved upon these trees?

ROSALIND. 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

berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat, which I
can hardly remember.

CELIA. Trow you who hath done this?
ROSALIND. Is it a man?

CELIA. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck.
Change you colour?

ROSALIND. I prithee, who?
CELIA. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but

mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.
ROSALIND. Nay, but who is it?

CELIA. Is it possible?
ROSALIND. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell

me who it is.
CELIA. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet

again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am

caparison'd 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 could'st stammer, that thou mightst pour this conceal'd man

out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd 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.
CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly.

ROSALIND. Is he of God's making? What manner of man?
Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard?

CELIA. Nay, he hath but a little beard.
ROSALIND. 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.

CELIA. It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's heels
and your heart both in an instant.

ROSALIND. Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true
maid.

CELIA. I' faith, coz, 'tis he.
ROSALIND. Orlando?

CELIA. Orlando.
ROSALIND. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?

What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd 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.

CELIA. 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.
ROSALIND. 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?
CELIA. 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

dropp'd acorn.
ROSALIND. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, when it drops forth

such fruit.
CELIA. Give me audience, good madam.

ROSALIND. Proceed.
CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd along like a wounded knight.

ROSALIND. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes
the ground.

CELIA. Cry 'Holla' to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets
unseasonably. He was furnish'd like a hunter.

ROSALIND. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden; thou bring'st me out

of tune.
ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.

Sweet, say on.
CELIA. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?



文章标签:名著  

章节正文