CLEOPATRA.
Widow! Charmian, hark!
MESSENGER.
And I do think she’s thirty.
CLEOPATRA.
Bear’st thou her face in mind? Is’t long or round?
MESSENGER.
Round even to faultiness.
CLEOPATRA.
For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so.
Her hair, what colour?
MESSENGER.
Brown, madam, and her forehead
As low as she would wish it.
CLEOPATRA.
There’s gold for thee.
Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.
I will employ thee back again; I find thee
Most fit for business. Go make thee ready;
Our letters are prepared.
[Exit Messenger.]
CHARMIAN.
A proper man.
CLEOPATRA.
Indeed, he is so. I repent me much
That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,
This creature’s no such thing.