Enter LAUNCELOT the clown, alone
Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this
Jew, my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts
me, saying to me, “Gobbo,” “Launcelot
Launcelot,” or “Good Gobbo,” or “Good
Gobbo” —“use your legs, take the start, run
conscience says, “No. Take heed, honest Launcelot. Take
heed, honest Gobbo,” or as aforesaid, “Honest Launcelot
Gobbo, do not run. Scorn running with thy heels.” Well,
the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” says the
fiend. “Away!” says the fiend. “For the heavens,
a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my
conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very
wisely to me, “My honest friend Launcelot, being an
honest man’s son”—or rather an honest woman’s
indeed my father did something smack, something grow
to. He had a kind of taste.—Well, my conscience says,
“Launcelot, budge not.” “Budge!” says
“Budge not,” says my conscience.
“Conscience,” say I,
“you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I,
“you counsel well.”
To be ruled by my conscience I should stay with the Jew
my master, who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil.
And to run away from the Jew I should be ruled by the
fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself.
Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation. And in my
conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard
conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew.
The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run,
fiend. My heels are at your command. I will run.
Enter Old GOBBO with a basket