PHIL. Envy will say she's rare; then truth must vow She is beyond compare, sith in her looks Each motion hath a speaking majesty; She is herself compared with herself: For, but herself, she hath no companion.[137] But when I think of beauty, wit and grace, The elements of native[138] delicacy, Those all-eye-pleasing harmonies of sight, Which do enchant men's fancies, and stir up The life-blood of dull earth--O, then methinks Fair Mariana hath an equal place, And if not outshine, shows[139] more beautiful. CYP. More than my queen? PHIL. More in the gloss of beauty; less in worth, In wisdom and great thoughts: the one I find Was made for wonder, the other for admire. CYP. Thine equal praises make my fancies rich: And I am pleas'd with thy comparisons; Things of like nature live in best concent, Beauty with subjects, majesty with kings. Then let those two ideas lively move Spirit beyond all spirit in our breasts, That in the end of our great victory We may attain both love and majesty. PHIL. Although my first creation and my birth, My thoughts and other tempers of my soul, Took all their noble beings from the sword, And made me only for the use of wars; Yet in this combat, something (methinks) appears, Greater than the greatest glory, and doth raise My mind beyond herself: 'Sfoot, methinks Cæsar's Pharsalia, Nor Scipio's Carthage, nor Emilius' acts, Were worthy chairs of triumph: they o'er men's Poor mangled bodies, and fire-wasted climes, Made their triumphant passage; but we two Must conquer thoughts and love more than the gods can do. CYP. True, and therein Consists the glorious garland of our praise-- But we neglect th' affairs of preparation. Florio, be it your charge To see th' erection of the squared lists, Fit ground for either army, and what else Belongs unto such royal eminence. FLO. How near will your majesty have[140] the lists extend Unto the city walls? CYP. So as the dullest eye May see the heedfull'st passage in the fight. FLO. What square or circuit? CYP. Threescore pace each way. FLO. Your majesty shall have your will perform'd. PHIL. Do, and you do us grace. And now, thou sun, That art the eye of heaven, whose pure sight Shall be our guide and Jove's great chronicler, Look from thy sphere! No guilt of pride, of malice, or of blood, Puts on our armour; only pure naked love Tutors our hopes, and doth our actions move. CYP. Enough, my Philocles, thine orisons are heard. Come, let's away. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ LOLLIA, _the wife of Prate the Orator._[141]