Crawl up his knees without a Yea or Nay,
And toy'd him with his sword-hilt merrily,
Till the rough man, caught with his gamesome arts,
Swore that he had the making of a man;
And, for the maids, there's none but has a word,
Or kiss to bandy with the gainsome lad;
Ay! when he wakes you'll see how he will crow,
And fill the place with laughter--he's no girl,
Puking and mewling evermore--not he.

MONK.

Good lack! my son, your heart is too much set
Upon the child, to bow before Heav'n's will,
That turns your soul back to itself with stripes;
Oh! know you not, Sir, that the child is dead?

LLEWELLYN.

You all have conn'd the same wise tale by rote--
The child is sleeping; hush! and wake him not.

MONK.

Nay! doth your mind not stumble on the truth,
Here by this old hound lying at your feet,
With all his clotted blood in crimson pools
Curdling among the rushes on the floor?

LLEWELLYN.