Leon. This is too much my Queen.
Bach. Had the gods lov'd me; that my unworthy womb had bred this brave man.
Leon. Still you run wrong.
Bach. I would have liv'd upon the comfort of him; fed on his growing hopes.
Leo. This touches me.
Bach. I know no friends, nor Being, but his virtues.
Le. You have laid out words enough upon a subject.
Bach. But words cannot express him Sir: why what a shape Heaven has conceiv'd him in, oh Nature made him up!
Leon. I wonder Dutchess.
Bach. So you must: for less than admiration loses this godlike man.