As You Like It - 3

Total number of words is 4693
Total number of unique words is 1234
51.0 of words are in the 2000 most common words
67.2 of words are in the 5000 most common words
74.9 of words are in the 8000 most common words
Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot.
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho, unto the green holly.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
DUKE SENIOR.
If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,
As you have whispered faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limned and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither. I am the Duke
That loved your father. The residue of your fortune
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is.
Support him by the arm. [_To Orlando_.] Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.
[_Exeunt._]


ACT III
SCENE I. A Room in the Palace

Enter Duke Frederick, Lords and Oliver.
DUKE FREDERICK.
Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be.
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:
Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is.
Seek him with candle. Bring him dead or living
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth
Of what we think against thee.
OLIVER.
O that your highness knew my heart in this:
I never loved my brother in my life.
DUKE FREDERICK.
More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors,
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands.
Do this expediently, and turn him going.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. The Forest of Arden
Enter Orlando with a paper.
ORLANDO.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love.
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
[_Exit._]
Enter Corin and Touchstone.
CORIN.
And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in
respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it
is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it
is a very vile life. Now in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me
well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a
spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more
plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in
thee, shepherd?
CORIN.
No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is;
and that he that wants money, means, and content is without three good
friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that
good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is
lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may
complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.
TOUCHSTONE.
Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?
CORIN.
No, truly.
TOUCHSTONE.
Then thou art damned.
CORIN.
Nay, I hope.
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
CORIN.
For not being at court? Your reason.
TOUCHSTONE.
Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw’st good manners; if
thou never saw’st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked, and
wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state,
shepherd.
CORIN.
Not a whit, Touchstone. Those that are good manners at the court are as
ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most
mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court but you
kiss your hands. That courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were
shepherds.
TOUCHSTONE.
Instance, briefly. Come, instance.
CORIN.
Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells, you know, are
greasy.
TOUCHSTONE.
Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? And is not the grease of a
mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better
instance, I say. Come.
CORIN.
Besides, our hands are hard.
TOUCHSTONE.
Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again. A more sounder
instance, come.
CORIN.
And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would
you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.
TOUCHSTONE.
Most shallow man! Thou worm’s meat in respect of a good piece of flesh
indeed! Learn of the wise and perpend. Civet is of a baser birth than
tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.
CORIN.
You have too courtly a wit for me. I’ll rest.
TOUCHSTONE.
Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in
thee, thou art raw.
CORIN.
Sir, I am a true labourer. I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no
man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, content
with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and
my lambs suck.
TOUCHSTONE.
That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams
together and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle;
to be bawd to a bell-wether and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth
to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If
thou be’st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no
shepherds. I cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape.
Enter Rosalind as Ganymede.
CORIN.
Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.
ROSALIND.
[_Reads_.]
_From the east to western Inde
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures fairest lined
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalind._
TOUCHSTONE.
I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and
sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market.
ROSALIND.
Out, fool!
TOUCHSTONE.
For a taste:
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So be sure will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lined,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find
Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself
with them?
ROSALIND.
Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree.
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
ROSALIND.
I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar. Then
it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere
you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.
TOUCHSTONE.
You have said, but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.
Enter Celia as Aliena, reading a paper.
ROSALIND.
Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside.
CELIA.
[_Reads_.]
_Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled? No!
Tongues I’ll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the streching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age;
Some, of violated vows
’Twixt the souls of friend and friend.
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence’ end,
Will I “Rosalinda” write,
Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charged
That one body should be filled
With all graces wide-enlarged.
Nature presently distilled
Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra’s majesty;
Atalanta’s better part,
Sad Lucretia’s modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devised,
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts
To have the touches dearest prized.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave._
ROSALIND.
O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of love have you wearied
your parishioners withal, and never cried “Have patience, good people!”
CELIA.
How now! Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah.
TOUCHSTONE.
Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag
and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
[_Exeunt Corin and Touchstone._]
CELIA.
Didst thou hear these verses?
ROSALIND.
O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them
more feet than the verses would bear.
CELIA.
That’s no matter. The feet might bear the verses.
ROSALIND.
Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the
verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
CELIA.
But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and
carved upon these trees?
ROSALIND.
I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for
look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since
Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
CELIA.
Trow you who hath done this?
ROSALIND.
Is it a man?
CELIA.
And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?
ROSALIND.
I prithee, who?
CELIA.
O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains
may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.
ROSALIND.
Nay, but who is it?
CELIA.
Is it possible?
ROSALIND.
Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
CELIA.
O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again
wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
ROSALIND.
Good my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a
man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay
more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it quickly,
and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour
this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of
narrow-mouthed bottle—either too much at once or none at all. I prithee
take the cork out of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings.
CELIA.
So you may put a man in your belly.
ROSALIND.
Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or
his chin worth a beard?
CELIA.
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
ROSALIND.
Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the
growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
CELIA.
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your
heart both in an instant.
ROSALIND.
Nay, but the devil take mocking! Speak sad brow and true maid.
CELIA.
I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.
ROSALIND.
Orlando?
CELIA.
Orlando.
ROSALIND.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he
when thou saw’st him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he?
What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he
with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.
CELIA.
You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first. ’Tis a word too great for
any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is
more than to answer in a catechism.
ROSALIND.
But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel? Looks
he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
CELIA.
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a
lover. But take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good
observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.
ROSALIND.
It may well be called Jove’s tree when it drops forth such fruit.
CELIA.
Give me audience, good madam.
ROSALIND.
Proceed.
CELIA.
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.
ROSALIND.
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
CELIA.
Cry “holla!” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets unseasonably. He was
furnished like a hunter.
ROSALIND.
O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.
CELIA.
I would sing my song without a burden. Thou bring’st me out of tune.
ROSALIND.
Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak. Sweet, say
on.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
CELIA.
You bring me out. Soft, comes he not here?
ROSALIND.
’Tis he! Slink by, and note him.
[_Rosalind and Celia step aside._]
JAQUES.
I thank you for your company but, good faith, I had as lief have been
myself alone.
ORLANDO.
And so had I, but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your
society.
JAQUES.
God be wi’ you, let’s meet as little as we can.
ORLANDO.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
JAQUES.
I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks.
ORLANDO.
I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.
JAQUES.
Rosalind is your love’s name?
ORLANDO.
Yes, just.
JAQUES.
I do not like her name.
ORLANDO.
There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
JAQUES.
What stature is she of?
ORLANDO.
Just as high as my heart.
JAQUES.
You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with
goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?
ORLANDO.
Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have
studied your questions.
JAQUES.
You have a nimble wit. I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you
sit down with me? And we two will rail against our mistress the world
and all our misery.
ORLANDO.
I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know
most faults.
JAQUES.
The worst fault you have is to be in love.
ORLANDO.
’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.
JAQUES.
By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
ORLANDO.
He is drowned in the brook. Look but in, and you shall see him.
JAQUES.
There I shall see mine own figure.
ORLANDO.
Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.
JAQUES.
I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love.
ORLANDO.
I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.
[_Exit Jaques.—Celia and Rosalind come forward._]
ROSALIND.
I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the
knave with him.
Do you hear, forester?
ORLANDO.
Very well. What would you?
ROSALIND.
I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
ORLANDO.
You should ask me what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest.
ROSALIND.
Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute
and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a
clock.
ORLANDO.
And why not the swift foot of time? Had not that been as proper?
ROSALIND.
By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.
I’ll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trots withal, who time
gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
ORLANDO.
I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
ROSALIND.
Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her
marriage and the day it is solemnized. If the interim be but a
se’nnight, time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven
year.
ORLANDO.
Who ambles time withal?
ROSALIND.
With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout;
for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives
merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean
and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious
penury. These time ambles withal.
ORLANDO.
Who doth he gallop withal?
ROSALIND.
With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can
fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
ORLANDO.
Who stays it still withal?
ROSALIND.
With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and
then they perceive not how time moves.
ORLANDO.
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
ROSALIND.
With this shepherdess, my sister, here in the skirts of the forest,
like fringe upon a petticoat.
ORLANDO.
Are you native of this place?
ROSALIND.
As the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled.
ORLANDO.
Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a
dwelling.
ROSALIND.
I have been told so of many. But indeed an old religious uncle of mine
taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man, one that knew
courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read
many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be
touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their
whole sex withal.
ORLANDO.
Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge
of women?
ROSALIND.
There were none principal. They were all like one another as halfpence
are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to
match it.
ORLANDO.
I prithee recount some of them.
ROSALIND.
No. I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is
a man haunts the forest that abuses our young plants with carving
“Rosalind” on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on
brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind. If I could meet
that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to
have the quotidian of love upon him.
ORLANDO.
I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you tell me your remedy.
ROSALIND.
There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you. He taught me how to know a
man in love, in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
ORLANDO.
What were his marks?
ROSALIND.
A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have
not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected,
which you have not—but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in
beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then your hose should be
ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe
untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation.
But you are no such man. You are rather point-device in your
accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.
ORLANDO.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
ROSALIND.
Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it, which
I warrant she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of
the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences.
But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees,
wherein Rosalind is so admired?
ORLANDO.
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he,
that unfortunate he.
ROSALIND.
But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
ORLANDO.
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
ROSALIND.
Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark
house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so
punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers
are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
ORLANDO.
Did you ever cure any so?
ROSALIND.
Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his
mistress, and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I,
being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing
and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of
tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion
truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this
colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then
forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my
suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness, which
was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook
merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me
to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall
not be one spot of love in ’t.
ORLANDO.
I would not be cured, youth.
ROSALIND.
I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day
to my cote and woo me.
ORLANDO.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
ROSALIND.
Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and by the way you shall tell
me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
ORLANDO.
With all my heart, good youth.
ROSALIND.
Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest
Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques at a distance observing them.
TOUCHSTONE.
Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how,
Audrey? Am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
AUDREY.
Your features, Lord warrant us! What features?
TOUCHSTONE.
I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest
Ovid, was among the Goths.
JAQUES.
[_Aside_.] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatched
house!
TOUCHSTONE.
When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded
with the forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more dead than
a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made
thee poetical.
AUDREY.
I do not know what “poetical” is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it
a true thing?
TOUCHSTONE.
No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are
given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said, as lovers,
they do feign.
AUDREY.
Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical?
TOUCHSTONE.
I do, truly, for thou swear’st to me thou art honest. Now if thou wert
a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.
AUDREY.
Would you not have me honest?
TOUCHSTONE.
No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to
beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
JAQUES.
[_Aside_.] A material fool!
AUDREY.
Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.
TOUCHSTONE.
Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat
into an unclean dish.
AUDREY.
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
TOUCHSTONE.
Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness; sluttishness may come
hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee. And to that end I
have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who
hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest and to couple us.
JAQUES.
[_Aside_.] I would fain see this meeting.
AUDREY.
Well, the gods give us joy!
TOUCHSTONE.
Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this
attempt, for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but
horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are
necessary. It is said, “Many a man knows no end of his goods.” Right.
Many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the
dowry of his wife; ’tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor
men alone? No, no, the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is
the single man therefore blessed? No. As a walled town is more worthier
than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable
than the bare brow of a bachelor. And by how much defence is better
than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want.
Enter Sir Oliver Martext.
Here comes Sir Oliver. Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you
dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your
chapel?
MARTEXT.
Is there none here to give the woman?
TOUCHSTONE.
I will not take her on gift of any man.
MARTEXT.
Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.
JAQUES.
[_Coming forward_.] Proceed, proceed. I’ll give her.
TOUCHSTONE.
Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t, how do you, sir? You are very
well met. God ’ild you for your last company. I am very glad to see
you. Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay, pray be covered.
JAQUES.
Will you be married, motley?
TOUCHSTONE.
As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her
bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would
be nibbling.
JAQUES.
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.
TOUCHSTONE.
[_Aside_.] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him
than of another, for he is not like to marry me well, and not being
well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my
wife.
JAQUES.
Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
TOUCHSTONE.
Come, sweet Audrey. We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good Master Oliver. Not
_O sweet Oliver,
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee._
But
_Wind away,—
Begone, I say,
I will not to wedding with thee._
[_Exeunt Touchstone, Audrey and Jaques._]
MARTEXT.
’Tis no matter. Ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me
out of my calling.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
ROSALIND.
Never talk to me, I will weep.
CELIA.
Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not
become a man.
ROSALIND.
But have I not cause to weep?
CELIA.
As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
ROSALIND.
His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
CELIA.
Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own
children.
ROSALIND.
I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.
CELIA.
An excellent colour. Your chestnut was ever the only colour.
ROSALIND.
And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
CELIA.
He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter’s
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