Ant. There will be, For he is the greatest Artist living made it. Where is she now?
Leu. She is ready to walk out, Sir.
Ant. Stark mad, I know she will be.
Leu. So I hope, Sir.
Ant. She knows not of the Prince?
Leu. Of no man living—
Ant. How do I look? how do my cloaths become me? I am not very grey.
Leu. A very youth, Sir,
Upon my maiden-head as smug as April:
Heaven bless that sweet face, 'twill undo a thousand;
Many a soft heart must sob yet, e'r that wither,
Your Grace can give content enough.
Enter Celia with a Book.
Ant. I think so.