Aris. [Watching Aratea] The sun has made a shrine of her bright hair
Where eyes would worship, but her fairer face
Lures their devotion ere they gaze one prayer.
Phil. [Crossing to Aristocles] Aristocles, I swear yon dancer's foot,
Curving the air, marks beauty of more worth
Than all the fantasies of dream you write
On heavens conjectural.
Dion. [Angrily to Phillistus] It suits you well
To treat the theme deific with bold tongue.
No thought so high but you would trick it out