Herc. Philocalia! What! that renowmed[209] lady, whose
ample report hath struck wonder into remotest strangers? and yet her worth above that wonder? She, whose noble industries hath made her breast rich in true glories and undying habilities? she, that whilst other ladies spend the life of earth, Time, in reading their glass, their jewels, and (the shame of poesy) lustful sonnets, gives her soul meditations—those meditations wings that cleave the air, fan bright celestial fires, whose true reflection makes her see herself and them? she whose pity is ever above her envy, loving nothing less than insolent prosperity, and pitying nothing more than virtue destitute of fortune? 164
Nym. There were a lady for Ferrara’s duke!—one of great blood, firm age, undoubted honour, above her sex, most modestly artful, tho’ naturally modest; too excellent to be left unmatch’d, tho’ few worthy to match with her.
Herc. I cannot tell—my thoughts grow busy. 169
Phi. The princess would be private. Void the presence!
[Exeunt.
Dul. May I rest sure thou wilt conceal a secret?
Phi. Yes, madam.
Dul. How may I rest assured?
Phi. Truly thus—do not tell it me.