CELIA.
Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work neither, but Nature’s, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.—How now, wit, whither wander you?
TOUCHSTONE.
Mistress, you must come away to your father.
CELIA.
Were you made the messenger?
TOUCHSTONE.
No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you.
ROSALIND.
Where learned you that oath, fool?
TOUCHSTONE.
Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught. Now, I’ll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.
CELIA.
How prove you that in the great heap of your knowledge?
ROSALIND.
Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.
TOUCHSTONE.
Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave.
CELIA.
By our beards, if we had them, thou art.