Tib. ’Tis withered, lady—the flower’s scent is gone.
Dul. This hath been such as you are—hath been, sir.
They say, in England, that a far-famed[132] friar 120
Had girt the island round with a brass wall,
If[133] they could ha’ catched Time is: but Time is past
Left it still[134] clipt with agèd Neptune’s arm.
Tib. Aurora yet keeps chaste old Tithon’s bed.
Dul. Yet blushes at it when she rises.
Gon. Pretty, pretty—just like my younger wit—you know it, my lord.
Dul. But is your father’s age thus fresh—hath yet his head so many hairs?
Tib. More, more, by many a one. 130
Dul. More, say you?
Tib. More.
Dul. Right, sir, for this hath none. Is his eye so quick as this same piece makes him show?