She loves the most to pluck—of yourself too;
I’m fain to hear’t—Where are you like each other?
Tell me at once and win my smiles at once!
In stature? Nay, not quite; far less in form,
But, for amends, your hair is black like hers
But not so full—hers creeps about her face,
Fringing it as the night the evening star.
What else have you of hers?
[Lesbia makes an involuntary movement.
Nay, nay—stand still.