Lys. He bows a little now; he's strangely alter'd.
Sel. Ha? pray ye a word Leontius, pray ye a word with ye, Lysimachus? you bo'th knew mine Enanthe, I lost in Antioch, when the Town was taken, Mine Uncle slain, Antigonus had the sack on't?
Lys. Yes, I remember well the Girl.
Sel. Methinks now That face is wondrous like her: I have her picture, The same, but more years on her; the very same.
Lys. A Cherry to a Chery is not liker.
Sel. Look on her eyes.
Leo. Most certain she is like her: Many a time have I dandled her in these arms, Sir, And I hope who will more.
Ant. What's that ye look at, Pr[in]ces?
Sel. This Picture, and that Lady, Sir.
Ant. Ha! they are near: They only err in time.