Psec. He would not please his tailor and his barber;
For they got more for your sake by their lord
Than they have got this twenty years before.
Leu. Ah, Psectas, Psectas! can my father think
That I can love Count Virro? one so old—
That were enough to make a match unfit—
But one so base; a man that never lov'd
For anything call'd good, but dross and pelf.
One that would never, had my brother liv'd,
Have mov'd this suit: no, I can never love him:
But canst thou keep a secret firmly, Psectas?
Psec. Doubt me not, madam.
Leu. Well, I'll tell thee then.
I love—alas! I dare not say I love him—
But there's a young and noble gentleman,
Lord Euphues' son, my father's enemy,
A man whom Nature's prodigality
Stretch'd even to envy in the making up.
Once from a window my pleas'd eye beheld
This youthful gallant as he rode the street
On a curvetting courser who, it seem'd
Knew his fair load, and with a proud disdain
Check'd the base earth: my father being by,
I ask'd his name; he told me Philocles,
The son and heir of his great enemy.
Judge, Psectas, then, how my divided breast
Suffer'd between two meeting contraries,
Hatred and love: but Love's a deity,
And must prevail 'gainst mortals, whose command
Not Jove himself could ever yet withstand.
Cler. What, is the letter done already? I see these lovers have nimble inventions; but how will you send it?
Phil. What a question's that! Seest thou this stone?
Cler. Ah! then I see your drift; this stone must guide
Your fleeting letter in the air, and carry it
To that fair mark you aim.
Phil. Hard by her.
Cler. I think you would not hit her with such stones as this; lady, look to yourself, now it comes to proof.
Phil. But prythee, tell me, what dost thou think this letter may do?