feare to loose. BAL. Then, faire, let Balthazar your keeper be. BEL. No, Balthazar doth feare as well as we; Et tremulo metui pauidum iunxere timorem, Et vanum stolidae proditionis opus. Exit. LOR. Nay, and you argue things so cunningly, Weele goe continue this discourse at court. BAL. Led by the loadstar of heauenly lookes, Wends poore oppressed Balthazar, As ore the mountains walkes the wanderer Incertain to effect his pilgrimage. Exeunt.
[ACT III. SCENE 11.]
[A street.] Enter two PORTINGALES, and HIERONIMO meets them. I PORT. By your leaue, sir.
[The following is inserted in the 1618, 1623, and 1633 editions.]
HIER. Tis neither as you thinke, nor as you thinke, Nor as you thinke, you'r wide all: These slippers are not mine, they were my sonne Horatios. My sonne? And what's a sonne? A thing begot Within a paire of minutes, there-about; A lump bred up in darknesse, and doth serue To ballance those light creatures we call women, And at nine monethes end creepes foorth to light. What is there yet in a sonne to make a father Dote, rave or runne mad? Being born, it pouts, Cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a sonne? He must be fed, be taught to goe and speake. I, and yet? Why might not a man love A calfe as well, or melt in passion over A frisking kid, as for a sonne? Me thinkes A young bacon or a fine smooth little horse-colt Should moove a man as much as doth a son; For one of these in very little time Will grow to some good use, whereas a sonne, The more he growes in stature and in yeeres, The more unsquar'd, unlevelled he appeares, Reckons his parents among the ranke of fooles, Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad ryots, Makes them looke old before they meet with age.— This is a son! And what a losse were this, Considered truely! Oh, but my Horatio Grew out of reach of those insatiate humours: He lovd his loving parents, he was my comfort And his mothers joy, the very arme that did Hold up our house, our hopes were stored up in him. None but a damned murderer could hate him! He had not seene the backe Of nineteene yeere, when his strong arme unhorst The proud prince Balthazar; and his great minde, Too full of honour tooke him unto mercy, That valient but ignoble Portingale. Well! Heaven is
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