_Don Jer_. Her aunt Ursula's nose, and her grandmother's forehead, to
a hair.
_Isaac_. [_Aside_.]Ay, 'faith, and her grandfather's chin, to a hair.
_Don Jer_. Well, if she was but as dutiful as she's handsome--and hark
ye, friend Isaac, she is none of your made-up beauties--her charms are
of the lasting kind.
_Isaac_. I'faith, so they should--for if she be but twenty now, she
may double her age before her years will overtake her face.
_Don Jer_. Why, zounds, Master Isaac! you are not sneering, are you?
_Isaac_. Why now, seriously, Don Jerome, do you think your daughter
handsome?
_Don Jer_. By this light, she's as handsome a girl as any in Seville.
_Isaac_. Then, by these eyes, I think her as plain a woman as ever I
beheld.
_Don Jer_. By St. Iago! you must be blind.
_Isaac_. No, no; 'tis you are partial.
_Don Jer_. How! have I neither sense nor taste? If a fair skin, fine
eyes, teeth of ivory, with a lovely bloom, and a delicate shape,--if
these, with a heavenly voice and a world of grace, are not charms, I
know not what you call beautiful.
_Isaac_. Good lack, with what eyes a father sees! As I have life, she
is the very reverse of all this: as for the dimity skin you told me
of, I swear 'tis a thorough nankeen as ever I saw! for her eyes, their
utmost merit is not squinting--for her teeth, where there is one of
ivory, its neighbour is pure ebony, black and white alternately, just
like the keys of a harpsichord.
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