' We that are true lovers run into strange
capers;
but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love
mortal
in folly.
ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.
TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I
break
my shins against it.
ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.
TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.
CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man
If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.
TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!
ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman.
CORIN. Who calls?
TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.
CORIN. Else are they very wretched.
ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.
CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
And faints for succour.
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