Arth. But neither see.
Em. I'm sure they hear you then:
What can your eyes do more?
Arth. They view your beauties.
Em. Do not I see? You have a face like mine,
Two hands, and two round, pretty, rising breasts,
That heave like mine.
Arth. But you describe a woman;
Nor is it sight, but touching with your hands.
Em. Then 'tis my hand that sees, and that's all one;