Than to confide our vexed and careful spirits
To nature’s flush; to leave our memories
With the din and smoke of Rome, and force a pageant
Upon the lazy mirror of the bay,—
One to make Venus jealous, and confound
The richness of the season. Thou dost not guess
What I can do. Say, would’st thou miss the seeing
Of my magnificence?
Enter Paris.
Pop.See, here is Paris.