Act 3

Scene IV

The forest.

	Enter Rosalind* and Celia.*
Rosalind	Never talk to me; I will weep.
Celia	Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.
Rosalind	But have I not cause to weep?
Celia	As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
Rosalind	His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Celia	Something browner than Judas’s marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.
Rosalind	I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.
Celia	An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.
Rosalind	And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
Celia	He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.
Rosalind	But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
Celia	Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Rosalind	Do you think so?
Celia	Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.
Rosalind	Not true in love?
Celia	Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.
Rosalind	You have heard him swear downright he was.
Celia	“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.
Rosalind	I met the duke yesterday and had much question with him: he asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando?
Celia	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 puisny 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?
	Enter Corin.
Corin	Mistress and master, you have oft inquired After the shepherd that complain’d of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress.
Celia	Well, and what of him?
Corin	If you will see a pageant truly play’d, Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it.
Rosalind	O, come, let us remove: The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I’ll prove a busy actor in their play. Exeunt.