Rhyme. The colour bears't, if you'll venture the stuff.
The tenderness of it, I do confess,
Somewhat denies a grappling.
Chris. I will try:
Perhaps my spirit will suggest some anger.
Enter Andrew.
And. Save you, boon sparks! Will't please you to admit me?
Chris. Your worship graceth us in condescending
To level thus your presence, noble[195] sir.
And. What may I call your name, most reverend sir?
Bag. His name's Sir Kit.
Chris. My name is not so short:
'Tis a trisyllable, an't please your worship;
But vulgar tongues have made bold to profane it
With the short sound of that unhallow'd idol
They call a kit. Boy, learn more reverence.
Bag. Yes, to my betters.
And. Nay, friends, do not quarrel.