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Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That lov'd me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known: cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch where thro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle―
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work. I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads-you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
"Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.


It be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.



THE head is stately, calm, and wise,

And bears a princely part;

And down below in secret lies
The warm, impulsive heart.

The lordly head that sits above,
The heart that beats below,
Their several office plainly prove,
Their true relation show.

The head, erect, serene, and cool,
Endowed with Reason's art,
Was set aloft to guide and rule
The throbbing, wayward heart.

And from the head, as from the higher,
Comes every glorious thought;
And in the heart's transforming fire
All noble deeds are wrought.

Yet each is best when both unite
To make the man complete;

What were the heat without the light?

The light, without the heat?




During the time that France was divided into dukedoms, there reigned in one of the provinces a usurper named Frederic, who had deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke. The latter, thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of Arden. He had an only daughter named Rosalind, whom the usurper still retained in his court as a companion to his own daughter, Celia; but after a time it was discovered that Rosalind was enamored of Orlando, a son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who had been a strong adherent of her father. The knowledge of the love existing between these two young people so incensed Frederic, that he ordered Rosalind instantly to follow her father into banishment. When Celia, who was greatly attached to her cousin, found that she could neither by prayers nor tears prevail upon her father to let Rosalind remain, she resolved to accompany her cousin in exile, and accordingly stole away from her father's palace by night. For purposes of greater safety, and in order to avoid recognition, Rosalind attired herself in the garb of a young countryman, while Celia wore the dress of a maiden peasant.

Meantime Orlando had fled to this same forest, in order to escape the enmity of a wicked and jealous brother who was seeking his life. Upon entering the forest the two princesses were much surprised to find the name of Rosalind, together with love sonnets, carved upon the bark of many of the trees, and while wondering at this they espied Orlando, whom they instantly recognized, but who failed to discover them in their strange attire. Rosalind asserted that she would like to meet the youth who could have written the sonnets, when Orlando confessed that he was the writer, whereupon Rosalind declared that she would cure him of his love by making him ashamed of it; and the plan proposed was that Orlando was to feign to woo Rosalind, whom he supposes is the youth Ganymede, in the same manner that he would do were it his own Rosalind.

The Scene opens with the entrance of ORLANDO.

Orlando. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind! I come within an hour of my promise.


Rosalind.-Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth 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.

Orlando.-Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Rosalind.-Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight; I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

Orlando.-Of a snail?

Rosalind.-Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head,-a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman: besides he brings his destiny with him.

Orlando.-What's that?

Rosalind. 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. Orlando.-Virtue is no horn maker; and my Rosalind

is virtuous.


And I am your Rosalind.

Celia. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

Rosalind.-Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?

Orlando. I would kiss before I spoke.

Rosalind.-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.

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