Is he of God’s making?

Rosalind
Is he of God’s making? What manner of man?
Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?
Celia
Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Do you not know I am a woman?
When I think, I must speak.

Rosalind
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.
Celia
It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s
heels and your heart both in an instant.
Rosalind
Nay, but the devil take mocking. Speak sad
brow and true maid.
Celia
I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.
Rosalind
Orlando?
Celia
Orlando.
Rosalind
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.
Celia
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.
Rosalind
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?
Celia
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.
Rosalind
It may well be called Jove’s tree when it
drops forth such fruit.
Celia
Give me audience, good madam.
Rosalind
Proceed.
Celia
There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.
Rosalind
Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground.
Celia
Cry “holla” to thy tongue, I prithee. It curvets
unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.
Rosalind
O, ominous! He comes to kill my heart.
Celia
I would sing my song without a burden. Thou
bring’st me out of tune.
Rosalind
Do you not know I am a woman? When I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
Celia
You bring me out.