Mat. Our shadows, madam.
Em. Mine is a prettier shadow far, than thine.
I love it; let me kiss my t'other self. [Kissing the glass, and hugging it.
Alas, I've kissed it dead; the fine thing's gone:
Indeed, it kissed so cold, as if 'twere dying.
[Arthur comes forward softly, shewing himself behind her.
'Tis here again;
Oh no, this face is neither mine nor thine;
I think the glass has born another child. [She turns and sees Arthur.
Ha! What art thou with a new kind of face,