Oli.

Well, cha 'a bin zarved many a sluttish trick, but such a lerripoop as thick ych was ne'er yzarved.

Sir Lanc.
Son Civet, daughter Frances, bear with me:
You see how I'm press'd down with inward grief,
About that luckless girl, your sister Luce.
But 'tis fallen out
With me, as with many families beside:
They are most unhappy, that are most belov'd.

Civ.
Father, 'tis so, 'tis even fallen out so.
But what remedy? set hand to your heart,
And let it pass. Here is your daughter Frances
And I; and we'll not say, we will bring forth
As witty children, but as pretty children
As ever she was, though she had the prick
And praise for a pretty wench^{8 note}

Sir Lanc.

Ay, son Civet, I'll come.

Civ.

And you, master Oliver?

Oli.

Ay, for che a vext out this veast, chil see if a gan make a better veast there.

Civ.

And you, sir Arthur?

Sir Arth.
Ay, sir, although my heart be full,
I'll be a partner at your wedding feast.

Civ.

And welcome all indeed, and welcome. Come Franke, are you ready?

Fran.

Jesu, how hasty these husbands are! I pray father, pray to God to bless me.

Sir Lanc.
God bless thee! and I do. God make thee wise!
Send you both joy! I wish it with wet eyes.

Fran.

But, father, shall not my sister Delia go along with us? she is excellent good at cookery, and such things.

Sir Lanc.

Yes marry shall she: Delia, make you ready.

Del.

I am ready, sir. I will first go to Greenwich; from thence to my cousin Chesterfield's, and so to London.

Civ.

It shall suffice, good sister Delia, it shall suffice; but fail us not, good sister: give order to cooks and others; for I would not have my sweet Franke to soil her fingers.

Fran.

No, by my troth, not I. A gentlewoman, and a married gentlewoman too, to be companion to cooks and kitchen-boys! Not I, i'faith; I scorn that.

Civ.

Why, I do not mean thou shalt, sweet-heart; thou seest I do not go about it. Well, farewel to you.—God's pity, master Weathercock! we shall have your company too^{1 note}?

Weath.

With all my heart, for I love good cheer.

Civ.

Well, God be with you all. Come, Franke.

Fran.

God be with you, father; God be with you. Sir Arthur, master Oliver, and master Weathercock, sister, God be with you all: God be with you, father; God be with you every one.

Weath.
Why, how now, sir Arthur? all a-mort^{2 note}

Sir Lanc.
Ay, she is gone indeed, poor girl, undone;
But when they'll be self-will'd, children must smart.

Sir Arth.
But, sir,
That she is wrong'd, you are the chiefest cause;
Therefore, 'tis reason you redress her wrong.

Weath.
Indeed you must, sir Lancelot, you must.

Sir Lanc.

Must? who can compel me, master Weathercock? I hope I may do what I list.

Weath.

I grant you may; you may do what you list.

Oli.

Nay, but an you be well avisen, it were not good, by this vrampolness^{4 note}

cast away as pretty a Dowsabel^{5 note} as an chould chance^{6 note} to see in a summer's day. Chil tell you what chall do; chil go spy up and down the town, and see if I can hear any tale or tydings of her, and take her away from thick a messel; vor cham assured, he'll but bring her to the spoil; and so vare you well. We shall meet at your son Civet's.

Sir Lanc.
I thank you, sir; I take it very kindly.

Sir Arth.
To find her out, I'll spend my dearest blood;
So well I lov'd her, to affect her good. [Exeunt Civet and Sir Arthur.

Sir Lanc.
O master Weathercock, what hap had I,
To force my daughter from master Oliver,
And this good knight, to one that hath no goodness
In his thought?

Weath.
Ill luck; but what remedy?

Sir Lanc.
Yes, I have almost devis'd a remedy:
Young Flowerdale is sure a prisoner.

Weath.
Sure; nothing more sure.

Sir Lanc.
And yet perhaps his uncle hath releas'd him.

Weath.
It may be very like; no doubt he hath.

Sir Lanc.
Well if he be in prison, I'll have warrants
To 'tach my daughter^{7 note} till the law be tried;
For I will sue him upon cozenage.

Weath.
Marry may you, and overthrow him too.

Sir Lanc.
Nay that's not so; I may chance to be scoff'd
And sentence past with him.

Weath.
Believe me, so it may; therefore take heed.

Sir Lanc.
Well howsoever, yet I will have warrants;
In prison, or at liberty, all's one:
You will help to serve them, master Weathercock? [Exeunt. SCENE. II. A street in London. Enter M. Flowerdale.

M. Flow.

A plague of the devil! the devil take the dice! the dice and the devil and his dam go together! Of all my hundred golden angels, I have not left me one denier. A pox of come, a five^{8 note}! What shall I do? I can borrow no more of my credit: there's not any of my acquaintance, man nor boy, but I have borrowed more or less of. I would I knew where to take a good purse, and go clear away; by this light I'll venture for it. God's-lid, my sister Delia: I'll rob her, by this hand.

Del.
I pr'ythee, Artichoke, go not so fast;
The weather's hot, and I am something weary.

Art.

Nay I warrant you, mistress Delia, I'll not tire you with leading; we'll go an extreme moderate pace.

M. Flow.

Stand; deliver your purse.

Art.

O lord, thieves, thieves!

M. Flow.
Come, come, your purse; lady, your purse.

Del.
That voice I have heard often before this time.
What, brother Flowerdale become a thief!

M. Flow.
Ay, plague on't, I thank your father: but sister,
Come, your money, come. What!
The world must find me; I am born to live;
'Tis not a sin to steal, where none will give.

Del.
O God, is all grace banish'd from thy heart?
Think of the shame that doth attend this fact.

M. Flow.
Shame me no shames. Come, give me your purse;
I'll bind you, sister, lest I fare the worse.

Del.
No, bind me not: hold, there is all I have;
And would that money would redeem thy shame. Enter Oliver, Sir Arthur, and Artichoke.

Art.

Thieves, thieves, thieves!

Oli.

Thieves! where man? why how now, mistress Delia. Ha' you yliked to been vrobb'd?

Del.

No, master Oliver; 'tis master Flowerdale; he did but jest with me.

Oli.

How, Flowerdale, that scoundrel? Sirrah, you meten us well; vang thee that* ^note.

M. Flow.

Well, sir, I'll not meddle with you, because I have a charge.

Del.

Here brother Flowerdale, I'll lend you this same money.

M. Flow.

I thank you, sister.

Oli.

I wad you were ysplit^{9 note}

Sir Arth.
'Tis pity to relieve him in this sort,
Who makes a triumphant life his daily sport^{1 note}

Del.
Brother, you see how all men censure you.
Farewel; and I pray God amend your life.

Oli.

Come, chil bring you along, and you, safe enough from twenty such scoundrels as thick a one is. Farewel and be hanged, zyrrah, as I think so thou wilt be shortly. Come, sir Arthur.

M. Flow.
A plague go with you for a kersey rascal.
This De'nshire man I think is made all of pork:
His hands made only for to heave up packs;
His heart as fat and big as is his face;
As differing far from all brave gallant minds,
As I to serve the hogs, and drink with hinds;
As I am very near now. Well what remedy?
When money, means, and friends, do grow so small,
Then farewel life, and there's an end of all. [Exit. SCENE III. Another street. Before Civet's house. Enter Flowerdale Senior, Luce, like a Dutch Frow, Civet and Frances.

Civ.

By my troth, God-a-mercy for this, good Christopher. I thank thee for my maid; I like her very well. How dost thou like her, Frances?

Fran.

In good sadness, Tom, very well, excellent well; she speaks so prettily:—I pray what's your name?

Luce.

My name, forsooth, be called Tanikin.

Fran.

By my troth a fine name. O Tanikin, you are excellent for dressing one's head a new fashion.

Luce.

Me sall do every ting about de head.

Civ.

What countrywoman is she, Kester?

Flow. Sen.

A Dutch woman, sir.

Civ.

Why then she is outlandish, is she not?

Flow. Sen.

Ay, sir, she is.

Fran.

O then thou canst tell how to help me to cheeks and ears^{2 note}.

Luce.

Yes, mistress, very well.

Flow. Sen.

Cheeks and ears! why, mistress Frances, want you cheeks and ears? methinks you have very fair ones.

Fran.

Thou art a fool indeed. Tom, thou knowest what I mean.

Civ.

Ay, ay, Kester; 'tis such as they wear a' their heads. I pr'ythee, Kit, have her in, and shew her my house.

Flow. Sen.

I will, sir. Come Tanikin.

Fran.

O Tom, you have not bussed me to-day, Tom.

Civ.

No Frances, we must not kiss afore folks. God save me, Franke. See yonder; my sister Delia is come.

Welcome, good sister.

Fran.

Welcome, good sister. How do you like the tire of my head?

Del.

Very well, sister.

Civ.

I am glad you're come, sister Delia, to give order for supper: they will be here soon.

Art.

Ay, but if good luck had not serv'd, she had not been here now. Filching Flowerdale had like to have pepper'd us: but for master Oliver, we had been robb'd.

Del.

Peace, sirrah, no more.

Flow. Sen.

Robb'd! by whom?

Art.

Marry by none but by Flowerdale; he is turn'd thief.

Civ.

By my faith, but that is not well; but God be prais'd for your escape. Will you draw near, sister?

Flow. Sen.

Sirrah, come hither. Would Flowerdale, he that was my master, have robbed you? I pr'ythee tell me true.

Art.

Yes i'faith, even that Flowerdale that was thy master.

Flow. Sen.

Hold thee; there is a French crown, and speak no more of this.

Art.

Not I, not a word.—Now do I smell knavery: in every purse Flowerdale takes, he is half; and gives me this to keep counsel:—not a word, I.

Flow. Sen.

Why God-a-mercy.

Fran.

Sister, look here; I have a new Dutch maid, and she speaks so fine, it would do your heart good.

Civ.

How do you like her, sister?

Del.

I like your maid well.

Civ.

Well, dear sister, will you draw near, and give directions for supper? Guests will be here presently.

Del.
Yes, brother; lead the way, I'll follow you. [Exeunt all but Delia and Luce.
Hark you, Dutch frow, a word.

Luce.
Vat is your vill wit me?

Del.
Sister Luce, 'tis not your broken language,

Nor this same habit, can disguise your face
From I that know you. Pray tell me, what means this.

Luce.
Sister, I see you know me; yet be secret.
This borrowed shape that I have ta'en upon me,
Is but to keep myself a space unknown,
Both from my father, and my nearest friends;
Until I see how time will bring to pass
The desperate course of master Flowerdale.

Del.
O he is worse than bad; I pr'ythee leave him;
And let not once thy heart to think on him.

Luce.
Do not perswade me once to such a thought.
Imagine yet that he is worse than naught;
Yet one hour's time^{3 note}

Del.
Well, seeing no counsel can remove your mind,
I'll not disclose you that are wilful blind.

Luce.
Delia, I thank you. I now must please her eyes,
My sister Frances' neither fair nor wise. [Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section