ROSALIND.
Jove, Jove, this shepherd’s passion
Is much upon my fashion.
TOUCHSTONE.
And mine, but it grows something stale with me.
CELIA.
I pray you, one of you question yond man
If he for gold will give us any food.
I faint almost to death.
TOUCHSTONE.
Holla, you clown!
ROSALIND.
Peace, fool, he’s not thy kinsman.
CORIN.
Who calls?
TOUCHSTONE.
Your betters, sir.
CORIN.
Else are they very wretched.
ROSALIND.
Peace, I say.—Good even to you, friend.
CORIN.
And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.