Lau. Ergo, master Launcelot; talk not of master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman (according to fates and destinies, and such odd sayings, the sisters three, and such branches of learning), is, indeed, deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.
Gob. Marry, Heaven forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.
Lau. Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a staff, or a prop?—Do you know me, father?
Gob. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman; but, I pray you tell me, is my boy (rest his soul!) alive or dead?
Lau. Do you not know me, father?
Gob. Alack! sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.
Lau. 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: (kneels.) Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may; but, in the end, truth will out.
Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.
Lau. 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.
Gob. I cannot think you are my son.