Is he of God’s making?
Is he of God’s making? What manner of man?
Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?
Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Do you not know I am a woman?
When I think, I must speak.
Why, God will send more, if the man will be
thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if
thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s
heels and your heart both in an instant.
Nay, but the devil take mocking. Speak sad
brow and true maid.
I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.
Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet
and hose? What did he when thou saw’st him? What
said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What
makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains
he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou
see him again? Answer me in one word.
You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first.
’Tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size.
To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to
answer in a catechism.
But doth he know that I am in this forest and
in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the
day he wrestled?
It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the
propositions of a lover. But take a taste of my
finding him, and relish it with good observance. I
found him under a tree like a dropped acorn.
It may well be called Jove’s tree when it
drops forth such fruit.
Give me audience, good madam.
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground.
Cry “holla” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets
unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.
O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.
I would sing my song without a burden. Thou
bring’st me out of tune.
Do you not know I am a woman? When I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
You bring me out.