LAUNCELOT.
But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk
you of young Master Launcelot?
GOBBO.
Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
LAUNCELOT.
Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot,
father; for the young gentleman, — according to Fates and
Destinies
and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of
learning, — is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain
terms, gone to heaven.
GOBBO.
Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my
very prop.
LAUNCELOT.
Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do
you know me, father?
GOBBO.
Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray
you tell me, is my boy — God rest his soul! — alive or dead?
LAUNCELOT.
Do you not know me, father?
GOBBO.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
LAUNCELOT.
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the
knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well,
old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing;
truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son
may, but in the end truth will out.
