Songs

Falstaff
Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling,
and a rich.
Shallow
Barren, barren, barren, beggars all, beggars
all, Sir John. Marry, good air.—Spread, Davy,
spread, Davy. Well said, Davy.

Do nothing but eat and make good cheer,
And praise God for the merry year,
When flesh is cheap and females dear,
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Jaques
Which is he that killed the deer?
First Lord
Sir, it was I.
Jaques, to the other Lords
Let’s present him to the
Duke like a Roman conqueror. And it would do well
to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of
victory.—Have you no song,
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Trinculo
Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off
any weather at all. And another storm brewing; I
hear it sing i’ th’ wind. Yond same black cloud, yond
huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed
his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I
know not where to hide my head.
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Pandurus
Come, come, I’ll hear no more of this. I’ll
sing you a song now.
Helen
Ay, ay, prithee. Now, by my troth, sweet lord,
thou hast a fine forehead.
Pandurus
Ay, you may, you may.
Helen
Let thy song be love. “This love will undo us all.”
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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.
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Enter Orlando, carrying Adam.

Duke Senior
Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,
And let him feed.
Orlando
I thank you most for him.
Adam
So had you need.—
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Duke Senior
Welcome. Fall to. I will not trouble you
As yet to question you about your fortunes.—
Give us some music,
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Edgar
Frateretto calls me and tells me Nero is an
angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and
beware the foul fiend.
Fool
Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a
gentleman or a yeoman.
Lear
A king, a king!
Fool
No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his
son,
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Laertes
How now, what noise is that?
Enter Ophelia.
O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight
Till our scale turn the beam! O rose of May,
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heavens,
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Sir Andrew Aguecheek
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling when
all is done. Now, a song!
Sir Toby Belch, giving money to the Fool
Come on, there is
sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek, giving money to the Fool
There’s a testril of
me, too. If one knight give a—
Fool
Would you have a love song or a song of good
life?
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Berowne
Our wooing doth not end like an old play.
Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy
Might well have made our sport a comedy.
King
Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,
And then ’twill end.
Berowne
That’s too long for a play.

Enter Braggart Armado.
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