Ros. Proceed.
225 Cel. There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight.
Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
[229] Cel. Cry ‘holla’ to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets [230] unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.
[231] Ros. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.
Cel. I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest me out of tune.
Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, 235 I must speak. Sweet, say on.
[236] Cel. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Ros. Tis he: slink by, and note him.