Eust. Me thinks in this I see true loue in act: 780
The Woodbines with their leaues do sweetly spred,
The Roses blushing prancke them in their red,
No flower but boasts the beauties of the spring,
This bird hath life indeed if it could sing:
What meanes faire Mistres had you in this worke?
Ida. My needle sir.
Eust. In needles then there lurkes,
Some hidden grace I deeme beyond my reach.
Id. Not grace in thẽ good sir, but those that teach.
Eust. Say that your needle now were Cupids sting, 790
But ah her eie must bee no lesse,
In which is heauen and heauenlinesse,
In which the foode of God is shut,
Whose powers the purest mindes do glut.
Ida. What if it were?
Eust. Then see a wondrous thing,
I feare mee you would paint in Teneus heart,
Affection in his power and chiefest parts.
Ida. Good Lord sir no, for hearts but pricked soft,
Are wounded sore, for so I heare it oft. 800
Eust. what recks the second,
Where but your happy eye,
May make him liue, whom Ioue hath iudgd to die.
Ida. Should life & death within this needle lurke,
Ile pricke no hearts, Ile pricke vpon my worke.