But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
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.
Did you ever cure any so?
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.
I would not be cured, youth.
I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and
come every day to my cote and woo me.
Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.
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?
With all my heart, good youth.
Nay, you must call me Rosalind. — Come, sister, will you go?