Untaught, unfashioned by a father's hands!
A spirit fit to start into an empire,
And look the world to law.
Crat. No more debating, for I see the pinch.
He must be left, and so must she and I,
For we are but your softnesses, my son;
The incumbrances and luggage of the war.
Fight for us, and redeem us, if you please;
For there we are your clogs of virtue; here,
The spurs of your return.