A. Look on her. Is she not most beautiful?
Most happy, too? for rank, and youth, and health,
Are hers; and suppliant Fortune waits to ask
Where lies her choice. Can you foresee what Earth
Has more to yield?
  B. Methinks a more' might be.
  A. I know not what. Look, how the sunny smiles,
Like golden meshes, wind about her brow!
How airily, yet with what state, she walks!
Your eyes are dim to-day.
  B. I see, I see.
The rose grows on her cheek:—is there no thorn!