Dio. Ha? what is this?
Aur. Thou fair star that I live by,
Look lovely on me, break into full brightness;
Look, here's a face now, of another making,
Another mold; here's a divine proportion,
Eyes fit for Phoebus self to gild the World with;
And there's a brow arch'd like the State of Heaven;
Look how it bends, and with what radiance,
As if the Synod of the gods sate under;
Look there, and wonder; now behold that fellow,
That admirable thing, cut with an Axe out.
Max. Old Woman, though I cannot give thee recompence,
Yet certainly, I'll make thy name as glorious.
Dio. Is this in truth?
Char. She is mad, and you must pardon her.
Dio. She hangs upon him; see.
Char. Her fit is strong now,
Be not you passionate.
Dio. She kisses.
Char. Let her;
'Tis but the fondness of her fit.
Dio. I am fool'd,
And if I suffer this.