Venice. A street. Enter LAUNCELOT LAUNCELOT Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is 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 Launcelot;take heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous 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,' or 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 fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience.
'Conscience,' say I, 'you counsel well;' ' Fiend,'
say I, 'you counsel well:' to be ruled by my conscience, 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 conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer 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 GOBBO Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's? LAUNCELOT [Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father!
who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him. GOBBO Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's? LAUNCELOT 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. GOBBO 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? LAUNCELOT Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
Aside Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO 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. LAUNCELOT Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. GOBBO Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir. LAUNCELOT But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, Ibeseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. LAUNCELOT 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. GOBBO Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELOT Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father? GOBBO Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:
but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead? LAUNCELOT Do you not know me, father? GOBBO Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT 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 be hid long; a man's son may, but at the length truth will out. GOBBO Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy. LAUNCELOT 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. GOBBO I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELOT I know not what I shall think of that:
but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. GOBBO Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.
