“Jaques. More, more, I prithee, more.
Amiens. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
Jaques. I thank it. More, I prithee, more! I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More. I prithee, more!
Amiens. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.
Jaques. I do not desire you to please me; I desire you to sing.
******
Rosalind. They say you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaques. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
Rosalind. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
Jaques. Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.