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GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man ' s son; his father, though I say ' t, 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, I beseech 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?