As You Like It

Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet;
but
mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he.