GOBBO.
Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.
LAUNCELOT.
Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give
me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son
that is, your child that shall be.
GOBBO.
I cannot think you are my son.
LAUNCELOT.
I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the
Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.
GOBBO.
Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be
Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped
might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair
on thy chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail.
LAUNCELOT.
It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward;
I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face
when I last saw him.
GOBBO.
Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master
agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now?
