As I remember, Adam

As I remember, Adam, it was upon this
fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand
crowns, and, as thou sayst, charged my brother on
his blessing to breed me well. And there begins my
sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and
report speaks goldenly of his profit.

Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives
me, the something that nature gave me his countenance
seems to take from me.

For my part, he
keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more
properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you
that “keeping,” for a gentleman of my birth, that
differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are
bred better, for, besides that they are fair with their
feeding, they are taught their manage and, to that
end, riders dearly hired. But I, his brother, gain
nothing under him but growth, for the which his
animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him
as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives
me, the something that nature gave me his countenance
seems to take from me. He lets me feed with
his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as
much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my
education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me, and the
spirit of my father, which I think is within me,
begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no
longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy
how to avoid it.