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.
Men have died from time 
to time and worms have eaten them,
but not for love.
Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.
It is to be all made of sighs and tears,
And so am I for Phoebe.
It is to be all made of faith and service,
And so am I for Phoebe.
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion and all made of wishes,
All adoration,
duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance,
And so am I for Phoebe.
Prithee, be cheerful. Know’st thou not the Duke
Hath banished me, his daughter?
That he hath not.
No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one.
Shall we be sundered? 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.
Why, whither shall we go?
To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love!
And thou, thrice-crownèd queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind, these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste,
and the unexpressive she.
O, for a horse with wings!
Hear'st thou, Pisanio? 
He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I 
Glide thither in a day?
Then, true Pisanio,-- 
Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord; who long'st,--
Let me bate--but not like me--yet long'st,
But in a fainter kind--O, not like me;
For mine's beyond beyond--say, how far it is
To this same blessed Milford: but first of all,
How we may steal from hence, and for the gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence-going
And our return, to excuse: but first, how get hence:
Prithee, speak, How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?
¿Y qué hariais?
Me haría una cabaña de sauce a vuestra puerta
y llamaría a mi alma, que vive en esta casa.
Compondría tiernos cantos de amor menospreciado,
que cantaría a toda voz en la calma de la noche.
Gritaría vuestro nombre al eco de los montes
y haría que la comadre balbuciente de los aires
repitiese «¡Olivia!».
¡Ah, no podríais vivir
entre los elementos de aire y tierra
sin tener piedad de mí!
¡Tal vez lo consigais!
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.
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!
O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou
didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But
it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an
unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal!
Pray you, no more of this.
’Tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon.
I will help you if I can.  I would love you if I could.
Tomorrow, meet we all together.
