Were not my Prince inconstant,
I would not envy what the Blessed do above:
But he is false, good Heaven!— Weeps. Guil. howls.
—What dost thou feel, that thou shouldst weep with me?
Guil. Nothing but Hunger, sharp Hunger, forsooth.
Clo. Leave calling me forsooth, it will betray us.
Guil. What shall I call you then?
Clo. Call me, Philibert, or any thing;
And be familiar with me: put on thy Hat, lest any come and see us.
Guil. ’Tis a hard name, but I’ll learn it by heart.