I would forget it fain,
But oh, it presses to my memory,
Like damnèd guilty deeds to sinners' minds.

And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.

But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised, And mine that I was proud on--mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh!

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

(Celia:) Here come Monsieur Le Beau. (Rosalind:) With his mouth full of news. (Celia:) Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young. (Rosalind:) Then shall we be news-crammed.