A Son's Farewell

FATHER:  My son, love to your ears!

SON:  My ears, Father—but for my hands, my feet;

what to my smell, taste—?

                                           [FATHER covers his ears.]

FATHER:  Stop!  He whose feelings have fouled his

taste need just have his hearing saved.

                                           [FATHER uncovers his ears.] 

SON:   But—

FATHER:  My son: the butt of a not lame pun.

SON:  But—

FATHER:  But hear—comes the miracle of the

greatest blessing!

FATHER:  Yea, speaks one made greater—blessed by love:

till to it appear even least cleaned less lame ears—now hear

in least foul taste; now rather wish to smell

not to hear the lamest speak…

                                            [SON covers his ears; FATHER walks to his son and, to his face:]

FATHER:  …when love had justly loved him when taste had foully felt. 

                                            [FATHER lowers SON’S hands from his ears. SON, scowling, exits.]