TOUCHSTONE. I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-women’s rank to market. ROSALIND. Out, fool! TOUCHSTONE. For a taste: If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalind. If the cat will after kind, So be sure will Rosalind. Winter garments must be lined, So must slender Rosalind. They that reap must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with Rosalind. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, Such a nut is Rosalind. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love’s prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you infect yourself with them? ROSALIND. Peace, you dull fool, I found them on a tree. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. ROSALIND. I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit i’ th’ country, for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar. TOUCHSTONE. You have said, but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge. Enter Celia as Aliena, reading a paper. ROSALIND. Peace, here comes my sister, reading. Stand aside. CELIA. [_Reads_.] _Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No! Tongues I’ll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the streching of a span Buckles in his sum of age; Some, of violated vows ’Twixt the souls of friend and friend. But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence’ end, Will I “Rosalinda” write, Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven nature charged That one body should be filled With all graces wide-enlarged. Nature presently distilled Helen’s cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra’s majesty; Atalanta’s better part, Sad Lucretia’s modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devised, Of many faces, eyes, and hearts To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave._ ROSALIND. O most gentle Jupiter, what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried “Have patience, good people!” CELIA. How now! Back, friends. Shepherd, go off a little. Go with him, sirrah. TOUCHSTONE. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat, though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. [_Exeunt Corin and Touchstone._]