Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks,
how the young folks lay their heads together!

O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of
velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under’t
or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly patch of
velvet: his left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a
half, but his right cheek is worn bare.

See you now;
Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth:
And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
With windlasses and with assays of bias,
By indirections find directions out:
So by my former lecture and advice,
Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?

O sister, were you Empresse of the world,
Æneas well deserues to be your loue,
So lovely is he that where ere he goes,
The people swarme to gaze him in the face.

Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d?
Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone?
If you will live, lament; if die, be brief,
That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s;
Or, like obedient subjects, follow him
To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg of Rome shall not return to tell
What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service
As if he were of note: bring him to the king.

Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:
Give some supportance to the bending twigs.

“You lack the season of all natures, sleep.”