The London Prodigal | Page 9

and an honest man: But honesty maintains
not a french-hood, 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, Then thee a thrifty and an honest one.
WEATHERCOCK. Believe me, he hath bit you there, he hath touched
you to the quick, that hath he.
FLOWERDALE. Woodcock a my side! why, master Weathercock, you
know I am honest, however trifles--
WEATHERCOCK. Now, by my troth, I know no otherwise. O your
old mother was a dame indeed: Heaven hath her soul, and my wives too,
I trust: And your good father, honest gentleman, He is gone a Journey,
as I hear, far hence.
FLOWERDALE. Aye, God be praised, he is far enough. He is gone a
pilgrimage to Paradice, And left me to cut a caper against care. Lucy,
look on me that am as light as air.
LUCY. Yfaith, I like not shadows, bubbles, breath I hate a light a love,
as I hate death.
LANCELOT. Girl, hold thee there: look on this Devonshire lad: Fat,

fair, and lovely, both in purse and person.
OLIVER. Well, sir, cham as the Lord hath made me. You know me
well, uyine: cha have three-score pack a karsie, and black-em hal, and
chief credit beside, and my fortunes may be so good as an others, zo it
may.
LUCY. [Aside to Arthur.] Tis you I love, whatsoever others say.
ARTHUR. Thanks, fairest.
FLOWERDALE. [Aside to Father.] What, wouldnst thou have me
quarrel with him?
FATHER. Do but say he shall hear from you.
LANCELOT. Yet, gentleman, howsoever I prefer This Devonshire
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.
WEATHERCOCK. You have said well: indeed, right well.
[Enter Artichoke.]
ARTICHOKE. Mistress, here's one would speak with you. My fellow
Daffodil hath him in the cellar already: he knows him; he met him at
Croyden fair.
LANCELOT. O, I remember, a little man.
ARTICHOKE. Aye, a very little man.
LANCELOT. And yet a proper man.
ARTICHOKE. A very proper, very little man.
LANCELOT . His name is Monsieur Civet.
ARTICHOKE. The same, sir.
LANCELOT. Come, Gentlemen, if other suitors come, My foolish
daughter will be fitted too: But Delia my saint, no man dare move.
[Exeunt all but young Flowerdale and Oliver, and old Flowerdale.]
FLOWERDALE. Hark you, sir, a word.
OLIVER. What haan you to say to me now?
FLOWERDALE. Ye shall hear from me, and that very shortly.
OLIVER. Is that all? vare thee well, chee vere thee not a vig.
[Exit Oliver.]
FLOWERDALE. What if he should come now? I am fairly dressed.
FATHER. 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 formed, 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 tenor of your Testament. Nor stand to pause of it, be ruled by
me: What will ensue, that shall you quickly see.
FLOWERDALE. Come, let's about it: if that a will, sweet Kit, Can get
the wench, I shall renown thy wit.
[Exit Omnes.]
SCENE II. A room in Sir Lancelot's house.
[Enter Daffodil.]
DAFFODIL. Mistress, still froward? No kind looks Unto your Daffodil?
now by the Gods--
LUCY. Away, you foolish knave, let my hand go.
DAFFODIL. There is your hand, but this shall go with me: My heart is
thine, this is my true love's fee.
LUCY. I'll have your coat stripped o'er your ears for this, You saucy
rascal.
[Enter Lancelot and Weathercock.]
LANCELOT. How now, maid, what is the news with you?
LUCY. Your man is something saucy.
[Exit Lucy.]
LANCELOT. Go to, sirrah, I'll talk with you anon.
DAFFODIL. Sir, I am a man to be talked withal, I am no horse, I tro: I
know my strength, then no more than so.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, by the matkins, good Sir Lancelot, I saw him
the other day hold up the bucklers, Like an Hercules. Yfaith, God a
mercy, lad, I like thee well.
LANCELOT. Aye, I like him well: go, sirrah, fetch me a cup of wine,
That ere I part with Master Weathercock, We may drink down our
farewell in French wine.
WEATHERCOCK. I thank you,