Enter Philocles, and Clerimont at the window.
Cler. See, Philocles, yonder's that happy shade,
That often veils the fair Leucothoë,
And this her usual hour; she'll not be long:
Then thou shalt tell me if so rare an object
E'er bless'd thine eyes before.
Phil. Well, I would see her once,
Were't but to try thy judgment, Clerimont.
Cler. And when thou dost, remember what I told thee,
I would not be so sick;[421] but soft, look to thy heart,
Yonder she comes, and that's her waiting-woman.
[Leucothoë and Psectas in the garden.
Now gaze thy fill; speak, man, how lik'st thou her?
Leu. Psectas!
Psec. Madam.
Leu. What flower was that,
That thou wert telling such a story of
Last night to me?
Psec. 'Tis call'd Narcissus, madam:
It bears the name of that too beauteous boy
That lost himself by loving of himself;
Who, viewing in a fair and crystal stream
Those lips that only he could never kiss,
Doats on the shadow, which to reach in vain
Striving he drowns: thus, scorning all beside,
For the lov'd shadow the fair substance died.
Leu. Fie, fie! I like not these impossible tales;
A man to fall in love with his own shadow,
And die for love, 'tis most ridiculous!