Laz. The Prince!—Mum! (hides the letter and turns to go).
Prince. Who is it, I say?
Ar. A servant, my lord, of Don Cesar’s, looking for his master, I suppose.
Prince. Call him back; perhaps he can tell us something of his master’s melancholy.
Ar. True, my lord. Lazaro!
Laz. Eh?
Ar. His Highness would speak with you.
Prince. Come hither, sir.
Laz. Oh, my lord, I do well enough here: if I were once to kiss your Highness’ feet, I could not endure common shoe-leather for a month to come.
Ar. His humour must excuse him.