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O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?

Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

I charge thee be not thou more griev’d than I am.

Ros.

I have more cause.

Cel.

Thou hast not, cousin,

Prithee be cheerful. Know’st thou not the Duke

Hath banish’d me, his daughter?

Ros.

That he hath not.

Cel.

No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.

Shall we be sund’red? shall we part, sweet girl?

No, let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go, and what to bear with us,

And do not seek to take your change upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;

For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee.

Ros.

Why, whither shall we go?

Cel.

To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Ros.

Alas, what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel.

I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,