ROSALIND. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the cutter-off of Nature’s wit. CELIA. Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work neither, but Nature’s, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.—How now, wit, whither wander you? TOUCHSTONE. Mistress, you must come away to your father. CELIA. Were you made the messenger? TOUCHSTONE. No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you. ROSALIND. Where learned you that oath, fool? TOUCHSTONE. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught. Now, I’ll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn. CELIA. How prove you that in the great heap of your knowledge? ROSALIND. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom. TOUCHSTONE. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave. CELIA. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. TOUCHSTONE. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were. But if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn. No more was this knight swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or that mustard. CELIA. Prithee, who is’t that thou mean’st? TOUCHSTONE. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. CELIA. My father’s love is enough to honour him. Enough! Speak no more of him. You’ll be whipped for taxation one of these days. TOUCHSTONE. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly. CELIA. By my troth, thou sayest true. For since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. Enter Le Beau. ROSALIND. With his mouth full of news. CELIA. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young. ROSALIND. Then shall we be news-crammed. CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. _Bonjour_, Monsieur Le Beau. What’s the news? LE BEAU. Fair princess, you have lost much good sport. CELIA. Sport! Of what colour? LE BEAU. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you? ROSALIND. As wit and fortune will. TOUCHSTONE. Or as the destinies decrees. CELIA. Well said. That was laid on with a trowel. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, if I keep not my rank— ROSALIND. Thou losest thy old smell. LE BEAU. You amaze me, ladies. I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of. ROSALIND. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. LE BEAU. I will tell you the beginning and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end, for the best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. CELIA. Well, the beginning that is dead and buried. LE BEAU. There comes an old man and his three sons—