The Queen, who was this day extravagantly rouged, asked if they did not think Helen’s tint too China-white.
“China!” cried the Earl; “Delf rather.”
“Perhaps,” continued the Queen, “it was the fashion of her time; but you must confess that such turned-in toes would have been endured in no other woman. I don’t dislike her style of dress, however, and probably I may bring it round again, in place of these troublesome hoops, which have their inconveniences.”
“O, as to the dress,” chimed in the favourite—“let it pass; it is well enough, which is more than can be said for the wearer.”
A conclusion, in which Sydney heartily joined, rhapsodying—
“O Paris, fatal was the hour,
When, victim to the blind god’s power,
Within your native walks you bore
That firebrand from a foreign shore;
Who—ah, so little worth the strife!—
Was fit for nothing, but a wife.”
“’Od’s my life now,” said her Majesty, “but I think she looks fitter for anything else, Sydney!—My Lord of Essex, how think you?”
“As your Majesty does,” returned he; “there is a meaning in that eye.”
“And a minute past they said there was none,” thought Faustus.