Better you may,
But never with more care:
Heaven, which is served with angels, yet admits
Poor man to pay his duty, and receives it.
_Hip_. Mark but, my lord, how ill behaved a youth,
How very ugly, what a dwarf he is.
_Ang_. My lord, I yet am young enough to grow,
And 'tis the commendation of a boy,
That he is little. [_Cries_.
_Gons_. Pr'ythee, do not cry;
Hippolito, 'twas but just now you praised him,
And are you changed so soon?
_Hip_. On better view.
_Gons_. What is your name, sweet heart?
_Hip_. Sweet heart! since I
Have served you, you ne'er called me so.
_Ang_. O, ever,
Ever call me by that kind name; I'll own
No other, because I would still have that.
_Hip_. He told me, sir, his name was Amideo;
Pray, call him by't.
_Gons_. Come, I'll employ you both;
Reach me my belt, and help to put it on.
_Amid_. I run, my lord.
_Hip_. You run? it is my office.
[_They both take it up, and strive for it;_
HIPPOLITO _gets it, and puts it on_.
_Amid_. Look you, my lord, he puts it on so aukwardly;
[_Crying_.
The sword does not sit right.
_Hip_. Why, where's the fault?
_Amid_. I know not that; but I am sure 'tis wrong.
_Gons_.The fault is plain, 'tis put on the wrong shoulder.
_Hip_. That cannot be, I looked on Amideo's,
And hung it on that shoulder his is on.
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