Chapter XXV: Act II: SCENE VII. The Forest

_A table set out. Enter_ DUKE senior, AMIENS, _and_ Lords _like_
outlaws.

_Duke S._ I think he be transform’d into a beast;
For I can no where find him like a man.

_First Lord._ My lord, he is but even now gone hence;
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

_Duke S._ If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.

_Enter JAQUES._

_First Lord._ He saves my labour by his own approach.

_Duke S._ Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What, you look merrily!

_Jaq._ A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,
A motley fool; a miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool;
Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,
And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms and yet a motley fool.
“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he,
“Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune;”
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock:
Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.
’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more ’twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative,
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

――――――――

A COLD RENDERING.

The open-air performances of _As You Like it_ at Combe are all very well, but under the influences of an east wind and damp ground, colds in the head come on very rapidly, just imagine the melancholy Jaques speaking thus:――

A fool, a fool!――I bet a fool i’ the forest,
A botley fool;――a biserable world!
As I do live by――attishu――food, I bet a fool;
Who laid hib dowd ad bask’d hib id the sud,
Ad rail’d od Lady Fortude id good terbs,
Id good set terbs――attishu――ad yet a botley fool.
“Good borrow, fool,” quoth I, “Dough, Sir,” quoth he.
“Call be dot fool till heaved has sed be fortude.”
Ad――attishu――thed he drew a dial frob his poke,
Ad lookid od it with lack lustre eye,
Says very wisely, “It’s ted o’clock;
Thus we bay see” quoth he, “how the world wags,
Tis but ad hour ago sidce it was dide;
Ad after ad――attishu――hour bore, ’twill be eleved;
Ad so frob hour to hour, we ripe ad ripe,
Ad thed frob hour to hour we rot ad rot,
Ad thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear,
The botley fool thus boral od the tibe,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-codtebplative;
Ad I did laugh, sads idterbissiod.
Ad――attishu――hour by his dial. O doble fool!
A worthy fool! Botley’s the odly wear――attishu!

_Funny Folks_, 1885.

――――――――

MELANCHOLY JAQUES ON THE DUDE.

A dude――a dude! I met a dude i’ the avenue;
A silly dude;――a most conceited blockhead!――
As I do live by toil, I met a dude,
Who sucked his cane, and basked him in the sun,
And ogled all the ladies with his grin;
With good broad grin, and yet a silly dude.
“Good morrow, dude,” quoth I. “No, sir,” quoth he.
“Call me not dude till I have put on corsets;”
And then he drew an eye-glass from his poke,
And looking through it with lack-lustre eye,
Said, very softly, “She’s the proper soot!
Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags:
The last that passed was ugly as my cane;
The next that comes may be a very angel.
And, so from hour to hour, we bloom and bloom,
And then, from hour to hour, we fade and fade,
And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
The silly dude thus comment on the girls,
My toes began to itch like chilblain toes,
That dudes should be so deep-nonsensical;
And I did kick, sans intermission,
That dude for half an hour. Oh, noble dude!
A worthy dude!――skin-tight’s the only wear.

――――:o:――――

All the world’s a Newspaper!
And all our men and women merely _readers_:
They have their tastes and their hobby horses,
And each one in his turn receives a part,
The number being _seven_――First the Poet,
Fond of the jingling line and tinsel smile,
Enjoying tortur’d sense and strangling art,
But if the line flows smoothly to its end,
For ever bathing in the Aonean font;
Him nought but sonnets, stanzas, odes, delight,
And so he reads his part. Next comes in view
The sober, softly-sighing Sentimentalist,
Seeking for rapture in the――dashy――line,
The Shandean tale, ill told compar’d with Sterne’s,
They fragments choose, and tales and anecdotes.
Next the Wit, relishing the fun obscene
If but the point be gross――Him repartees,
Bon mots and gummy epigrams must please.
And then the Politician, full of strange whims;
Seeking essays, strictures, observations,
With solemn phiz, talking of revolutions,
Patriot armies, sieges, and leagues of despots;
Of neutral powers and of neutral rights, cabals,
Of foreign interference, suability of states,
And all the mazes of the court police.
He marks each signature――what Brutus writes he reads,
And turns his eye from Cassius――sees in some men
The wish to bond us to a foreign yoke;
In others, sees the wish for nature’s state,
And have the curbed bit of law destroy’d,
That like the savage all might rove at will,
Free as the air they breathe; while some he sees,
Who wish the government of purest source
And subordination, might secure
Our fair inheritance――These form the general mass.
Next comes the Economist, hunting for recipes,
Receipts, experiments.――With up turn’d nose
He runs o’er prose and verse, and like to Hotspur
Had rather be a Kitten and cry mew
Than, one of these same metre ballad loves.
The grade of Moralist next advance to view!
Fond of the maxim sage, and sober precept:
They once a week expect their frugal fare,
To mend the manners and instruct the mind,
Last comes the pale and slipper’d Wonder Hunter,
Intent on dying speeches,――hurricanes,
Malignant fevers, pestilence and want.――
Of thousands butcher’d on the bloody field,
And thousands starving in the wasted land,
They thunder storms delight in, and seek
With earnest eye for deaths and murders,
Of people drown’d, or burnt, or suffocated,
Learn whom the Knot of Hymen has fast tied,
And whom the Knot of Justice faster noos’d;
With the long list of every human ill.
These all must have their part. The printer, else,
Is but the standing mark of censure loud,
These tastes _not_ gratified, they will all growl,
And cry the papers barren, empty, dull,
Sans news, sans sense, sans art, sans everything.

From _The British Minstrel_, a collection of Songs, Recitations, &c. September 25, 1824.

――――――――

BUD, BLOSSOM, AND DECAY.

“All the world’s a stage” in several stages;
Great Shakespeare says our acts are seven ages,
“And all the men and women players merely.”
See “As you like it,” which informs us clearly
We have our entrances and exits here,
And many of us no great shakes appear.
“King John,” “Macbeth,” and others of his plays,
Confirm our wickedness in many ways;
First, the Infant in its nurse’s arms, it
“Mewles and pukes,” and as it cries she calms it.
Next there’s the Schoolboy constantly declining
The verb “to work,” and with his satchel whining,
As on he creeps, like snail, at _slug_-gard’s pace――
A _sun_ not always “with a shining face:”
Until he learns ’tis easier to be good,
His master being in th’ imperative mood;
And if the youth is backward in the school,
He has his knuckles reddened with the rule.
The rule of three he does not deem much fun,
While he is flinching at the rule of one,
Who makes him only ten times more perplexed;
The lover, _à la_ Vilikin comes next,
And who, like Vilikin, trolls out a ballad
As neatly garnished as a lobster salad;
“Made to his mistress’ eyebrow;” to some air,
Which howsome’er she says she cannot bear.
Sometimes this age betokens noisy gent
Not coming home till midnight is far spent
Who cannot from the knockers quite abstain,
Of which the quiet inmates will complain.
Sometimes these fast young men after the play,
At Cyder Cellars turn night into day,
This they call “Killing time,” until they learn
Old Time may, perhaps the compliment return.
Then come the Soldiers and the Volunteers――
In other words the prime of life appears――
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, zealous when on guard;
Seeking without the least intimidation,
What Shakespeare calls “the bubble reputation.”
’Tis strange they are not _bored_ with so much _drilling_,
While practising the noble art of killing!
Next is the Justice, and he just is fat,
Living on law――not always justice that!
Proving beyond all doubt, by frequent panting,
The law he lives on is not that of Banting;
His body (outside) like a water butt
But not within! His beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws (such as are seldom seen
Excepting at a carpenter’s I ween)
And modern instances; and so he plays
His part, until he sees declining days
Announce another age, when enters soon
The sixth, “the lean and slippered Pantaloon,”
“With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
“His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
“For his shrunk shank;” his voice begins to fail,
And whistles up and down the vocal scale.
Last scene of all this history that ends,
Is mere oblivion of those trusty friends
Who gather round us, and who thus endeavour
To cheer and comfort ’ere we leave for ever
This busy, meddling, moneymaking world;
Sans teeth, as into it we once were hurled
Indeed, for time can no more changes ring,
“Sans sight, sans taste, sans smell, sans everything,
And so the curtain falls, thus ends the play
Which might be named “Bud, Blossom and Decay”!
The time is short between each act, and we
Should note the changes, and our errors see
And thus a wholesome lesson may be gained,
The proper sentiment being yet retained
Without a jest against the reader’s will,
Though slightly altered, “As you like it” still.

T. F. DILLON-CROKER.
From _The Ladies’ Companion_, March, 1865.

――――――――

“All the world is but a stage,” Shakespeare told us long ago,
Had he graced the present age, still the Bard had found it so;
All that from existence springs, in a theatre’s compass lies,
Happy moments find the “wings” time itself takes those and “flies,”
Hopes that light us on the way may be called of life “the floats,”
Turning gloomy night to day, as the prompter Fate denotes;
Fortune gives the glare of gas, and oft causing sad mishaps,
With unsteady hand, alas! speculation work “the traps,”
Fate gives out the parts to play, various “lengths” assigned to each,
Happy who their “tag” can say, in a good concluding speech;
Every act applause will get, if the action be correct,
Ending with a kind of “set” most productive of effect.
Suppers should take place in both――cheering signs of lively chats;
Some too often show “a cloth” closed in by a “pair of flats.”
Help our brethren, worn with age――Shakespeare was of truth a sayer
“All the world is but a stage,” you and I alike――a player.
E. L. BLANCHARD.
From _The Royal Dramatic College Annual_, July, 1866.

――――――――

LIFE AT OXFORD.

――――Oxford is a stage,
And all the men in residence are players:
They have their exeats and examinations;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
His acts being seven ages. At first the Freshman,
Stumbling and stuttering in his tutor’s rooms.
And then the aspiring Classman, with his white tie
And shy desponding face creeping along
Unwilling to the schools. Then, at the Union,
Spouting like fury, with some woeful twaddle
Upon the “Crisis.” Then a Billiard-player,
Full of strange oaths, a keen and cunning card
Clever in cannons, sudden and quick in hazards,
Seeking a billiard reputation
E’en in the pocket’s mouth. And then the Fellow,
His fair round forehead with hard furrows lined,
With weakened eyes and beard of doubtful growth,
Crammed with old lore of useless application,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and study-worn Professor,
With spectacles on nose and class at side;
His youthful nose has grown a world too large
For his shrunk face; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is utter donnishness and mere nonentity,
Without respect, or tact, or taste, or anything.

_The Oxford Spectator_, May 19, 1868.

――――:o:――――

A SHAKESPEARIAN RECITATION AFTER DINNER.

――――All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad,
In his sound childish treble: then the lean
And slipper’d schoolboy, whistles, with side on
Pouch and pipes, and his big manly voice
Full of wise oaths; and then the whining lover,
With spectacles on nose, and eyes severe,
Seeking his well-saved mistress’ eyebrow
Even in his satchel: Then a soldier,
His youthful hose, of formal cut, sans taste,
Made to his shank, and full of modern saws,
Creeping like snail, sans everything, to school:
And then the justice, full of strange instances,
Jealous in honor, like the ’pard bearded
In quarrel, turning again, sudden and quick,
Towards childishness, with shining morning face
A world too wide for his shrunk nurses arms,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts,
Unwillingly, the bubble reputation,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, into the cannon’s mouth,
Mewling and puking: Then, last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second pantaloon, and mere oblivion.
FREDERIC UPTON, 1885.

――――:o:――――

SONG.

_Amiens._ Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
“As you like it.”――Act II. Scene V.

――――:o:――――

THE LAMBETH CATCH.

(Written after the revelations of the “Amateur Casual.”)

Under the Greenwood shed
Who loves to go to bed,
And tune his husky note
To paupers’ coughing throat?
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
Such thin Skillèe
Keep body and soul together.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1866.

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.