What is there yet in a son? Ay, or yet?
Why might not a man love a calf as well?
Or melt in passion o’er a frisking kid
As for a son? Methinks a young bacon
Or a fine little smooth horse-colt
Should move a man as much as doth a son;
For one of those in very little time
Will grow to some good use, whereas a son,
The more he grows in stature and in years,
The more unsquared, unbevelled , he appears,
Reckons his parents among the rank of fools,
Strikes care upon their heads with his mad riots,
Makes them look old before they meet with age.
This is a son.
And what a loss were this, considered truly?
Oh, but my Horatio
Grew out of reach of these insatiate humours;
He loved his loving parents,
He was my comfort and his mother’s joy,
The very arm that did hold up our house. —Hieronimo, Third Addition to The Spanish Tragedy (by Thomas Kyd)



This is a lovely bit of description. The picture of the cute little farm animals is rather moving somehow. And he goes on to make an accurate description of teenagers. Even then they drove parents to distraction and worry, even then they thought their parents didn't understand.

The sorrow of Hieronimo still hurts to read.