Hip. Let him give thee his message and be gone.
Ser. He says he’s Signor Matheo’s man, but I know he lies.
Hip. How dost thou know it?
Ser. ’Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.
Hip. Send him and keep the door. [Exit Servant.
[Reads.] “Fata si liceat mihi,
Fingere arbitrio meo,
Temperem zephyro levi
Vela.”[197]
I’d sail were I to choose, not in the ocean,
Cedars are shaken, when shrubs do feel no bruise.
Enter Bellafront, dressed as a Page, with a letter.
How? from Matheo?
Bell. Yes, my lord.
Hip. Art sick?