For by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou can’st, I’ll go along with thee.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?
Cel. To seek my uncle.
Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cel. I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face;
The like do you; so shall we pass along,