Dem. Thou wouldst not hurt me?
Cel. In this mind I am in I think I should be hardly brought to strike ye, Unless 'twere thus; but in my mans mind—
Dem. What?
Cel. I should be friends with you too, Now I think better.
Dem. Ye are a tall Souldier:
Here, take these, and these;
This gold to furnish ye, and keep this bracelet;
Why do you weep now?
You a masculine Spirit?
Cel. No, I confess, I am a fool, a woman: And ever when I part with you—
Dem. You shall not, These tears are like prodigious signs, my sweet one, I shall come back, loaden with fame, to honour thee.
Cel. I hope you shall:
But then my dear Demetrius,
When you stand Conquerour, and at your mercy
All people bow, and all things wait your sentence;
Say then your eye (surveying all your conquest)
Finds out a beautie, even in sorrow excellent,
A constant face, that in the midst of ruine
With a forc'd smile, both scorns at fate, and fortune:
Say you find such a one, so nobly fortified,
And in her figure all the sweets of nature?
Dem. Prethee, No more of this, I cannot find her.
Cel. That shews as far beyond my wither'd beauty; And will run mad to love ye too.