Ros. O most gentle Iupiter, what tedious homilie of Loue haue you wearied your parishioners withall, and neuer cri'de, haue patience good people
Cel. How now backe friends: Shepheard, go off a little: go with him sirrah
Clo. Come Shepheard, let vs make an honorable retreit, though not with bagge and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. Enter.
Cel. Didst thou heare these verses? Ros. O yes, I heard them all, and more too, for some of them had in them more feete then the Verses would beare
Cel. That's no matter: the feet might beare y verses
Ros. I, but the feet were lame, and could not beare themselues without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse
Cel. But didst thou heare without wondering, how thy name should be hang'd and carued vpon these trees? Ros. I was seuen of the nine daies out of the wonder, before you came: for looke heere what I found on a Palme tree; I was neuer so berim'd since Pythagoras time that I was an Irish Rat, which I can hardly remember
Cel. Tro you, who hath done this? Ros. Is it a man? Cel. And a chaine that you once wore about his neck: change you colour? Ros. I pre'thee who? Cel. O Lord, Lord, it is a hard matter for friends to meete; but Mountaines may bee remoou'd with Earthquakes, and so encounter
Ros. Nay, but who is it? Cel. Is it possible? Ros. Nay, I pre'thee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is
Cel. O wonderfull, wonderfull, and most wonderfull wonderfull, and yet againe wonderful, and after that out of all hooping
Ros. Good my complection, dost thou think though I am caparison'd like a man, I haue a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more, is a South-sea of discouerie. I pre'thee tell me, who is it quickely, and speake apace: I would thou couldst stammer, that thou might'st powre this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as Wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle: either too much at once, or none at all. I pre'thee take the Corke out of thy mouth, that I may drinke thy tydings
Cel. So you may put a man in your belly
Ros. Is he of Gods making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a beard? Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard
Ros. Why God will send more, if the man will bee thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin
Cel. It is yong Orlando, that tript vp the Wrastlers heeles, and your heart, both in an instant
Ros. Nay, but the diuell take mocking: speake sadde brow, and true maid
Cel. I'faith (Coz) tis he
Ros. Orlando? Cel. Orlando
Ros. Alas the day, what shall I do with my doublet & hose? What did he when thou saw'st him? What sayde he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes hee heere? Did he aske for me? Where remaines he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him againe? Answer me in one word
Cel. You must borrow me Gargantuas mouth first: 'tis a Word too great for any mouth of this Ages size, to say I and no, to these particulars, is more then to answer in a Catechisme
Ros. But doth he know that I am in this Forrest, and in mans apparrell? Looks he as freshly, as he did the day he Wrastled? Cel. It is as easie to count Atomies as to resolue the propositions of a Louer: but take a taste of my finding him, and rellish it with good obseruance. I found him vnder a tree like a drop'd Acorne