Boy. Do you love such boys, Sir?
Lur. Oh mainly, mainly, I would have my Boy impudent,
Out-face all truth, yet do it piously:
Like Proteus, cast himself into all forms,
As suddain and as nimble as his thoughts,
Blanch at no danger, though it be the Gallows,
Nor make no conscience of a cosenage,
Though it be i' th' Church. Your soft, demure, still children—
Are good for nothing, but to get long Graces——
And sing Songs to dull tunes; I would keep thee
And cherish thee, hadst thou any active quality,
And be a tender Master to thy knavery,
But thou art not for my use.
Bo[y]. Do you speak this seriously?
Lur. Yes indeed do I.
Boy. Would you have your boy Sir
Read in these moral mischiefs?
Lur. Now thou mov'st me.
Boy. And be a well-train'd youth in all activities?
Lur. By any means.
Boy. Or do you this to try me,
Fearing a prone[nesse].
Lur. I speak this to make thee.