Ang. Better you may,
But never with more care:
Heaven, which is served with angels, yet admits
Poor man to pay his duty, and receives it.
Hip. Mark but, my lord, how ill behaved a youth, How very ugly, what a dwarf he is.
Ang. My lord, I yet am young enough to grow, And 'tis the commendation of a boy, That he is little. [Cries.
Gons. Pr'ythee, do not cry; Hippolito, 'twas but just now you praised him, And are you changed so soon?
Hip. On better view.
Gons. What is your name, sweet heart?
Hip. Sweet heart! since I Have served you, you ne'er called me so.
Ang. O, ever, Ever call me by that kind name; I'll own No other, because I would still have that.
Hip. He told me, sir, his name was Amideo; Pray, call him by't.
Gons. Come, I'll employ you both; Reach me my belt, and help to put it on.