Yes, to your gracious self must I complain,
In whose fair answer lies my remedy;
On whose perfection all my thoughts attend;
On whose aspect mine eyes find beauty's bower;
In whose translucent breast my heart is lodg'd.
Bell'-Imperia.
Alas, my lord, these are but words of course,
And but device[80] to drive me from this place.
[She, in going in, lets fall her glove, which Horatio, coming out, takes up.
Horatio.
Madam, your glove.
Bell'-Imperia.
Thanks, good Horatio; take it for thy pains.
Balthazar.