Const. I cannot blame thee, Otho,
Though thou be ignorant of her high worth,
Since here in Saxon we are strangers both;
But if thou cal'st to minde why we left Meath,
Reade the trice[162] reason in that Ladies eye,
Daughter unto the Duke of Saxonie,
Shee unto whom so many worthy Lords
Vail'd Bonnet when she past the Triangle,
Making the pavement Ivory where she trode.
Otho. She that so lightly toucht the marble path That leadeth from the Temple to the presence?
Const. The same.
Otho. Why, that was white before,
White Marble, Constantine, whiter by odds
Then that which lovers terme the Ivory hand,
Nay then the Lillie whitenesse of her face.
Con. Come, thou art a cavilling companion:
Because thou seest my heart is drown'd in love,
Thou wilt drowne me too. I say the Ladie's faire;
I say I love her, and in that more faire;
I say she loves me, and in that most faire;
Love doth attribute in Hyperbolies
Unto his Mistris the creation
Of every excellence, because in her
His eies do dreame of perfect excellence.—
And here she comes; observe her, gentle friend.
[Enter Euphrata.
Euph. Welcome, sweet Constantine.
Con. My Euphrata.
Euph. Thy Euphrata, be thou my Constantine. But what is he? a stranger, or thy friend?
Con. My second selfe, my second Euphrata. If thou beest mine, salute her, gentle Otho.