ROSALIND. Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far? Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. CELIA. I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face. The like do you; so shall we pass along And never stir assailants. ROSALIND. Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtal-axe upon my thigh, A boar-spear in my hand, and in my heart Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will, We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside, As many other mannish cowards have That do outface it with their semblances. CELIA. What shall I call thee when thou art a man? ROSALIND. I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page, And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be called? CELIA. Something that hath a reference to my state: No longer Celia, but Aliena. ROSALIND. But, cousin, what if we assayed to steal The clownish fool out of your father’s court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel? CELIA. He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me. Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, And get our jewels and our wealth together, Devise the fittest time and safest way To hide us from pursuit that will be made After my flight. Now go we in content To liberty, and not to banishment. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. The Forest of Arden Enter Duke Senior, Amiens and two or three Lords, dressed as foresters. DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say: “This is no flattery. These are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.” Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. AMIENS. I would not change it. Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style. DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored.