['Tis[206] neither as you think, nor as you think, Nor as you think: you are wide all: These slippers are not mine, they were my son Horatio's. My son! and what's a son? A thing begot within a pair of minutes--thereabout: A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve To balance those light creatures we call women: And, at nine months' end, creeps forth to light. What is there yet in a son, To make a father doat, rave, or run mad? Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a son? He must be fed, be taught to go, and speak: Ay, or yet; why might not a man love a calf as well? Or melt in passion o'er a striking kid, as for a son? Methinks, a young bacon, Or a fine little smooth horse colt, Should move a man as much as doth a son; For one of these, in very little time, Will grow to some good use; whereas a son, The more he grows in stature and in years, The more unsquar'd, unbevelled[207] he appears, Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, Strikes care[208] upon their heads with his mad riots: Makes them look old, before they meet with age. This is a son; and what a loss were this, consider'd truly? O, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those Insatiate humours: he lov'd his loving parents; He was my comfort and his mother's joy-- The very arm that did hold up our house: Our hopes were stored up in him. None but a damned murderer could hate him: He had not seen the back of nineteen years, When his strong arm unhors'd the proud Prince Balthazar; And his great mind, too full of honour, took him to Mercy that valiant but ignoble Portingal.[209] Well, heaven is heaven still! And there is Nemesis and furies, And things call'd whips; And they sometimes do meet with murderers: They do not always escape, that's some comfort. Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals, Till violence leaps forth, like thunder, wrapp'd In a ball of fire, And so doth bring confusion to them all.] Good leave have you: I pray you go, For I'll leave you, if you can leave me so. 2 PORTINGAL. Pray you, which is the next[210] way to my lord the duke's? HIERONIMO. The next way from me. 2 PORTINGAL. To his house, we mean. HIERONIMO. O, hard by; 'tis yon house that you see. 2 PORTINGAL. You could not tell us if his son were there? HIERONIMO. Who, my Lord Lorenzo? 1 PORTINGAL. Ay, sir. [_He goes in at one door, and comes out at another._ HIERONIMO.