45 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,
And put it to the foil: but you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best!
Mir.
I do not know
One of my sex; no woman’s face remember,
III. 1. 50 Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,