Lord, how simple mortals be, And it much doth pleasure me To behold them all distraught; Each in fairy toils is caught, There to bide at my good will, Roaring, growling, fighting still. [_Exit_ PUCK. FERDINAND. How like you this, Miranda? Hath not he, The gamesome elf, made merry mischief so ’Mongst these dull wits that scarce may they once more Regain their sometime selves and liberty. MIRANDA. ’Twas merry, sooth, yet I could wish the spell Dissolv’d that made them fearsome to themselves, And enemies that once were friends. He that Hath friends hath treasure, more than wealth of Ind, And he that hath not still is poor indeed, Though all the gold of Ophir ’long’d to him. _Enter_ JAQUES, _laughing_. JAQUES. Though I be sworn to sadness it doth make Me gladsome ’gainst my disposition To note the antics of these greasy fools Of Athens, pent within the glade where I, All unobserv’d, have play’d the spy upon ’Em this full hour. How like these fustian churls Be to their fellows of the scepter’d throne, The ermine robe, the ’broider’d chasuble. ’Tis habit makes the man, the wearer’s naught. The fool, when he is naked, shows as sage As the philosopher so furnished; The lout’s bare hide’s no worser than the king’s, And, when their pride is fondly touch’d, all men Are brothers. Did not each Athenian wight Beholding all his fellows in their guise Most strange and horrible, yet deem himself Perch’d high above the reach of wizardry, And sole possessor of a countenance Such as is worn ’mongst ordinary folk? My sides do ache with mirth when I bethink Me of these simple churls, and of their kin By Adam, in high places set, how each, No matter what his state, doth ne’er perceive Himself glass’d in his fellow’s eye, but paints Instead a portrait in fair colours mix’d, Calls it his likeness, and would have the world, That knows him what he is, declare its truth Both in the general and particular. This globe is peopl’d with philosophers And fools, methinks, by which I mean the wise Are the sole wearers of the motley coat And all men else do owe the cap and bells. The lover is a fool who doth proclaim His mistress is perfection; the maid, Who thinks her swain compact of truth; the king, Who stakes his crown upon a battle’s point; The soldier, who for glory gives his life And dies, a forfeit to’t; the tonsur’d saint, Who vows to heaven that which ’longs to men. O, I could moralize upon this theme An hour by the clock, with still grave matter left For melancholy contemplation. [_Exit_ JAQUES. MIRANDA. Yon sober suited wight, meseems, doth make A play of sadness.