Gyges.
Sire, your coming fits the nick of time.
Kan.
Then here must be two happy souls to find.
Gyges.
Not yet, but soon; (to Lesbia) I pray you, give your hand!
How tender ’tis, how hard of grain is mine,
How scarry-seamed from sword and dart! To match them—
Fie, an ill thought! On this a rose’s leaf,
A crumpled nothing, must imprint a pang,