Aris. Your wife, sir,—Aratea.
Dion. When you repeat the name I half believe
I have a wife. Your voice was ever true,
Nor fed me with the rifled husks of speech.
... Was she not fair?
Aris. My lord?
Dion. How fair, think you?
Aris. Who, sir, could say? Such beauty scorns all words
And writes itself but in the wondering eye.
Dion. You shift. You shift. Your tongue is beauty's pencil.