As she is,
She comes to make a tender of that service
Which she stands bound to pay.
Sanaz. With your fair leave,
I make bold to salute you.
Lid. Sir, you have it.
Char. How he falls off!
Lid. My lord, though silence best becomes a maid,
And to be curious to know but what
Concerns myself, and with becoming distance,
May argue me of boldness, I must borrow
So much of modesty, as to inquire
Prince Giovanni's health.
Sanaz. He cannot want
What you are pleased to wish him.
Lid. Would 'twere so!
And then there is no blessing that can make
A hopeful and a noble prince complete,
But should fall on him. O! he was our north star,
The light and pleasure of our eyes.
Sanaz. Where am I?
I feel myself another thing! Can charms
Be writ on such pure rubies[71]? her lips melt
As soon as touch'd! Not those smooth gales that glide
O'er happy Araby, or rich Sabæa,
Creating in their passage gums and spices,
Can serve for a weak simile to express
The sweetness of her breath. Such a brave stature
Homer bestow'd on Pallas, every limb
Proportion'd to it!
Char. This is strange.—My lord!
Sanaz. I crave your pardon, and yours, matchless maid,
For such I must report you.