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