His form, his arms, his air, his very frown.
Lord of these confines, speak—declare thy pleasure;
Theod. Dost thou not know me then?
Count. Ha! Theodore?
This sameness, not resemblance, is past faith.
All statues, pictures, or the likeness kept
By memory, of the good Alphonso living,
Are faint and shadowy traces, to this image!
Fab. Hear me, my lord, so shall the wonder cease.—