Sir Arth.
Lieutenant, lead your soldiers to the ships,
There let them have their coats; at their arrival
They shall have pay. Farewel; look to your charge.

Sol.

Ay, we are now sent away, and cannot so much as speak with our friends.

Oli.

No man what e'er you used a zuch a fashion, thick you cannot take your leave of your vreens.

Sir Arth.

Fellow, no more: lieutenant lead them off.

Sol.

Well, if I have not my pay and my cloaths, I'll venture a running away, though I hang for't.

Sir Arth.

Away, sirrah: charm your tongue^{1 note}

Oli.

Bin you a presser, sir?

Sir Arth.

I am a commander, sir, under the king^{2 note}

Oli.

'Sfoot man, an you be ne'er zutch a commander, shud 'a spoke with my vreens before I chid 'a gone; so shud.

Sir Arth.

Content yourself man; my authority will stretch to press so good a man as you.

Oli.

Press me? I devy* ^note; press scoundrels, and thy messels^{3 note}

Sir Lanc.

Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewsham^{4 note}; welcome by my troth. What's the matter man? why are you vext?

Oli.

Why man, he would press me.

Sir Lanc.

O fie, sir Arthur, press him? he is a man of reckoning.

Weath.

Ay, that he is, sir Arthur; he hath the nobles, the golden ruddocks he^{5 note}

Sir Arth.
The fitter for the wars: and were he not
In favour with your worships, he should see
That I have power to press so good as he.

Oli.

Chill stand to the trial, so chill.

M. Flow.

Ay marry shall he. Press cloth and kersey^{6 note}, white-pot^{7 note} and drowsen broth^{8 note}! tut, tut, he cannot.

Oli.

Well, sir, though you see vlouten cloth and karsey, che 'a zeen zutch a karsey-coat wear out the town sick a zilken jacket as thick a one you wear.

M. Flow.

Well said vlittan vlattan^{9 note}.

Oli.

Ay, and well said cocknell, and Bow-bell too^{1 note}. What do'st think cham aveard of thy zilken-coat? no vear vor thee.

Sir Lanc.

Nay come, no more: be all lovers and friends.

Weath.

Ay, 'tis best so, good master Oliver.

M. Flow.

Is your name master Oliver, I pray you?

Oli.

What tit and be tit, and grieve you.

M. Flow.

No, but I'd gladly know if a man might not have a foolish plot out of master Oliver to work upon.

Oli.

Work thy plots upon me! Stand aside: work thy foolish plots upon me, chil so use thee, thou wert never so used since thy dame bound thy head^{2 note}. Work upon me!

M. Flow.

Let him come, let him come.

Oli.

Zyrrha, Zyrrha, if it were not vor shame, che would 'a given thee zutch a whister-poop under the ear, che would have made thee a vanged another at my feet: Stand aside, let me loose; cham all of a vlaming fire-brand^{3 note}; stand aside.

M. Flow.

Well, I forbear you for your friends' sake.

Oli.

A vig for all my vreens: do'st thou tell me of my vreens?

Sir Lanc.
No more, good master Oliver; no more,
Sir Arthur. And, maiden, here in the sight
Of all your suitors, every man of worth,
I'll tell you whom I fainest would prefer
To the hard bargain of your marriage-bed.
Shall I be plain among you, gentlemen?

Sir Arth.
Ay, sir, it is best.

Sir Lanc.
Then, sir, first to you.
I do confess you a most gallant knight,
A worthy soldier, and an honest man:
But honesty maintains not a French-hood^{4 note}



;
Goes very seldom in a chain of gold;
Keeps a small train of servants; hath few friends.
And for this wild oats here, young Flowerdale,

I will not judge. God can work miracles;
But he were better make a hundred new,
Than thee a thrifty and an honest one.

Weath.

Believe me he hath hit you there; he hath touch'd you to the quick; that he hath.

M. Flow.

Woodcock o' my side^{5 note}! Why, master Weathercock, you know I am honest, howsoever trifles—

Weath.
Now by my troth I know no otherwise.
O, your old mother was a dame indeed;
Heaven hath her soul, and my wife's too, I trust:
And your good father, honest gentleman,
He is gone a journey, as I hear, far hence.

M. Flow.
Ay, God be praised, he is far enough;
He is gone a pilgrimage to Paradise,
And left me to cut a caper against care.
Luce, look on me that am as light as air.

Luce.
I'faith I like not shadows, bubbles, breath^{6 note};
I hate a Light o' love, as I hate death^{7 note}

Sir Lanc.
Girl, hold thee there: look on this De'nshire lad;
Fat, fair, and lovely, both in purse and person.

Oli.

Well, sir, cham as the Lord hath made me. You know me well ivin; cha have threescore pack of karsey at Blackem-Hall^{8 note}, and chief credit beside;

and my fortunes may be so good as another's, zo it may.

Luce.

'Tis you I love, whatsoever others say^{9 note}.

Sir Arth.

Thanks, fairest.

M. Flow.

What, would'st thou have me quarrel with him?

Flow. Sen.

Do but say he shall hear from you.

Sir Lanc.
Yet, gentlemen, howsoever I prefer
This De'nshire suitor, I'll enforce no love:
My daughter shall have liberty to choose
Whom she likes best. In your love-suit proceed:
Not all of you, but only one must speed.

Weath.

You have said well; indeed right well.

Art.

Mistress; here's one would speak with you. My fellow Daffodil hath him in the cellar already; he knows him; he met him at Croydon fair.

Sir Lanc.

O, I remember; a little man.

Art.

Ay, a very little man.

Sir Lanc.

And yet a proper man.

Art.

A very proper, very little man.

Sir Lanc.

His name is Monsieur Civet.

Art.

The same, sir.

Sir Lanc.
Come, gentlemen; if other suitors come,
My foolish daughter will be fitted too:
But Delia my saint, no man dare move. [Exeunt all but M. Flowerdale, Oliver, and Flowerdale senior.

M. Flow.

Hark you, sir, a word.

Oli.

What han you say to me now^{1 note}?

M. Flow.

You shall hear from me, and that very shortly.

Oli.

Is that all? vare thee well: che vere thee not a vig.

M. Flow.

What if he should come more? I am fairly dress'd^{2 note}

Flow. Sen.
I do not mean that you shall meet with him;
But presently we'll go and draw a Will,
Where we'll set down land that we never saw;
And we will have it of so large a sum,
Sir Lancelot shall entreat you take his daughter.
This being form'd, give it master Weathercock,
And make sir Lancelot's daughter heir of all:
And make him swear never to show the Will
To any one, until that you be dead.
This done, the foolish changing Weathercock
Will straight discourse unto sir Lancelot
The form and tenour of your testament.
Ne'er stand to pause of it; be rul'd by me:
What will ensue, that shall you quickly see.

M. Flow.
Come, let's about it: if that a Will, sweet Kit,
Can get the wench, I shall renown thy wit. [Exeunt.

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