Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle.
But to express the sonnet by natural reason,
[Enter Giovanni.
When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season.
Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion
Shall end the difference between you both;
Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords,
What hopes you store in him; this is a casket
For both your crowns, and should be held like dear.
Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know
It is a more direct and even way,
To train to virtue those of princely blood,
By examples than by precepts: if by examples,
Whom should he rather strive to imitate
Than his own father? be his pattern then,
Leave him a stock of virtue that may last,
Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast.
Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier?
Giov. Give me a pike.
Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin?
Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord,
Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me,
Might not a child of good discretion
Be leader to an army?
Fran. Yes, cousin, a young prince
Of good discretion might.
Giov. Say you so?
Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a general
Should not endanger his own person oft;
So that he make a noise when he 's a-horseback,
Like a Danske drummer,—Oh, 'tis excellent!—
He need not fight! methinks his horse as well
Might lead an army for him. If I live,
I 'll charge the French foe in the very front
Of all my troops, the foremost man.
Fran. What! what!
Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow,
But bid them follow me.