Pol. O my good lord, you never had a son.
Ros. Unless they were bastards, and for them no doubt but he has done as other lords do.
[Aside.
Pol. And therefore cannot tell what 'tis to lose
A son, a good son, and an only son.
Vir. I would, my lord, I could as well redress,
As I can take compassion of your grief:
You should soon find an ease.
Pol. Pray pardon me, my lord,
If I forget myself toward you at this time;
If it please you to visit my house ofter,
You shall be welcome.
Vir. You would fain sleep, my lord, I'll take my leave.
Heaven send you comfort! I shall make bold shortly
To visit you.
Pol. You shall be wondrous welcome.
Wait on my lord, out there.
[To Attend. Exit Virro.
So, now he's gone: how thinkest thou, Roscio,
Will not this gudgeon bite?
Ros. No doubt, my lord,
So fair a bait would catch a cunning fish.
Pol. And such a one is he; he ever lov'd
The beauty of my girl, but that's not it
Can draw the earthbred thoughts of his gross soul.
Gold is the god of his idolatry,
With hope of which I'll feed him, till at length
I make him fasten, and, Ixion-like,
For his lov'd Juno grasp an empty cloud.