Speaks plainly, sings beautifully, keeps his opinions to himself. He is the play's musical chorus — never at the center but always present when things need to feel real.
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.
Under the greenwood tree, come here if you love to lie with me and turn your song into the sweet music of the birds. Come, come, come! Here you'll see no enemy — only winter and rough weather to contend with.
Come under the trees. You want to lie in the grass and sing with me? Turn your voice into something beautiful like birdsong. Come here, come on. You'll be fine. Just the cold and bad weather out here — no one's going to hurt you.
come lie in the grass with me we'll sing like birds no enemies here just winter and you and me
Speaks in sweeping, satirical pronouncements — always generalizing from one observation to all of humanity. Watch how he positions himself outside every group he describes: never 'we' but always 'they' or 'such men as he.' His pleasure in language is real, which is what makes his cynicism interesting rather than just tiresome.
More, more, I prithee, more.
Again, I beg you. Again.
More. Please, more.
more more more
It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
It will sink you further into sadness, Monsieur Jaques.
It's gonna make you sad, you know.
this song it's gonna wreck you
I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song
as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.
I'm grateful for it. More, I beg you, again. I can pull the sadness out of a song the way a weasel sucks eggs — completely, perfectly. Again, I beg you, again.
I want the sadness. More, please. You know how a weasel sucks out an egg? That's what I do with sad songs — I get all the good stuff and leave nothing behind. Come on, sing again.
sadness is the good part i suck it out like a weasel leaving nothing more always more
My voice is ragged. I know I cannot please you.
My voice is worn out. I know I cannot satisfy you.
My voice is shot. I get that I can't give you what you want.
my voice is done i can't give you what you want
I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more,
another _stanzo_. Call you ’em _stanzos?_
I don't ask you to please me; I ask you to sing. Come, another verse — or do you call them verses?
I don't want you to make me happy. I want you to sing. Come on, another one. What do you call them? Verses?
just sing i don't care about making me happy what are they called verses?
What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
Whatever you prefer, Monsieur Jaques.
Call them whatever you want.
whatever you say
Nay, I care not for their names. They owe me nothing. Will you sing?
No, I don't care what they're called. They owe me nothing. Will you sing?
I don't care about names. They're not indebted to me. Just sing.
names don't matter they owe me nothing sing
More at your request than to please myself.
I sing more at your insistence than to please myself.
Fine. I'm doing this for you, not for me.
for you not for me
AYLI has more songs than almost any other Shakespeare play — at least five complete ones. This is not decoration. Songs interrupt the relentless verbal sparring and give the audience (and the characters) a moment where feeling can exist without argument. 'Under the Greenwood Tree' is a genuine pastoral lyric — simple, beautiful, and slightly dishonest in the way pastoral always is. Amiens can sing it straight. Jaques has to respond with a parody. But the fact that Jaques immediately demands 'more, more' before writing his counterverse tells us something: he loves the song even as he can't let it stand. His melancholy is not the absence of pleasure but pleasure's dark shadow.
Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank you; but that they call
compliment is like th’ encounter of two dog-apes. And when a man thanks
me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me the
beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.
If I ever thank anyone, I'll thank you — but what people call courtesy is like two apes encountering each other. When someone thanks me sincerely, I feel as if I've given them a penny and they're returning it to me like a beggar returning alms. So sing — and whoever won't, shut up.
If I ever thank anybody, it'll be you. But here's the thing — what people call gratitude? Two apes running into each other in the street. When someone actually thanks me, I feel like I gave them a coin and they're handing it back to me like they're begging. Just sing. And everyone else, shut up.
gratitude is apes bumping into each other when you thank me it feels like i gave you a penny and you're returning it broken just sing everyone shut up
Well, I’ll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while. The Duke will drink
under this tree; he hath been all this day to look you.
I'll finish the song then. Gentlemen, set the table while I sing. The Duke's been looking for you all day and has decided to eat here.
Fine, I'll finish it. You guys, go set up food. The Duke's been looking everywhere and he's decided we're eating here.
finish the song set the table the duke's been looking for you we eat here
And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable 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.
And I've been all day avoiding him. He's too argumentative for my company. I think about as many matters as he does, but I thank heaven for them silently and make no show of it. Come on, warble away.
Yeah, and I've been avoiding him all day. He argues about everything. I think about the same stuff he does, but I don't brag about it — I just say thanks to God quietly. Come on, sing.
i've been avoiding him all day he argues about everything i think like he does but i don't brag i just thank god quietly
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ th’ sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither.
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Whoever avoids ambition and loves to live in the sun, seeking only the food he finds and content with what he gets — come here, come here, come here. You'll have no enemy, only winter and rough weather.
You don't want power? You just want to live in the sun and eat what you find and be happy with it? Come here, come here. No one's your enemy. Just the cold and the bad weather.
no ambition just sun just food just being happy come no enemies only winter
I’ll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of
my invention.
I have a verse to set to this tune that I wrote yesterday out of pure spite against my own creativity.
I've got a verse for this song that I wrote yesterday just to mess with myself.
i wrote a verse yesterday to mess with myself
And I’ll sing it.
And I'll sing it.
Let's hear it.
okay
Thus it goes:
If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.
It goes like this: If it should happen that anyone turns into an ass by leaving his wealth and comfort to satisfy some stubborn desire, ducdame, ducdame, ducdame — here he can see fools as foolish as he, and if he wants to join me, he will.
Here it is: If some guy becomes an idiot by leaving his nice life and money just to please some stupid whim, ducdame, ducdame, ducdame — he'll find fools just as stupid as he is, and if he wants to stick around with them, he can.
if you're dumb enough to leave your wealth to please some stupid thing ducdame here's your fools
What’s that “ducdame?”
What does 'ducdame' mean?
What's ducdame?
what's ducdame
’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I’ll go sleep if I
can; if I cannot, I’ll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.
It's a Greek magical word to call fools into a circle. I'm going to sleep if I can manage it. If I can't, I'll rage against all the firstborn of Egypt.
It's Greek magic to summon fools. I'm gonna go to sleep if I can. If I can't, I'm gonna yell at all the bad luck in the world.
it's greek magic for calling fools i'll sleep or else i'll scream at the darkness
And I’ll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepared.
And I'll go find the Duke. The feast is ready.
And I'm gonna go find the Duke. Everything's set.
i'll find the duke feast is ready
The Reckoning
One of the play's more musical scenes — and one of Jaques's finest performances. Amiens sings the beautiful 'Under the Greenwood Tree,' a genuine pastoral lyric that sells the forest life as paradise. Jaques demands more of it while also insisting he can extract melancholy from any song the way a weasel sucks an egg. Then he writes a counter-verse — 'If it do come to pass / That any man turn ass / Leaving his wealth and ease / A stubborn will to please' — and calls it 'Ducdame,' which he defines as a Greek invocation for summoning fools. The scene is Jaques in miniature: he loves beauty and immediately neutralizes it. He wants more song and immediately satirizes the people who sing it.
If this happened today…
The one friend who agrees to go to a music festival but spends the whole time on his phone writing a thread about how music festivals are a scam, only looking up when a song he really likes comes on, demanding they play it again, then looking back at his phone.