The Merchant of Venice.
ning but at the next turning of all on your left; marrie
at the verie next turning, turne of no hand, but turn down
indirectlie to the
Be Gods sonties 'twill be a hard waie to hit, can
you tell me
Launcelet that dwels with him,
dwell with him or no.
Talke you of yong Master
me now, now will I raise the waters; talke you of yong
No Maister sir, but a poore mans sonne, his Fa
ther though I say't is an honest exceeding poore man,
and God be thanked well to liue.
Well, let his Father be what a will, wee talke of
Your worships friend and
But I praie you
ergo old man,
ergo I beseech you,
talke you of yong
Launcelet, ant please your maistership.
talke not of maister
Father, for the yong gentleman according to fates and
destinies, and such odde sayings, the sisters three, & such
branches of learning, is indeede deceased, or as you
would say in plaine tearmes, gone to heauen.
Marrie God forbid, the boy was the verie staffe
of my age, my verie prop.
Do I look like a cudgell or a houell‑post, a staffe
or a prop: doe you know me Father.
Alacke the day, I know you not yong Gentle
man, but I praie you tell me, is my boy God rest his soule
aliue or dead.
Doe you not know me Father.
Alacke sir I am sand blinde, I know you not.
Nay, indeede if you had your eies you might
faile of the knowing me: it is a wise Father that knowes
his owne childe. Well, old man, I will tell you newes of
your son, giue me your blessing, truth will come to light,
murder cannot be hid long, a mans sonne may, but in the
end truth will out.
Praie you sir stand vp, I am sure you are not
Lancelet my boy.
Praie you let's haue no more fooling about
it, but giue mee your
blessing: I am
boy that was, your sonne that is, your childe that
I cannot thinke you are my sonne.
I know not what I shall thinke of that: but I am
man, and I am sure
Margerie your wife
is my mother.
Her name is
Margerie indeede, Ile be sworne if
Lancelet, thou art mine owne
flesh and blood:
Lord worshipt might he be, what a beard hast thou got;
thou hast got more haire on thy chin, then Dobbin my
philhorse has on his taile.
It should seeme then that Dobbins taile
growes backeward. I am sure he had more haire of his
taile then I haue of my face when I lost saw him.
Lord how art thou chang'd: how doost thou
and thy Master agree, I haue brought him a present; how
gree you now?
Well, well, but for mine owne part, as I haue set
vp my rest to run awaie, so I will not rest till I haue run
some ground; my
Maister's a verie
Iew, giue him a
sent, giue him a halter, I am famisht in his seruice. You
may tell euerie finger I haue with my ribs: Father I am
glad you are come, giue me your present to one Maister
Bassanio, who indeede giues rare new
Liuories, if I serue