Bo. Mistris, it grows somewhat pretty and dark.
Ger. What then?
Bo. Nay, nothing; do not think I am afraid, Although perhaps you are.
Ger. I am not, forward.
Bo. Sure but you are? give me your hand, fear nothing.
There's one leg in the wood, do not pull me backward:
What a sweat one on's are in, you or I?
Pray God it do not prove the plague; yet sure
It has infected me; for I sweat too,
It runs out at my knees, feel, feel, I pray you.
Ger. What ails the fellow?
Bo. Hark, hark I beseech you, Do you hear nothing?
Ger. No.
Bo. List: a wild Hog,
He grunts: now 'tis a Bear: this wood is full of 'em,
And now, a Wolf, Mistress, a Wolf, a Wolf,
It is the howling of a Wolf.
Ger. The braying of an Ass, is it not?