Nay, you must call me Rosalind

Orlando De Boys:

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. Rosalind:
Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it. Orlando De Boys:
I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind I am that he, that unfortunate he. Rosalind:
But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? Orlando De Boys:
Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. Rosalind:
Love is merely a madness and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do. And the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love, too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. Orlando De Boys:
Did you ever cure any so? Rosalind:
Yes. One. And in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me. At which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything. As boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this color, would now like him, now loathe him, then entertain him, then forswear him, now weep for him, then spit at him, that I drave my suitor from his mad humor of love to a living humor of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him. And this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart that there shall not be one spot of love in it. Orlando De Boys:
I would not be cured, youth. Rosalind:
I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day and woo me. Orlando De Boys:
Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Rosalind:
[shaking hands]
Will you? Orlando De Boys:
With all my heart, good youth. Rosalind:
Nay, you must call me Rosalind