Let old Pythagoras but play the pimp
And still there's hopes 't may prove his bastard imp.
But I'm profane; for, grant the world had one
With whom he might contract an union,
They two were one, yet like an eagle spread,
50I' th' body joined, but parted in the head.
For you, my brat, that pose the Porph'ry Chair,
Pope John, or Joan, or whatsoe'er you are,
You are a nephew; grieve not at your state,
For all the world is illegitimate.