.

_Diogenes._ He made thee a beggar, that first gave thee anything.

_Crysus._ Why, if thou wilt give nothing, nobody will give thee.

_Diogenes._ I want nothing, till the springs dry and the earth
perish.

_Crysus._ I gather for the Gods.

_Diogenes._ And I care not for those Gods which want money.

_Crysus._ Thou art not a right Cynic that wilt give nothing.

_Diogenes._ Thou art not, that wilt beg anything.

_Crysus._ (_seeing Alexander_). Alexander, King Alexander, give a
poor Cynic a groat.

_Alexander._ It is not for a king to give a groat.

_Crysus._ Then give me a talent.

_Alexander._ It is not for a beggar to ask a talent. Away!

The charm of the play lies in the romance of Apelles' love for Campaspe,
and in the delicacy of his wooing. Here is pure Romantic Comedy, such as
Greene imitated and Shakespeare made delightful. Not at first will
Campaspe yield the gates of her heart, nor does the artist press the
attack with heated fervour. So gentle a besieger is he, that we perceive
the young couple drifting into love on the stream of destiny, almost
reluctant to betray their growing feelings through fear of the wrath of
Alexander. Apelles is already smitten but Campaspe is still 'fancy free'
when, in the artist's studio, she questions him about his pictures.

_Campaspe._ What counterfeit is this, Apelles?

_Apelles._ This is Venus, the Goddess of love.

_Campaspe._ What, be there also loving Goddesses?

_Apelles._ This is she that hath power to command the very
affections of the heart.

_Campaspe._ How is she hired? by prayer, by sacrifice, or bribes?

_Apelles._ By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes.

_Campaspe._ What prayer?

_Apelles._ Vows irrevocable.

_Campaspe._ What sacrifice?

_Apelles._ Hearts ever sighing, never dissembling.

_Campaspe._ What bribes?

_Apelles._ Roses and kisses. But were you never in love?

_Campaspe._ No, nor love in me.

_Apelles._ Then have you injured many.

_Campaspe._ How so?

_Apelles._ Because you have been loved of many.

_Campaspe._ Flattered perchance of some.

_Apelles._ It is not possible that a face so fair, and a wit so
sharp, both without comparison, should not be apt to love.

_Campaspe._ If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray
dip your pencil in colo