FATHER. Why then to me thy fancy [doth] express,
That the school matters to thee are counted weariness.
SON. Even as to a great man, wealthy and rich,
Service and bondage is a hard thing,
So to a boy, both dainty and nice,[300]
Learning and study is greatly displeasing.
FATHER. What, my child, displeasing, I pray thee,
That maketh a man live so happily?
SON. Yea, by my troth, such kind of wisdom
Is to my heart, I tell you, very loathsome.
FATHER. What trial thereof hast thou taken,
That the school of thee is so ill bespoken?
SON. What trial thereof would ye fain know?
Nothing more easy than this to show:
At other boys' hands I have it learned,
And that of those truly, most of all other,
Which for a certain time have remained
In the house and prison of a schoolmaster.
FATHER. I dare well say that there is no misery,
But rather joy, pastime and pleasure
Always with scholars keeping company:
No life to this, I thee well assure.
SON. It is not true, father, which you do say;
The contrary thereof is proved alway,
For as the bruit goeth by many a one,
Their tender bodies both night and day
Are whipped and scourged, and beat[301] like a stone,
That from top to toe the skin is away.
FATHER. Is there not (say they) for them in this case
Given other while for pardon some place?
SON. None, truly, none; but that alas, alas,
Diseases among them do grow apace;
For out of their back and side doth flow
Of very gore-blood marvellous abundance;
And yet for all that is not suffered to go,
Till death be almost seen in their countenance.
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