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.