Flow. Well, provide thy felf: Uncle, farewel 'till anon.
Exit Flowerdale,

Unc. Brother, how do you like your Son?
Fath. I'faith Brother, like a mad unbridled Colt,
Or as a Hawk, that never ftoop'd to lure:
The one must be tamed with an Iron bit,
The other must be watch'd, or ftill fhe is wild,
Such is my Son, a while let him be fo;
For Counsel still is Folly's deadly Foe.

I'll ferve his Youth, for Youth muft have his course,
For being reftrain'd, it makes him ten times worfe:
His Pride, his Riot, all that may be nam'd,
Time may recal, and all his Madness tam'd.

[Exeunt.

Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock, Daffidil,
Artichoak, Luce, and Frank,

Lanc. Sirrah, Artichoak, get you home before;
And as you prov'd your felf a Calf in buying,
Drive home your fellow Calves that you have bought.

Art. Yes, forfooth, fhall not my Fellow Daffidil go along with me?

Lanc. No, Sir, no, I must have one to wait on me.
Art. Daffidil, farewel, good fellow Daffidil,

You may fee, Mistress, I am fet up by the halves,
Inftead of waiting on you, I am fent to drive home Calves.
Lanc. I'faith Frank, I muft turn away this Daffidil,
He's grown a very foolish fawcy Fellow.

Fran. Indeed-law, Father, he was fo fince I had him: Before he was wife enough for a foolish Serving-Man. Weath. But what fay you to me, Sir Lancelot ?

Lanc. O, about my Daughters, well, I will go forward, Here's two of them, God fave them; but the third, Ofhe's a Stranger in her courfe of Life,

She hath refused you, Mafter Weathercock.

Weath. Ay by the Rood, Sir Lancelot, that fhe hath, but had fhetry'd me, fhe fhould have found a Man of me indeed. Lanc. Nay be not angry, Sir, at her denial, the hath refus'd feven of the worshipfull'ft and worthiest Housekeepers this day in Kent: Indeed fhe will not marry, I fuppofe.

Weath. The more Fool fhe.
Lanc, What, is it Folly to love Chastity?

Weath

Weath. No, miftake me not, Sir Lancelot, But 'tis an old Proverb, and you know it well, That Women dying Maids, lead Apes in Hell. Lanc. That's a foolish Proverb and a falfe.

Weath. By the Mafs, I think it be, and therefore let it go: But who shall marry with Mistress Frances?

Fran. By my troth they are talking of marrying me, Sifter.

Luce. Peace, let them talk:

Fools may have leave to prattle as they walk.
Daff. Sentences ftill, fweet Mistress,

You have a Wit, and it were your Alablaster.
Luce. I'faith and thy Tongue trips trench more.
Lanc. No of my Knighthood, not a Suiter yet;
'Alas, God help her, filly Girl, a Fool, a very Fool;
But there's the other black Brows a fhrewd Girl,
She hath Wit at Will, and Suiters two or three:
Sir Arthur Greenfheild one, a gallant Knight,
A valiant Soldier, but his Power but poor.
Then there's young Oliver, the Devonshire Lad,
A wary Fellow, marry full of Wit,

And rich by the Rood, but there's a third all Air,
Light as a Feather, changing as the Wind:
Young Flowerdaie,

Weath. O he, Sir, he's a defperate Dick indeed.
Bar him your Houfe.

Lanc. Fie, not fo, he's of good Parentage.
Weath. By my fay and fo he is, and a proper Man.
Lanc. Ay, proper enough, had he good Qualities.
Weath. Ay marry, there's the point, Sir Lancelot :
For there's an old faying,

Be he rich, or be he poor,
Be he high, or be he low:
Be he born in Barn or Hall,

Tis Manners makes the Man and all.

Lanc. You are in the right, Mafter Weathercock.

Enter Monfieur Civet.

Civ. Soul, I think I am croffed fure, or witcht with an Owl, I have haunted them, Inn after Inn, Booth after Booth, yet cannot find them; ha, yonder they are, that's fhe, I

2

hope

hope to God 'tis fhe, nay, I know 'tis fhe now, for she treads her Shoe a little awry.

Lanc. Where is this Inn? We are paft it, Daffidil.

Daf. The good Sign is here, Sir, but the black Gate is before.

Civ. Save you, Sir, I pray may I borrow a piece of a word with you?

Daf. No pieces, Sir.

Civ. Why then the whole.

I pray, Sir, what may yonder Gentlewomen be? Daf. They may be Ladies, Sir, if the Deftinies and Mortality work.

Civ. What's her Name, Sir.

Daf. Miftrefs Frances Spurcock, Sir Lancelot Spurcock's Daughter.

Civ. Is fhe a Maid, Sir?

Daf. You may ask Pluto, and Dame Proferpine that: I would be loth to be ridled, Sir.

Civ. Is fhe married I mean, Sir?

Daf. The Fates know not yet what Shoe-maker fhall make her Wedding Shoes.

Civ. I pray where Inn you, Sir? I would be very glad to bestow the Wine of that Gentlewoman.

Daf. At the George, Sir.

Civ. God fave you, Sir.

Daf. I pray your Name, Sir?

Civ. My Name is Mafter Civet, Sir.

Daf. A fweet Name, God be with you, good Master

Civet.

Exit. Civet.

Lanc. A, have we fpi'd you ftout St. George?
For all your Dragon, you had beft fell's good Wine,
That needs no Ivy-bufh: well, we'll not fit by it,
As you do on your Horfe, this Room shall ferve:
Drawer, let me have Sack for us Old Men:
For thefe Girls and Knaves fmall Wines are beft.
A Pint of Sack, no more.

Draw. A Quart of Sack in the three Tuns.
Lanc. A Pint, draw but a Pint. Daffidil,

Call for Wine to make your felves drink.

*1

Fran. And a Cup of fmall Beer, and a Cake, good Daffidil

Enter

Enter young Flowerdale.

Flow. How now, fie, fit in the open Room, now good Sir Lancelot, and my kind Friend, worshipful Mafter Wea thercock. What at your Pint? a Quart for fhame.

Lanc. Nay Royfter, by your leave we will away. Flow. Come, give's fome Mufick, we'll go Dance, Be gone, Sir Lancelot, what, and fair day too?

Lanc. 'Twere foully done, to dance within the Fair. Flow. Nay if you fay fo, faireft of all Fairs, then I'll not dance, a Pox upon my Taylor, he hath fpoil'd me a Peach-colour Sattin Suit, cut upon Cloth of Silver, but if ever the Rascal ferve me fuch another Trick, I'll give him leave, i'faith, to put me in the Calendar of Fools, and you, and you, Sir Lancelot; and Master Weathercock, my Goldfmith too on t'other fide, I befpoke thee, Luce, a Carkenet of Gold, and thought thou fhould't a had it for a Fairing, and the Rogue puts me in Rerages for Orient Pearl: but thou fhalt have it by Sunday Night, Wench. Enter the Drawer.

Draw. Sir, here is one that hath fent you a Pottle of Rhenish Wine, brewed with Rose-Water,

Flow. To me?

Draw. No, Sir, to the Knight; and defires his more Acquaintance.

Lanc. To me? what's he that proves fo kind?

Daf. I have a trick to know his Name, Sir, he hath a Month's Mind here to Miftrefs Francis, his name is Mafter Civet.

Lanc. Call him in, Daffidil.

Flow. O, I know him, Sir, he is a Fool, but reasonable rich, his Father was one of thefe Leafe-mongers, these Cornmongers, thefe Mony-mongers, but he never had the Wit to be a Whore-monger.

Enter Mafter Civet.

Lanc. I promife you, Sir, you are at too much charge. Civ. The charge is fmall charge, Sir, I thank God my Father left me wherewithal, if it please you, Sir, I have a great Mind to this Gentlewoman here, in the way of Marriage.

Lanc. I thank you, Sir; pleafe you to come to Lew fome, to my poor Houfe, you shall be kindly welcome: I

knew

knew your Father, he was a wary Husband. To pay here, Drawer ?

Draw. All is paid, Sir; this Gentleman hath paid all.
Lanc. I'faith you do us wrong,

But we fhall live to make amends e'er long :
Mafter Flowerdale, is that your Man?
Flow. Yes Faith, a good old Knave.

Lanc. Nay then I think you will turn wise,

Now you take fuch a Servant :

Come, you'll ride with us to Lewfome, let's away,
Tis fcarce two Hours to the end of Day

[Exeunt Enter Sir Arthur Greenfhood, Oliver, Lieutenant and Soldiers.

Arth. Lieutenant, lead your Soldiers to the Ships, There let them have their Coats, at their arrival They fhall have pay; farewel, look to your Charge.

Sol. Ay, we are now fent away, and cannot so much as fpeak with our Friends.

Oli. No Man what ere you used a zutch à Fashion, thick you cannot take your leave of your vreens.

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. Arth. Away, Sirrah, charm your Tongue.

Oli. Bin you a Preffer, Sir?

[Exeunt Soldiers.

Arth. I am a Commander, Sir, under the King. Oli. Sfoot Man, and you be ne'er zutch a Commander, Shud a fpoke with my vreens before I chid a gone, fo fhud. Arth. Content your felf Man, my Authority will ftretch to prefs fo good a Man as you,

Oli. Prefs me? I devy, prefs Scoundrels, and thy Meffels; Prefs me, chee fcorns thee i'faith: For feeft thee, here's a worshipful Knight knows, cham not to be pressed by thee.

Enter Sir Lancelot, Weathercock, young Flowerdale, old Flowerdale, Luce and Frank. Lanc. Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewfome, welcome by my Troth: What's the matter Man, why are you vext? Oli. Why Man he would prefs me. VOL. VI.

S

Lanc.