ROSALIND. Peace! Here comes my sister, reading; stand aside. CELIA. '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 charg'd That one body should be fill'd With all graces wide-enlarg'd. Nature presently distill'd Helen's cheek, but not her heart, Cleopatra's majesty, Atalanta's better part, Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalinde of many parts By heavenly synod was devis'd, Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, To have the touches dearest priz'd. 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;