King. Thy modesty's a [1]candle to thy merit, It shines itself, and shews thy merit too. But say, my boy, where didst thou leave the giants?
[Footnote 1: We find a candlestick for this candle in two celebrated authors:
———Each star withdraws
His golden head, and burns within the socket.—Nero.
A soul grown old and sunk into the socket.—Sebastian.
]
Thumb. My liege, without the castle gates they stand, The castle gates too low for their admittance.
King. What look they like?
Thumb. Like nothing but themselves.
Queen. [1]And sure thou art like nothing but thyself. [Aside.
[Footnote 1: This simile occurs very frequently among the dramatic writers of both kinds.]
King. Enough! the vast idea fills my soul.
I see them—yes, I see them now before me:
The monstrous, ugly, barb'rous sons of whores.
But ha! what form majestick strikes our eyes?
[1]So perfect, that it seems to have been drawn
By all the gods in council: so fair she is,
That surely at her birth the council paused,
And then at length cry'd out, This is a woman!