Cel.

Why, Cousin; why, Rosalind; Cupid have mercy; not a word!

Ros.

Not one to throw at a dog.

Cel.

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Ros.

Then there were two Cousins laid up; when the one should be lam'd with Reasons, and the other mad without any.

Cel.

But is all this for your father?

Ros.

No, some of it is for my father's Child. Oh, how full of briars is this working-day-world!

Cel.

They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

Ros.

I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

Cel.

Hem them away.

Ros.

I would try, if I could ^{2 note}cry, hem, and have him.

Cel.

Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

Ros.

O, they take the part of a better Wrestler than my self.

Cel.

O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despight of a Fall;—but turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest: is it possible on such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?

Ros.

The Duke my father lov'd his father dearly.

Cel.

Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love his son dearly? by this kind of chase, I should hate him; for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

Ros.

No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

Cel.

Why should I? doth he not deserve well?