An orchard of Oliver’s house.
(Orlando; Adam; Oliver; Dennis; Charles)
Orlando complains to Adam that his brother Oliver keeps their middle brother Jacques at school, but gives him no care. Orlando asks Oliver for his patrimony and Oliver, glad to get rid of him, agrees to do it after Orlando beats him up. Charles the Duke’s wrestler comes in, telling Oliver that there is little new at court, other than the old news that the Duke has banished by his brother Duke Frederick and is living with his men in the forest, while his daughter Rosalind is staying with Celia, the usurper’s daughter. Charles tries to get Oliver to dissuade Orlando from wrestling with him, but Oliver tells Charles that Orlando is treacherous and will kill Charles if he is beaten, so Charles decides to do his utmost. (42 lines)
Enter Orlando and Adam.
As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeath’d me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say’st, charg’d my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit. For my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or (to speak more properly) stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better, for besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hir’d; but I (his brother) gain nothing under him but growth, for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me, and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
Yonder comes my master, your brother.
Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.
Now, sir, what make you here?
Nothing. I am not taught to make any thing.
What mar you then, sir?
Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
Marry, sir, be better employ’d, and be naught a while.
Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such penury?
Know you where you are, sir?
O, sir, very well; here in your orchard.
Know you before whom, sir?
Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother, and in the gentle condition of blood you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the first born, but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence.
Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. He was my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pull’d out thy tongue for saying so. Thou hast rail’d on thyself.
Sweet masters, be patient, for your father’s remembrance, be at accord.
Let me go, I say.
I will not till I please. You shall hear me. My father charg’d you in his will to give me good education. You have train’d me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament, with that I will go buy my fortunes.
And what wilt thou do? Beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in. I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have some part of your will. I pray you leave me.
I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
Get you with him, you old dog.
Is “old dog” my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master, he would not have spoke such a word.
Exeunt Orlando, Adam.
Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!
Calls your worship?
Was not Charles, the Duke’s wrastler, here to speak with me?
So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access to you.
Call him in.
’Twill be a good way; and tomorrow the wrastling is.
Good morrow to your worship.
Good Monsieur Charles, what’s the new news at the new court?
There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that is, the old Duke is banish’d by his younger brother the new Duke, and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander.
Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke’s daughter, be banish’d with her father?
O no; for the Duke’s daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have follow’d her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less belov’d of her uncle than his own daughter, and never two ladies lov’d as they do.
Where will the old Duke live?
They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.
What, you wrastle tomorrow before the new Duke?
Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis’d against me to try a fall. Tomorrow, sir, I wrastle for my credit, and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender, and for your love I would be loath to foil him, as I must for my own honor if he come in; therefore out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search, and altogether against my will.
Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein, and have by underhand means labor’d to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I’ll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man’s good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his natural brother; therefore use thy discretion— I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to’t; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practice against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by some indirect means or other; for I assure thee (and almost with tears I speak it) there is not one so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him, but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come tomorrow, I’ll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again, I’ll never wrastle for prize more. And so God keep your worship!
Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul (yet I know not why) hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle, never school’d and yet learned, full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly belov’d, and indeed so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether mispris’d. But it shall not be so long, this wrastler shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I’ll go about.