John Williams: Good morrow, father.
What early tongue so sweet salutes me?
Young son, it argues a distempered head
So soon to bid good morrow to your bed.
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuffed brain
Do couch his limbs, there golden sleep do reign.
Therefore your earliness do me assure
You art uproused with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right
Our John has not been in bed tonight.
John Williams: That last is true the sweeter rest was my.
Father: God pardon sin! Were you with Rosaline?
John Williams: With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
Father: That's my good son! But where have you been then?
John Williams: I'll tell you ere you ask it me again.
I have been feasting with my enemy,
Where on a sudden one has wounded me
That's by me wounded. Both our remedies
Within your help and holy physic lies.
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
Father: Be plain, good son, and homely in your drift
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.