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._] CELIA. Didst thou hear these verses? ROSALIND. O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear. CELIA. That’s no matter. The feet might bear the verses. ROSALIND. Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse. CELIA. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees? ROSALIND. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras’ time that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. CELIA. Trow you who hath done this? ROSALIND. Is it a man? CELIA. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour? ROSALIND. I prithee, who? CELIA. O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter. ROSALIND. Nay, but who is it? CELIA. Is it possible? ROSALIND. Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is. CELIA. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!