JULIA.
She thanks you.
SILVIA.
What sayst thou?
JULIA.
I thank you, madam, that you tender her.
Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much.
SILVIA.
Dost thou know her?
JULIA.
Almost as well as I do know myself.
To think upon her woes, I do protest
That I have wept a hundred several times.
SILVIA.
Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her?
JULIA.
I think she doth, and that’s her cause of sorrow.
SILVIA.
Is she not passing fair?
JULIA.
She hath been fairer, madam, than she is.
When she did think my master loved her well,
She, in my judgement, was as fair as you.
But since she did neglect her looking-glass
And threw her sun-expelling mask away,
The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks
And pinched the lily-tincture of her face,
That now she is become as black as I.
SILVIA.
How tall was she?