FATHER. What, my child, displeasing, I pray thee,
That maketh a man live so happily?
SON. Yea, by my troth, such kind of wisdom
Is to my heart, I tell you, very loathsome.
FATHER. What trial thereof hast thou taken,
That the school of thee is so ill bespoken?
SON. What trial thereof would ye fain know?
Nothing more easy than this to show:
At other boys' hands I have it learned,
And that of those truly, most of all other,
Which for a certain time have remained
In the house and prison of a schoolmaster.
FATHER. I dare well say that there is no misery,
But rather joy, pastime and pleasure
Always with scholars keeping company:
No life to this, I thee well assure.
SON. It is not true, father, which you do say;
The contrary thereof is proved alway,
For as the bruit goeth by many a one,
Their tender bodies both night and day
Are whipped and scourged, and beat[301] like a stone,
That from top to toe the skin is away.
FATHER. Is there not (say they) for them in this case
Given other while for pardon some place?
SON. None, truly, none; but that alas, alas,
Diseases among them do grow apace;
For out of their back and side doth flow
Of very gore-blood marvellous abundance;
And yet for all that is not suffered to go,
Till death be almost seen in their countenance.
Should I be content thither then to run,
Where the blood from my breech thus should spun,[302]
So long as my wits shall be mine own,
The schoolhouse for me shall stand alone.[303]
FATHER. But I am sure that this kind of fashion
Is not showed to children of honest condition.
SON. Of truth, with these masters is no difference,
For alike towards all is their wrath and violence.