Celia. I'll put myself in poor and mean Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, A boar-spear in my hand; and—in my heart Lie there what hidden woman's fear there As many other mannish cowards have That do outface it with their semblances. Celia. What shall I call thee when thou art a man? Rosalind. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page; And therefore look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be call'd? Celia. Something that hath a reference to my state: No longer Celia, but Aliena. Rosalind. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal The clownish fool out of your father's court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel? Celía. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me; |