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 five8 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.
Enter Delia and Artichoke.
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!
[Exit Artichoke.
M. Flow.
Come, come, your purse; lady, your purse.
-- 509 --
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.
[Strikes him.
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 ysplit9 note
, an you let the messel
have a penny; but since you cannot keep it, chil
keep it myself.
-- 510 --
Sir Arth.
'Tis pity to relieve him in this sort,
Who makes a triumphant life his daily sport1 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.
[Exeunt all but M. Flowerdale.
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.
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].
