ADMIRATION.
What find I here?
Fair Portia's counterfeit?—What demi-god
Hath come so near creation! Move these eyes!
Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion?—Here are sever'd lips,
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends.—Here, in her hair,
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh, t' entrap the hearts of men
Falter than gnats in cobwebs.—But her eyes—
How could he see to do them! having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfinish'd!