_Con_. Then thou canst dissemble.
_Otho_. You know I cannot; but, deare _Constantine_,
I prethee tell me first, what is that Ladie,
That wonder of her sexe, cal'd _Euphrata_?
Whose daughter is she?
_Const_. I cannot blame thee, _Otho_,
Though thou be ignorant of her high worth,
Since here in _Saxon_ we are strangers both;
But if thou cal'st to minde why we left _Meath_,
Reade the trice[162] reason in that Ladies eye,
Daughter unto the Duke of _Saxonie_,
Shee unto whom so many worthy Lords
Vail'd Bonnet when she past the Triangle,
Making the pavement Ivory where she trode.
_Otho_. She that so lightly toucht the marble path
That leadeth from the Temple to the presence?
_Const_. The same.
_Otho_. Why, that was white before,
White Marble, _Constantine_, whiter by odds
Then that which lovers terme the Ivory hand,
Nay then the Lillie whitenesse of her face.
_Con_. Come, thou art a cavilling companion:
Because thou seest my heart is drown'd in love,
Thou wilt drowne me too. I say the Ladie's faire;
I say I love her, and in that more faire;
I say she loves me, and in that most faire;
Love doth attribute in Hyperbolies
Unto his Mistris the creation
Of every excellence, because in her
His eies do dreame of perfect excellence.
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