Theo. Do not task her so far.
Leo. By heaven she is cork, and clouds, light, light Sir, vapor
But I shall find her out, with all her witchcrafts,
Her paintings, and her powncings: for 'tis art
And only art preserves her, and meer spels
That work upon his powers; let her but shew me
A ruin'd cheek like mine, that holds his colour
And writes but sixteen years in spight of sorrows
An unbathed body, smiles, that give but shaddows,
And wrinkle not the face; besides she is little,
A demy dame, that makes no object.
Theo. Nay.
Then I must say you err; for credit me
I think she is taller than your self.
Leoc. Why let her
It is not that shall mate me; I but ask
My hands may reach unto her.
Theo. Gentle Lady
'Tis now ill time of farther argument,
For I perceive your anger voyd of counsel,
Which I could wish more temperate.
Leoc. Pray forgive me
If I have spoken uncivilly: they that look on
See more than we that play: and I beseech ye
Impute it loves offence, not mine; whose torments,
If you have ever lov'd, and found my crosses
You must confess are seldom ty'd to patience,
Yet I could wish I had said less.
Theo. No harm then;
Ye have made a full amends; our company
You may command, so please you in your travels
With all our faith and furtherance; let it be so.
Leoc. Ye make too great an offer.
Theo. Then it shall be.
Go in and rest your self, our wholsome dyet
Will be made ready straight: But heark ye Lady
One thing I must entreat, your leave, and sufferance
That these things may be open to my Brother
For more respect and honor.
Leoc. Do your pleasure.