Thy father is by Torismond banished from the
crown, and thou, the unhappy daughter of a king, detained captive,
living as disquieted in thy thoughts as thy father discontented in
his exile. Ah Rosalynde, what cares wait upon a crown! what griefs are
incident to dignity! what sorrows haunt royal palaces! The greatest
seas have the sorest storms, the highest birth subject to the most
bale, and of all trees the cedars soonest shake with the wind: small
currents are ever calm, low valleys not scorched in any lightnings,
nor base men tied to any baleful prejudice. Fortune flies, and if she
touch poverty it is with her heel, rather disdaining their want with a
frown, than envying their wealth with disparagement. O Rosalynde,
hadst thou been born low, thou hadst not fallen so high, and yet being
great of blood thine honor is more, if thou brookest misfortune with
patience. Suppose I contrary fortune with content, yet fates unwilling
to have me anyway happy, have forced love to set my thoughts on fire
with fancy. Love, Rosalynde? becometh it women in distress to think of
love? Tush, desire hath no respect of persons: Cupid is blind and
shooteth at random, as soon hitting a rag as a robe, and piercing as
soon the bosom of a captive as the breast of a libertine.
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