Hip. I would be Julia, sir, Because you love her.
Amid. I would not be she, Because she loves not you. Hip. True, Amideo; And, therefore, I would wish myself a lady, Who, I am sure, does infinitely love him.
Amid. I hope that lady has a name?
Hip. She has:
And she is called Honoria, sister to
This Julia, and bred up at Barcelona;
Who loves him with a flame so pure and noble,
That, did she know his love to Julia,
She would beg Julia to make him happy.
Gons. This startles me!
Amid. Oh, sir, believe him not: They love not truly, who, on any terms, Can part with what they love.
Gons. I saw a lady
At Barcelona, of what name I know not,
Who, next to Julia, was the fairest creature
My eyes did e'er behold: But, how camest thou
To know her?
Hip. Sir, some other time I'll tell you.
Amid. It could not be Honoria, whom you saw;
For, sir, she has a face so very ugly,
That, if she were a saint for holiness,
Yet no man would seek virtue there.
Hip. This is the lyingest boy, sir;—I am sure
He never saw Honoria; for her face,
'Tis not so bad to frighten any man—
None of the wits have libelled it.