The impression left upon our hearts and minds by the character of Rosalind--by the mixture of playfulness, sensibility, and what the French (and we for lack of a better expression) call _naivete_--is like a delicious strain of music. There is a depth of delight, and a subtlety of words to express that delight, which is enchanting. Yet when we call to mind particular speeches and passages, we find that they have a relative beauty and propriety, which renders it difficult to separate them from the context without injuring their effect She says some of the most charming things in the world, and some of the most humorous: but we apply them as phrases rather than as maxims, and remember them rather for their pointed felicity of expression and fanciful application, than for their general truth and depth of meaning. I will give a few instances:-- I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time--that I was an Irish rat--which I can hardly remember.[15] Good, my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, that I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? We dwell here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. A traveller! By my faith you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole. Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them--but not for love. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat. Rosalind has not the impressive eloquence of Portia, nor the sweet wisdom of Isabella. Her longest speeches are not her best; nor is her taunting address to Phebe, beautiful and celebrated as it is, equal to Phebe's own description of her. The latter, indeed, is more in earnest.[16]