William Shakespeare: As You Like It, Act I, Scene III
Enter Celia and Rosalind
No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.
Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths our very petticoats will catch them.
O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?
Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:
If with myself I hold intelligence
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
If that I do not dream or be not frantic,—
As I do trust I am not—then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your highness.
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself:
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
So was I when your highness banish'd him:
Treason is not inherited, my lord;
Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor:
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
To think my poverty is treacherous.
It was your pleasure and your own remorse:
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her: if she be a traitor,
Why so am I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together,
And wheresoever we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.
Her very silence and her patience
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her; she is banish'd.
If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.
Prithee be cheerful: know'st thou not, the duke
Hath banish'd me, his daughter?
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No: let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go and what to bear with us;
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
The like do you: so shall we pass along
And never stir assailants.
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand; and—in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will—
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.
And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd?
The clownish fool out of your father's court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together,
Devise the fittest time and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content
To liberty and not to banishment.