Such the divine, the wondrous prototype,
Whence her fair shape was moulded into being.
MATHAVYA.--If that's the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties
into the shade.
KING.--To my mind she really does.
This peerless maid is like a fragrant flower,
Whose perfumed breath has never been diffused;
A tender bud, that no profaning hand
Has dared to sever from its parent stalk;
A gem of priceless water, just released
Pure and unblemished from its glittering bed.
Or may the maiden haply be compared
To sweetest honey, that no mortal lip
Has sipped; or, rather to the mellowed fruit
Of virtuous actions in some former birth,
Now brought to full perfection? Lives the man
Whom bounteous heaven has destined to espouse her?
MATHAVYA.--Make haste, then, to her aid; you have no time to lose, if
you don't wish this fruit of all the virtues to drop into the mouth of
some greasy-headed rustic of devout habits.
KING.--The lady is not her own mistress, and her foster-father is not at
home.
MATHAVYA.
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