Scæna Tertia.
Enter Onos, Uncle, and Tutor.
Unc. Nay Nephew.
Tut. Pupill, hear but reason.
On. No, I have none, and will hear none; oh my honor
My honor blasted in the bud, my youth,
My hopeful youth, and all my expectation
Ever to be a man, are lost for ever.
Unc. Why Nephew, we as well as you are dub'd
Knights of the Pantofle.
Tut. And are shouted at,
Kick'd, scorn'd, and laugh'd at by each Page and Groom,
Yet with erected heads we bear it.
Onos. Alas,
You have years, and strength to do it; but were you
(As I) a tender gristle, apt to bow,
You would like me, with Cloaks envelloped,
Walk thus, then stamp, then stare.
Unc. He will run mad
I hope, and then all's mine.