Alex. Methinketh, Hephestion, you are more melancholy than you were accustomed; but I perceive it is all for Alexander. You can neither brooke this peace nor my pleasure. Bee of good cheare; though I winke, I sleepe not.
Hep. Melancholy I am not, nor well content; for, I know not 5 how, there is such a rust crept into my bones with this long ease that I feare I shall not scowre it out with infinite labours.
Alex. Yes, yes, if all the travailes of conquering the world will set either thy bodie or mine in tune, we will undertake them. But what thinke you of Apelles? Did yee ever see any so perplexed? 10 He neither answered directly to any question, nor looked stedfastly upon any thing. I hold my life the painter is in love.
Hep. It may be; for commonly we see it incident in artificers to be enamoured of their owne workes, as Archidamus of his wooden dove, Pygmalion of his ivorie image,[966] Arachne of her 15 woven swanne,[967]—especially painters, who playing with their owne conceits, now coveting[968] to draw a glancing eie, then a rolling, now a winking, still mending it, never ending it, till they be caught with it, and then, poore soules, they kisse the colours with their lips, with which before they were loth to taint their fingers. 20
Alex. I will find it out. Page, goe speedily for Apelles. Will him to come hither; and when you see us earnestly in talke, sodainly crie out, "Apelles shop is on fire!"
Page. It shall be done.
Alex. Forget not your lesson. 25
[Exit Page.]
Hep. I marvell what your devise shal be.
Alex. The event shall prove.