Pret. What oracle this darkness can evince!
Sometimes a fisher's son, sometimes a prince.
It is a secret, great as is the world;
In which I, like the soul, am toss'd and hurl'd,
The blackest ink of Fate sure was my lot,
And when she writ my name, she made a blot. [Exit.
Bayes. There's a blustering verse for you now.
Smith. Yes, sir; but why is he so mightily troubled to find he is not a fisherman's son?
Bayes. Phoo! that is not because he has a mind to be his son, but for fear he should be thought to be nobody's son at all.
Smith. Nay, that would trouble a man, indeed.