SON. None, truly, none; but that alas, alas, Diseases among them do grow apace; For out of their back and side doth flow Of very gore-blood marvellous abundance; And yet for all that is not suffered to go, Till death be almost seen in their countenance. Should I be content thither then to run, Where the blood from my breech thus should spun,[302] So long as my wits shall be mine own, The schoolhouse for me shall stand alone.[303] FATHER. But I am sure that this kind of fashion Is not showed to children of honest condition. SON. Of truth, with these masters is no difference, For alike towards all is their wrath and violence. FATHER. Son, in this point thou art quite deceived, And without doubt falsely persuaded, For it is not to be judged that any schoolmaster Is of so great fierceness and cruelty, And of young infants so sore a tormentor, That the breath should be about to leave the body. SON. Father, this thing I could not have believed, But of late days I did behold An honest man's son hereby buried, Which through many stripes was dead and cold. FATHER. Peraventure, the child of some disease did labour, Which was the cause of his sepulture.[304] SON. With no disease, surely, was he disquieted, As unto me it was then reported. FATHER. If that with no such thing he were infected, What was the cause that he departed? SON. Men say that of[305] this man, his bloody master, Who like a lion most commonly frowned, Being hanged up by the heels together, Was belly and buttocks grievously whipped; And last of all (which to speak I tremble),[306] That his head to the wall he had often crushed.[307] FATHER. Thus to think, son, thou art beguiled verily, And I would wish thee to suppose the contrary, And not for such tales my counsel to forsake, Which only do covet thee learned to make. SON. If Demosthenes and Tully were present truly, They could not print[308] it within my head [more] deeply. FATHER. Yet, by thy father's will and intercession, Thou shalt be content that thing to pardon. SON. Command what ye list, that only excepted, And I will be ready your mind to fulfil, But whereas I should to the school have resorted, My hand to the palmer[309] submitting still, I will not obey ye therein, to be plain, Though with a thousand strokes I be slain. FATHER. Woe is me, my son, woe is me! This heavy and doleful day to see. SON. I grant indeed I am your son; But you my father shall not be, If that you will cast me into that prison, Where torn in pieces ye might me see. FATHER. Where I might see thee torn and rent? O Lord, I could not such a deed invent! SON. Nay, by the mass, I hold[310] ye a groat, Those cruel tyrants cut not my throat: Better it were myself did slay, Than they with the rod my flesh should flay. Well, I would we did this talk omit, For it is loathsome to me every whit.