Queen. But yet, methinks, those knots of sky do not So well with the dead colour of her face.
Ast. Your majesty mistakes, she wants no red.
[The Queen here plucks out her glass, and looks sometimes on herself, sometimes on her rival.
Queen. How do I look to-day, Asteria? Methinks, not well.
Ast. Pardon me, madam, most victoriously.
Queen. What think you, Philocles? come, do not flatter.
Phil. Paris was a bold man, who presumed, To judge the beauty of a goddess.
Cand. Your majesty has given the reason why He cannot judge; his love has blinded him.
Queen. Methinks, a long patch here, beneath her eye, Might hide that dismal hollowness. What think you, Philocles?
Cand. Beseech you, madam, ask not his opinion: What my faults are it is no matter; He loves me with them all.