SCENE I.
A room in Sir Lancelot Spurcock's house in Kent.
Enter Sir Lancelot, Sir Arthur, Oliver, Weathercock, Civet, Frances, and Delia.
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 wench8 note
: But father,
Dun is the mouse9 note
; you'll come?
-- 505 --
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 too1 note?
-- 506 --
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.
[Exeunt Civet and Frances.
Weath.
Why, how now, sir Arthur? all a-mort2 note
?
Master Oliver, how now, man?
Cheerly, sir Lancelot; and merrily say,
Who can hold that will away3 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 vrampolness4 note
and vrowardness, to
-- 507 --
cast away as pretty a Dowsabel5 note as an chould chance6 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 daughter7 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.
-- 508 --
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.
Edmond Malone [1780], Supplement to the edition of Shakspeare's plays published in 1778 By Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. In two volumes. Containing additional observations by several of the former commentators: to which are subjoined the genuine poems of the same author, and seven plays that have been ascribed to him; with notes By the editor and others (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10911].
