Lod. My lord, pray hasten.
Hip. I come. [Exit Lodovico.
To-morrow let me see you, fare you well;
Commend me to Matheo. Pray one word more:
Does not your father live about the court?
Bell. I think he does, but such rude spots of shame
Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name.
Hip. Orlando Friscobaldo, is’t not?
Bell. Yes, my lord.
Hip. What does he for you?
Bell. All he should: when children
From duty start, parents from love may swerve;
He nothing does: for nothing I deserve.
Hip. Shall I join him unto you, and restore you to wonted grace?
Bell. It is impossible.
Hip. It shall be put to trial: fare you well. [Exit Bellafront.
The face I would not look on! Sure then ’twas rare,
When in despite of grief, ’tis still thus fair.
Now, sir, your business with me.