Alex. But here commeth Apelles. How now, Apelles, is Venus 160 face yet finished?
Apel. Not yet; beautie is not so soone shadowed whose perfection commeth not within the compasse either of cunning or of colour.
Alex. Well, let it rest unperfect; and come you with mee where 165 I will shew you that finished by nature that you have beene trifling about by art.
[Exeunt Alexander, Hephestion, and Apelles.
Actus tertius. Scæna prima.[856]
[Enter] Apelles, Campaspe [and a little behind them, Psyllus.]
Apel. Ladie, I doubt whether there bee any colour so fresh that may shadow a countenance so faire.
Camp. Sir, I had thought you had bin commanded to paint with your hand, not to glose[857] with your tongue; but as I have heard, it is the hardest thing in painting to set downe a hard favour,[858] which 5 maketh you to despaire of my face; and then[859] shall you have as great thankes to spare your labour as to discredit your art.
Apel. Mistris, you neither differ from your selfe nor your sexe; for, knowing your owne perfection, you seeme to disprayse that which men most commend, drawing them by that meane into an admiration 10 where, feeding themselves, they fall into an extasie; your modestie being the cause of the one, and of the other your affections.