Laun. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master.
at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me,
'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,'
or 'good Gobbo,' or, 'good Launcelot Gobbo,
use your legs, take the start, run away.' My
conscience says, 'No; take heed, honest Launce-
lot; take heed, honest Gobbo,' or, as aforesaid,
'honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run;
running with thy heels.' Well, the most cour-
ageous fiend bids me pack: Via !' says the fiend;
'away!' says the fiend; for the heavens, rouse
up a brave mind,' says the fiend, and run.' Well,
my conscience, hanging about the neck of my
heart, says very wisely to me, 'My honest friend
Launcelot, being an honest man's son,'
rather an honest woman's son ;-for, indeed, my
father did something smack, something grow to,
he had a kind of taste;-well, my conscience
says, 'Launcelot, budge not,' 'Budge,' says the 20
fiend. Budge not,' says my conscience.
TURN UP ON YOUR RIGHT HAND AT THE NEXT TURNING.
I, 'you counsel well:' to be ruled by my con-
science, I should stay with the Jew my master,
who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and,
to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by
the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the
devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very
devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my con-
science is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer 30
to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend
gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend;
my heels are at your command; I will run.
Enter Old Gobbo, with a basket.
Gob. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's?
Laun. [Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father! who, being more than sand-blind, highgravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.
Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is 40 the way to master Jew's?
Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning,
but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. Gob. By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? Laun. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ?
now will I raise the waters.
Talk you of young Master Launcelot ?
Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father,
though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man,
and, God be thanked, well to live.
Laun. Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk
of young Master Launcelot.
Gob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.
Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech
you, talk you of young Master Launcelot ?
Gob. Of Launcelot, an 't please your mastership.
Laun. 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, God forbid! the boy was the very
staff of my age, my very prop.
Laun. 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 gentle-
man: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God
rest his soul, alive or dead?
Laun. Do you not know me, father?
Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. Laun. 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 truth will come to light; murder cannot 80 be hid long; a man's son may; but, at the length, truth will out.
Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not
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