Launcelot.—Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.
Gobbo.—By God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?
Launcelot.—Talk you of young Master Launcelot? (Aside.) Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
Gobbo.—No Master, sir, but a poor man’s son: his father, though I say’t, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thank’d, well to live.
Launcelot.—Well, let his father be what a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.
Gobbo.—Your worship’s friend, and Launcelot, sir.
Launcelot.—But, I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?
Gobbo.—Of Launcelot, an’t please your mastership.
Launcelot.—Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman—according to Fates, and Destinies, and such odd saying, the Sisters Three, and such branches of learning—is, indeed, deceas’d; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.