Ter. What meanes my Lord?
Kin. Thy Bride, thy choice, thy wife,
She that is now thy fadom, thy new world,
That brings thee people, and makes little subiects;
Kneele at thy feete, obay in euerie thing,
So euerie Father is a priuate King.
Ter. My Lord, her beauty is the poorest part,
Chieflie her vertues did endowe my heart.
Kin. Doe not back-bite her beauties, they all shine,
Brighter on thee, because the beames are thine,
To thee more faire, to others her two lips
Shew like a parted Moone in thine Eclipse;
That glaunce, which louers mongst themselues deuise,
Walkes as inuisible to others eies:
Giue me thine eare.
Cri. What meanes the King?
Dem. Tis a quaint straine.
King. Thou darst not Wat.
Ter. She is too course an obiect for the Court.