Paul.Masterly done:
The very life seems warm upon her lip.
Leon. The fixure of her eye has motion in’t,
As we are mock’d with art. . . .
Still, methinks
There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel
Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,
For I will kiss her.
Paul.Good my lord, forbear:
The ruddiness upon her lip is wet;