ROSALIND. 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. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. ORLANDO. Did you ever cure any so? ROSALIND. Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in ’t. ORLANDO. I would not be cured, youth. ROSALIND. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cote and woo me. ORLANDO. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is. ROSALIND. Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go? ORLANDO. With all my heart, good youth. ROSALIND. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go? [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another part of the Forest Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques at a distance observing them. TOUCHSTONE. Come apace, good Audrey. I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? Am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you? AUDREY. Your features, Lord warrant us! What features? TOUCHSTONE. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. JAQUES. [_Aside_.] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatched house! TOUCHSTONE. When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child, understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. AUDREY. I do not know what “poetical” is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing? TOUCHSTONE. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning, and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said, as lovers, they do feign. AUDREY. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical? TOUCHSTONE. I do, truly, for thou swear’st to me thou art honest. Now if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign. AUDREY. Would you not have me honest?