Cel. But is all this for your father?
Ros. No, some of it for my father’s child: O, how full of briars is this working-day world!
Cel. They are but burrs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very coats will catch them.
Ros. I could shake them off my coat; these burrs are in my heart.
Cel. Hem them away.
Ros. I would try; if I could cry hem, and have him.
Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
Ros. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
Cel. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?
Ros. The duke my father lov’d his father dearly.