Perseda.
Strike, strike; thy words pierce deeper than thy blows.
Brusor, hide her; for her looks withhold me.
[Then Brusor hides her with a lawn.
O Brusor, thou hast not hid her lips;
For there sits Venus with Cupid on her knee,
And all the graces smiling round about her,
So craving pardon, that I cannot strike.
Brusor.
Her face is cover'd over quite, my lord.
Soliman.
Why, so: O Brusor, seest thou not
Her milkwhite neck, that alabaster tower?
'Twill break the edge of my keen scimitar,
And pieces, flying back, will wound myself.
Brusor.
Now she is all covered, my lord.