SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess, Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow. But if thy love were ever like to mine— As sure I think did never man love so— How many actions most ridiculous Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy? CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily! If thou rememb’rest not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not loved. Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise, Thou hast not loved. Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou hast not loved. O Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe! [_Exit Silvius._] ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine own. TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods, and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears, “Wear these for my sake.” We that are true lovers run into strange capers. But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. ROSALIND. Thou speak’st wiser than thou art ware of. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it. ROSALIND. Jove, Jove, this shepherd’s passion Is much upon my fashion. TOUCHSTONE. And mine, but it grows something stale with me. CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food. I faint almost to death. TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown! ROSALIND. Peace, fool, he’s not thy kinsman. CORIN. Who calls? TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir. CORIN. Else are they very wretched. ROSALIND. Peace, I say.—Good even to you, friend. CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold Can in this desert place buy entertainment, Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. Here’s a young maid with travel much oppressed, And faints for succour. CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, My fortunes were more able to relieve her. But I am shepherd to another man And do not shear the fleeces that I graze. My master is of churlish disposition And little recks to find the way to heaven By doing deeds of hospitality. Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now, By reason of his absence, there is nothing That you will feed on. But what is, come see, And in my voice most welcome shall you be. ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture? CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile, That little cares for buying anything.