But at this time we have no heart to it.
Sit, sir, and talk. Look, this breast-clasp is new,
The French king sent it me.

CHASTELARD.
A goodly thing:
But what device? the word is ill to catch.

QUEEN.
A Venus crowned, that eats the hearts of men:
Below her flies a love with a bat's wings,
And strings the hair of paramours to bind
Live birds' feet with. Lo what small subtle work:
The smith's name, Gian Grisostomo da--what?
Can you read that? The sea froths underfoot;
She stands upon the sea and it curls up
In soft loose curls that run to one in the wind.
But her hair is not shaken, there 's a fault;
It lies straight down in close-cut points and tongues,
Not like blown hair. The legend is writ small:
Still one makes out this--*Cave*--if you look.

CHASTELARD.
I see the Venus well enough, God wot,
But nothing of the legend.

QUEEN.
Come, fair lord,
Shall we dance now? My heart is good again.