Ros. How stands my young lady affected to him?
Pol. There's all the difficulty; we must win her to love him. I doubt the peevish girl will think him too old; he's well near fifty. In this business I must leave somewhat to thy wit and care: praise him beyond all measure.
Ros. Your lordship ever found me trusty.
Pol. If thou effect it, I will make thee happy.
[Exeunt.
Enter Philocles, Clerimont.
Phil. Eugenio's sister, then, is the rich heir
By his decease?
Cler. Yes, and the fair one too:
She needs no gloss that fortune can set on her;
Her beauty of itself were prize enough
To make a king turn beggar for.
Phil. Heyday!
What, in love, Clerimont? I lay my life 'tis so;
Thou couldst not praise her with such passion else.
Cler. I know not; I slept well enough last night:
But if thou saw'st her once, I would not give
A farthing for thy life; I tell thee, Philocles,
One sight of her would make thee cry, ah me!
Sigh, and look pale: methinks I do imagine
How like an idolatrous lover thou wouldst look
Through the eyelids; know nobody.