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Ros. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay certainly there is no truth in him.

Ros. Do you think so?

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse- but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover’d goblet or a worm-eaten nut.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in—but I think he is not in.

Ros. You have heard him swear downright he was.

Cel. ‘Was’ is not ‘is.’ Besides, the oath of [a] lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.

Ros. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He ask’d me of what parentage I was. I told him of as good as he, so he laugh’d and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando?

Cel. O, that’s a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover, as a puisne tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?