As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 3

Orlando

Who’s there?

Who’s there?

Adam

What, my young master? O my gentle master,O my sweet master, O you memoryOf old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?Why would you be so fond to overcomeThe bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.Know you not, master, to some kind of menTheir graces serve them but as enemies?No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master,Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.O, what a world is this, when what is comelyEnvenoms him that bears it!

Is that my young master? Oh, my kind master, my dear master, you living reminder of old Sir Rowland! What are you doing here? Why are you so good? Why do people love you? Why are you so noble, strong, and brave? Why were you foolish enough to defeat the champion of that unpredictable Duke? News of your triumph has reached home too quickly, ahead of you. Don’t you know, master, that some men’s good qualities only act as their enemies? Yours do exactly that. Your virtues, dear master, are holy, saintly traitors to you. Oh, what a world this is, when a man’s fine qualities poison the man who has them!

Orlando

Why, what’s the matter?

Why, what’s the matter?

Adam

O unhappy youth,Come not within these doors! Within this roofThe enemy of all your graces lives.Your brother—no, no brother, yet the son—Yet not the son; I will not call him son—Of him I was about to call his father,Hath heard your praises, and this night he meansTo burn the lodging where you use to lie,And you within it. If he fail of that,He will have other means to cut you off;I overheard him and his practices.This is no place; this house is but a butchery.Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Oh, unfortunate young man, do not come through these doors! Under this roof lives the enemy of all your good qualities. Your brother—no, not a brother, but the son—no, not the son either; I will not call him the son of the man I was about to call his father—has heard you praised. Tonight he plans to burn the room where you usually sleep, with you inside it. If that fails, he will find other ways to kill you. I overheard him plotting. This is no place for you. This house is nothing but a slaughterhouse. Hate it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orlando

Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

But where would you have me go, Adam?

Adam

No matter whither, so you come not here.

Anywhere, as long as you do not come here.

Orlando

What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food,Or with a base and boisterous sword enforceA thievish living on the common road?This I must do, or know not what to do.Yet this I will not do, do how I can.I rather will subject me to the maliceOf a diverted blood and bloody brother.

What, would you have me go and beg for food, or use my sword to make a brutal, shameful living robbing people on the public roads? I must do that, or I don’t know what else to do. Yet I will not do it, whatever happens to me. I would rather submit to the hatred of a bloodthirsty brother who has turned against his own blood.

Adam

But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,The thrifty hire I saved under your father,Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,When service should in my old limbs lie lame,And unregarded age in corners thrown.Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed,Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,Be comfort to my age. Here is the gold.All this I give you. Let me be your servant.Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty,For in my youth I never did applyHot and rebellious liquors in my blood,Nor did not with unbashful forehead wooThe means of weakness and debility.Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,Frosty but kindly. Let me go with you.I’ll do the service of a younger manIn all your business and necessities.

But do not do that. I have five hundred crowns, the wages I carefully saved while working for your father. I put them aside to support me when my old limbs could no longer work, and I was left neglected in a corner in my old age. Take them, and may God, who feeds the ravens and even makes sure the sparrows have food, comfort me in my old age. Here is the gold. I give you all of it. Let me be your servant. Though I look old, I am still strong and healthy. In my youth I never heated my blood with strong, unruly liquor, nor did I shamelessly chase the pleasures that bring weakness and disease. So my old age is like a vigorous winter, frosty but mild. Let me go with you. I will serve you like a younger man in all your business and needs.

Orlando

O good old man, how well in thee appearsThe constant service of the antique world,When service sweat for duty, not for meed.Thou art not for the fashion of these times,Where none will sweat but for promotion,And having that do choke their service upEven with the having. It is not so with thee.But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree,That cannot so much as a blossom yieldIn lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.But come thy ways, we’ll go along together,And ere we have thy youthful wages spentWe’ll light upon some settled low content.

Oh, good old man, how clearly you show the loyal service of the old days, when servants worked hard out of duty, not for reward. You do not fit these times, when no one works hard except to get ahead, and once they do, their success itself puts an end to their service. You are not like that. But, poor old man, you are tending a rotten tree that cannot give you even a blossom in return for all your work and care. But come, we will go together. Before we have spent the wages you earned in your youth, we will find some modest, settled way to live contentedly.

Adam

Master, go on and I will follow theeTo the last gasp with truth and loyalty.From seventeen years till now almost fourscoreHere lived I, but now live here no more.At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,But at fourscore it is too late a week.Yet fortune cannot recompense me betterThan to die well and not my master’s debtor.

Master, lead the way, and I will follow you faithfully and loyally to my last breath. I have lived here from the age of seventeen until now, when I am almost eighty, but now I will live here no longer. Many people set out to seek their fortunes at seventeen, but eighty is far too late. Still, fortune can give me no better reward than to die well, owing my master nothing.