Gobbo.—Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.
Launcelot (Aside).—Do I look like a cudgel or a hovelpost, a staff or a prop?—Do you know me, father?
Gobbo.—Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy—God rest his soul!—alive or dead?
Launcelot.—Do you not know me, father?
Gobbo.—Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
Launcelot.—Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: give me your blessing. Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long,—a man’s son may; but, in the end, truth will out.
Gobbo.—Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.
Launcelot.—Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.
Gobbo.—I cannot think you are my son.