Aml. Do but look at him, my dames, he has the countenance of a cherubim, but he's a rogue in his heart.
Clar. What is the meaning of all this, Mrs. Amlet?
Aml. The meaning, good lack! Why this all-to-be powder'd rascal here, is my son, an't please you; ha, graceless? Now I'll make you own your mother, vermine.
Clar. What, the colonel your son?
Aml. 'Tis Dick, Madam, that rogue Dick, I have so often told you of, with tears trickling down my old cheeks.
Aram. The woman's mad, it can never be.
Aml. Speak, rogue, am I not thy mother, ha? Did I not bring thee forth? say then.
Dick. What will you have me say? you had a mind to ruin me, and you have done't; wou'd you do any more?
Clar. Then, sir, you are son to good Mrs. Amlet?