Jul. Could I not name you?
Clif. If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold When hollow fortune called him favorite, Now by her fickleness perforce reduced To take an humble tone, would suffer you—
Jul. I might?
Clif. You might.
Jul. O Clifford! is it you?
Clif. Your answer to my lord. (Gives the letter.)
Jul. Your lord!
Clif. Wilt write it? Or, will it please you send a verbal one? I’ll bear it faithfully.
Jul. You’ll bear it?
Clif. Madam, Your pardon: but my haste is somewhat urgent. My lord’s impatient, and to use despatch Were his repeated orders.