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Bayes. Stay, let me see; taken: O 'tis true. Why, Sir, as I was going to say, his Highness here, the Prince, was taken in a Cradle by a Fisherman, and brought up as his Child.
Smi. Indeed?
Bayes. Nay, pr'ythee hold thy peace. And so, Sir, this murder being committed by the River-side, the Fisherman, upon suspicion, was seiz'd; and thereupon the Prince grew angry.
Smi. So, so; now 'tis very plain.
Johns. But, Mr. Bayes, is not that some disparagement to a Prince, to pass for a Fishermans Son? Have a care of that, I pray.
Bayes. No, no, no; not at all; for 'tis but for a while: I shall fetch him off again, presently, you shall see.
Enter Pretty-man and Thimble.
Pret. By all the Gods, I'l set the world on fire
Rather than let 'em ravish hence my Sire.
Thim. Brave Pretty-man, it is at length reveal'd,
That he is not thy Sire who thee conceal'd.
Bayes. Lo' you now, there he's off again.
Johns. Admirably done i'faith.
Bayes. Ay, now the Plot thickens very much upon us.
Pret. What Oracle this darkness can evince?
Sometimes a Fishers Son, sometimes a Prince.
It is a secret, great as is the world;
In which, I, like the soul, am toss'd and hurl'd.
The blackest Ink of Fate, sure, was my Lot.
And, when she writ my name, she made a blot. [Exit.
Bayes. There's a blust'ring verse for you now.
Smi. Yes, Sir; but pray, why is he so mightily troubled to find he is not a Fishermans Son?
Bayes. Phoo! that is not because he has a mind to be his Son, but for fear he should be thought to be nobodies Son at all.
Smi. I, that would trouble a man, indeed.
Bayes.
