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. Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.
Launcelot
It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him.
Gobbo
Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now?