But when she lived—that love died—word by word.
Gal.
That is well said; thou dost not love her then?
She is no more to thee than senseless stone?
Pyg.
Speak not of her, Cynisca, for I swear
Enter Cynisca, unobserved
The unhewn marble of Pentelicus
Hath charms for me, which she, in all her glow
Of womanly perfection, could not match.