Lanc. O fie, Sir Arthur, press him? He is a Man of reckoning.

Weath. Ay, that he is, Sir Arthur, he hath the Nobles, The golden Ruddocks he.

Arth. The fitter for the Wars:

And were he not in favour

With your Worships, he fhould fee,
That I have Power to prefs fo good as he.
Oli. Chill ftand to the Trial, fo chill.

Flow. Ay marry fhall he, prefs Cloth and Karfy,
White-Pot and drowfen Broth; tut, tut, he cannot.

Oli. Well, Sir, though you fee vlouten Cloth and Karfy, chee a zeen zutch a Karfy-Coat wear out the Town fick a zilken Jacket, as thick a one you wear.

Flow. Well fed vlitan vlattan.

Oli. A and well fed Cocknell, and Boe-Bell too : What doeft think cham aveard of thy Zilken-Coat, no fer vere thee.

Lanc. Nay, come no more, be all Lovers and Friends.
Weath. Ay, 'tis best so, good Master Oliver.
Flow. Is your name Mafter Oliver, I pray you?
Oli. What tit and be tit, and grieve you.

Flow. No, but I'd gladly know if a Man might not have a foolish Plot out of Mafter Oliver to work upon.

Oli. Work thy Plots upon me, ftand afide, work thy foolish Plots upon me, chill fo use thee, thou wert never fo ufed fince thy Dam bound thy Head, work upon me? Flow. Let him come, let him come.

Oli. Zyrrha, Zyrrha, if it were not for fhame, chee would a given thee zutch a whifter poop under the Ear, chee would have made thee a vanged another at my Feet: Stand afide, let me loose, cham all of a vlaming Fire-brand; ftand-afide.

Flow. Well, I forbear you for your Friends fake.

Oli. A vig for all my vreens, do'ft thou tell me of my

vreens ?

Lanc. No more, good Mafter Oliver, no more, Sir Arthur. And Maiden, here in the fight of all your Suitors, every Man of worth, I'll tell you whom I faineft would prefer to the hard Bargain of your Marriage Bed; fhall I be plain among you, Gentlemen?

Arth

Arth. Ay, Sir, 'tis best.

Lanc. Then, Sir, firft to you, I do confefs you a moft gallant Knight, a worthy Soldier, and honeft Man: But Honefty maintains a French-hood, goes very feldom 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, than thee a thrifty and an honeft

one.

Weath. Believe me he hath hit you there, he hath touch'd you to the quick, that he hath.

Flow. Woodcock a my fide, why, Mafter Weathercocks you know I am honeft, howfoever trifles.

Weath. Now by my troth I know no otherwise,
O, your old Mother was a Dame indeed:
Heav'n hath her Soul, and my Wife's too, I trust:
And your good Father, honeft Gentleman,
He is gone a Journey, as I hear, far hence.
Flow. Ay, God be praised, he is far enough,
He is gone a Pilgrimage to Paradife,
And left me to cut a Caper against Care.
Luce look on me that am as light as Air.

Luce. I'faith I like not Shadows, Bubbles, Broth,
I hate a light Love, as I hate Death.

Lanc. Girl, hold thee there :

Look on this Devonshire Lad:

Fat, fair, and lovely, both in Purfe and Perfon.

Oli. Well, Sir, cham as the Lord hath made me, you know me well ivin, cha have threefcore pack of Karfay, and Blackem Hall, and chief Credit befide, and my Fortunes may be fo good as anothers, zo it may.

Lanc. 'Tis you I love, whatsoever others fay.

Arth. Thanks, fairest.

Flow. What, would'ft thou have me quarrel with him? Fath. Do but fay he fhall hear from you.

Lanc. Yet, Gentlemen, howfoever I prefer this Devonhire Suitor, I'll enforce no love, my Daughter fhall have her liberty to chufe whom the likes beft.

In your Love-fuit proceed:

Not all of you, but only one muft fpeed.

Weath. You have faid well: Indeed right well.

Enter Artichoak.

Art. Miftrefs, here's one would fpeak with you, my fellow Daffidill hath him in the Cellar already, he knows him, he met him at Croydon Fair.

Lanc. O, I remember, a little Man.
Art. Ay, a very little Man.

Lanc And yet a proper Man.

1

Art. A very proper, very little Man.

Lanc. His name is Monfieur Civet.

Art. The fame, Sir.

Lanc. 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, Oliver, and old Flowerdale. Flow. Hark you, Sir, a word.

Oli. What ha an you fay to me now?

Flow. Ye fhall hear from me, and that very fhortly.
Oli. Is that all, vare thee well, chee vere thee not a vig.
[Exit Oliver.
Flow. What if he fhould come more? I am fairly dreft.
Fath. I do not mean that you shall meet with him,
But presently we'll go and draw a Will;
Where we'll fet down Land, that we never faw,
And we will have it of fo large a Sum,,

Sir Lancelot fall intreat you take his Daughter:
This being formed, give it Master Weathercock,
And make Sir Lancelot's Daughter Heir of all:
And make him fwear never to fhew the Will
To any one, until that you be dead.
This done, the foolish changling Weathercock
Will ftraight difcourfe unto Sir Lancelot,
The Form and Tenor of your Teftament.
Nor ftand to pause of it, be rul'd by me:
What will enfue, that fhall you quickly fee.

Flow. Come let's about it; if that a Will, fweet Kit,

Can get the Wench, I fhall renown thy Wit.

Enter Daffidil and Luce.

Daf. Miftrefs, ftill froward?

[Exeunt.

No kind looks unto your Daffidil, now by the Gods.
Luce. Away my foolifh Kuave, let my 'Hand go.

Daf. There's your Hand, but this fhall go with me: My Heart is thine, this is my true Loves Fee.

Luce. I'll have your Coat ftript o'er your Ear for this, You fawcy Rafcal.

Enter Lancelot and Weathercock.

Lanc. How now, Maid, what is the News with you ?
Luce. Your Man is fomething fawcy.

Lanc. Go to, Sirrah, I'll talk with you anon.
Daf. Sir, I am a Man to be talked withal,

I am no Horse, I trow;

I know my Strength, then no more than fo.

[Exit Luce.

Weath. Ay, by the Matkins, good Sir Lancelot, I faw him the other Day hold up the Bucklers, like an Hercules, I'faith God-a-mercy, Lad, I like thee well.

Lanc. Ay, ay, like him well, go Sirrah, fetch me a cup of Wine,

That e'er I part with Mafter Weathercock,

We may drink down our farewel in French Wine.

Weath. I thank you, Sir, I thank you, friendly Knight, I'll come and vifit you, by the Moufe-foot I will; In the mean time, take heed of cutting Flowerdale. He is a defperate Dick, I warrant you.

Lanc. He is, he is: Fill, Daffidil, fill me fome Wine,
Ha, what wears he on his Arm?

My Daughter Luce's Bracelet, ay, 'tis the fame ;
Ha to you, Mafter Weathercock.

Weath. I thank you, Sir: Here, Daffidil, an honeft Fellow, and a tall, thou art. Well; I'll take my leave, good Night, and I hope to have you and all your Daughters at my poor House, in good footh I must.

Lanc. Thanks, Mafter Weathercock, I fhall be bold to trouble you, be fure.

[Exit Weath.

Weath. And welcome, heartily farewel. Lanc. Sirrah, I faw my Daughter's Wrong, and withal her Bracelet on your Arm; off with it; and with it my Livery too. Have I care to fee my Daughter match'd with Men of Worship, and are you grown fo bold? Go, Sirrah, from my House, or I'll whip you hence.

Daf. I'll not be whipt, Sir, there's your Livery, This is a Servingman's reward, what care I,

I have means to truft to, I fcorn Service, I.

S 3

[Exit Daffidi.

Lancs

Lanc. Ay a lufty Knave, but I must let him go. Our Servants must be taught what they should know. Enter Sir Arthur and Luce.

Luce. Sir, as I am a Maid, I do affect you above any Suitor that I have, although that Soldiers scarce know how to love.

Arth. I am a Soldier, and a Gentleman

Knows what belongs to War, what to a Lady:
What Man offends me, that my Sword fhall right:
What Woman loves me, I am her faithful Knight.
Luce. I neither doubt your Valour nor your Love,
But there be fome that bear a Soldier's form,
That fwear by him they never think upon,

Go fwaggering up and down from House to House,
Crying, God
pays: And-

Arth. I'faith, Lady, I'll defcry you fuch a Man.
Of them there be many which you have spoke of,
That bear the name and shape of Soldiers,
Yet, God knows, very feldom faw the War:
That haunt your Taverns and your Ordinaries,
Your Ale-houfes fometimes, for all a-like,
To uphold the brutish humour of their Minds,
Being mark'd down for the Bondmen of Despair:
Their mirth begins in Wine, but ends in Blood,
Their Drink is clear, but their Conceits are mud.
Luce. Yet thefe are great Gentlemen Soldiers.
Arth. No they are wretched Slaves,

Whose desperate lives doth bring them timeless Graves.
Luce. Both for your felf, and for your form of Life,
If I may chufe, I'll be a Soldier's Wife.

Enter Sir Lancelot and Oliver.

Oli. And tut truft to it, fo then.

Lanc. Affure your felf,

You fhall be married with all speed we may:
One Day fhall ferve for Francis and for Luce,

Oli. Why che wood vain know the time, for providing Wedding Raiments.

Lanc. Why no more but this, firft get your affurance made touching my Daughter's Jointure, that dispatch'd, we will in two Days make Provifion.

Oli. Why Man, chill have the Writings made by to Morrow

Lanc