JAQUES

More, more, I prithee more. I thank it: More, I prithee more, I can suck melancholy out of a song, As a Weazel sucks eggs: More, I prithee more. I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you to sing: Come, more, another stanzo: Call you they stanzo's? Nay, I care not for their names, they owe me nothing. Will you sing? Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but that they call compliment is Like the encounter of two dog-Apes. And when a man thanks me heartily, me thinks I have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come sing; and you that will not hold your tongues. And I have been all this day to avoid him: He is too disputeable for my company: I think of as many matters as he, but I give Heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come. Altogether here. Who does ambition shun, and loves to live in that Sun: Seeking the food he eats, and pleased with what he gets: Come hither, come hither, come hither, Here shall he see. &c. I'll give you a verse to this note, That I made yesterday in despite of my Invention. It's a Greek invocation, to call fools into a cir cle. I'll go sleep if I can: if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first born of Egypt. A Fool, a fool: I met a fool in that Forest, A motley Fool (a miserable world:) As I do live by food, I met a fool, Who laid him down, and basked him in the Sun, And railed 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 poake, And looking on it, with lacke-lustre eye, Says, very wisely, it is ten a clock: Thus we may see (quoth he) how the world wags: It's but and hour ago, since it was nine, And after one hour more, it'll 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 Chanticleere, That Fools should be so deep contemplative: And I did laugh, sans intermission And hour by his dial. O noble fool, A worthy fool: Motley's the only wear. Oh worthy Fool: One that hath been a Courtier And says, if Ladies be but young, and fair, They have the gift to know it: and in his braiue, Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit After a voyage: He hath strange places cramed With observation, the which he vents In mangled forms. Oh that I were a fool, I am ambitious for a motley coat. It is my only suit, Provided that you weed your better judgements Of all opinion that grows rank in them, That I am wise. I must have liberty Wiithall, as large a Charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have: And they that are most gauled with my folly, They most must laugh: And why sir must they so? The why is plain, as way to Parish Church: He, that a Fool does very wisely hit, Does very foolishly, although he smart Seem senseless of the bob. If not, The Wiseman's folly is anathomiz'd Even by the squandering glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley: Give me leave To speak my mind, and I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine. What, for a Counter, would I do, but good? Why who cries out on pride, That can therein tax any private party: Does it not flow as hugely as the Sea, Till that the weary very means do ebb. What woman in the City do I name, When that I say the City woman bears The cost of Princes on unworthy shoulders? Who can come in, and say that I mean her, When such a one as she, such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest function, That says his bravery is not on my cost, Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits His folly to the mettle of my speech, There then, how then, what then, let me see wherein My tongue hath wronged him: if it do him right, Then he hath wronged himself: if he be free, why then my taxing Like a wildgoose flies Unclaimed of any man But who come here? Why I have eat none yet. Of what kind should this Cock come of? And you will not be answered with reason, I must die. God buy you, let's meet as little as we can. I pray you mar no more trees with Writing Lovesongs in their barks. Rosalind is your loves name? I do not Like her name. What stature is she of? You are full of pretty answers: have you not been ac quainted with goldsmiths wives, & cond the ̄ out of rings You have a nimble wit; I think 'twas made of Attalanta's heals. Will you sit down with me, and we two, will rail against our Mistress the world, and all our misery. The worst fault you have, is to be in love. By my troth, I was seeking for a Fool, when I found you. There I shall see mine own figure. I'll tarry no longer with you, farewell good sig nior Love. Oh knowledge ill inhabited, worse then love in a thatched house. A material fool. I would feign see this meeting. Proceed, proceed: I'll give her. Will you be married, Motley? And will you (being a man of your breeding) be married under a bush Like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good Priest that can tell you what marriage is, this fellow will but join you together, as they join Wainscot, then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and Like green timber, warp, warp. Go thou with me, And let me counsel thee. I prithee, pretty youth, let me better acquainted with thee. I am so: I do love it better then laughing. Why, it's good to be sad and say nothing. I have neither the Scholars melancholy, which is emulation: nor the Musicians, which is fantastical; nor the Courtiers, which is proud: nor the Soldiers, which is ambitious: nor the Lawyers, which is politic: nor the Ladies, which is nice: nor the Lovers, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, come pounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which by often rumination, wraps me in a most humo rous sadness. Yes, I have gained my experience. Nay then God buy you, and you talk in blank verse. Which is he that killed the Dear? Let's present him to the Duke Like a Roman Conqueror, and it would do well to set the Dears horns upon his head, for a branch of victory; have you no song Forester for this purpose? Sing it: it's no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough. What shall he have that killed the Dear? His Leather skin, and bornes to wear: Then sing him home, the rest shall bear this burden; Take thou no scorn to wear the horn, It was a crest ere thou wast born, Thy father's father wore it, And thy father boar it, The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. There is sure another flood towards, and these couples are coming to the Ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues, are called Fools. Good my Lord, bid him welcome: This is the Motley-minded Gentleman, that I have so often met in the Forest: he hath been a Courtier he swears. And how was that taken up? How seventh cause? Good my Lord, Like this fellow. But for the seventh cause. How did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause? And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut? Can you nominate in order now, the degrees of the lie. Is not this a rare fellow my Lord? He's as good at any thing, and yet a fool. Sir, by your patience: if I herd you rightly, The Duke hath put on a Religious life, And thrown into neglect the pompous Court. To him will I: out of these convertites, There is much matter to be herd, and learned: you to your former Honour, I bequeathe your patience, and your virtue, well deserves it. you to a love, that your true faith does merit: you to your land, and love, and great allies: you to a long, and well-deserved bed: And you to wrangling, for thy loving voyage Is but for two months victualed: So to your pleasures, I am for other, then for dancing meazures. To see no pastime, I: what you would have, I'll stay to know, at your abandoned cave. I thank you for your company, but good faith I had as lief have been my self alone. 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, Mewling, and puking in the Nurse's arms: Then, the whining Schoolboy with his Satchel And shining morning face, creeping Like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover, Sighing Like Furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his Mistress eyebrow. Then, a Soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded Like the Pard, Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble Reputation Even in the Canons mouth: And then, the Justice, In fair round belly, with good Capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws, and modern instances, And so he plays his partly. The sixth age shifts Into 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, and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble pipes, And whistles in his found. Last Scene of all, That ends this strange euentfull history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.