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Orl.

I rest much bounden to you; fare you well.

[Exit Le Beau.]

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother,

From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother.

But heavenly Rosalind!

Exit.

¶

Enter Celia and Rosalind.

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 child’s father. O how full of briers 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 cry “hem” and have him.

Cel. Come, come, wrastle with thy affections.