PHIL. Eugenio's sister, then, is the rich heir By his decease? CLER. Yes, and the fair one too: She needs no gloss that fortune can set on her; Her beauty of itself were prize enough To make a king turn beggar for. PHIL. Heyday! What, in love, Clerimont? I lay my life 'tis so; Thou couldst not praise her with such passion else. CLER. I know not; I slept well enough last night: But if thou saw'st her once, I would not give A farthing for thy life; I tell thee, Philocles, One sight of her would make thee cry, _ah me!_ Sigh, and look pale: methinks I do imagine How like an idolatrous lover thou wouldst look Through the eyelids; know nobody. PHIL. 'Tis very well. But how did your worship 'scape? You have seen her? CLER. True, but I have an antidote, and I can teach it thee. PHIL. When I have need on't, I'll desire it. CLER. And 'twill be worth thy learning, when thou shalt see the tyranny of that same scurvy boy, and what fools he makes of us. Shall I describe the beast? PHIL. What beast? CLER. A lover. PHIL. Do. CLER. Then, to be brief, I will pass over the opinion of your ancient fathers, as likewise those strange loves spoken of in the authentic histories of chivalry, Amadis de Gaul, Parismus, the Knight of the Sun, or the witty knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, where those brave men, whom neither enchantments, giants, windmills, nor flocks of sheep, could vanquish, are made the trophies of triumphing love. PHIL. Prythee, come to the matter. CLER. Neither will I mention the complaints of Sir Guy for the fair Felice, nor the travels of Parismus for the love of the beauteous Laurana; nor, lastly, the most sad penance of the ingenious knight Don Quixote upon the mountains of Sierra Morena,[418] moved by the unjust disdain of the lady Dulcina del Toboso. As for our modern authors, I will not so much as name them; no, not that excellent treatise of Tully's love, written by the master of art.[419] PHIL. I would thou wouldst pass over this passing over of authors, and speak thine own judgment. CLER. Why, then, to be brief, I think a lover looks like an ass. PHIL. I can describe him better than so myself. He looks like a man that had sitten up at cards all night, or a stale drunkard wakened in the midst of his sleep. CLER. But, Philocles, I would not have thee see this lady; she has a bewitching look. PHIL. How darest thou venture, man? What strange medicine hast thou found? Ovid ne'er taught it thee. I doubt I guess thy remedy for love: go to a bawdy-house or so, is it not? CLER. Faith, and that's a good way, I can tell you; we younger brothers are beholden to it. Alas! we must not fall in love, and choose whom we like best; we have no jointures for them, as you blessed heirs can have. PHIL. Well, I have found you, sir. And prythee, tell me how gettest thou wenches? CLER. Why, I can want no panders. I lie in the constable's house.