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Fath. So Brother, by this means fhall we perceive
What Sir Lancelot in this pinch will do:

And how his Wife doth ftand affected to him,
Her Love will then be tried to the uttermoft:
And all the rest of them. Brother, what I will do,
Shall harm him much, and much avail him too.

[Exeunt. Oli. Cham afhured thick be the Place, that the fcoundrel Appointed to meet me, if a come, zo: If a come not, zo. And che war avife, he would make a Coyftrel an us, Ched vefe him, and che vang him in hand, che would Hoyft him, and give it him too and again, zo chud: Who a been there, Sir Arthur? chil stay afide.

Arth. I have dog'd the Devonshire Man into the Field,
For fear of any harm that should befal him :
I had an inckling of that yefternight,

That Flowerdale and he fhould meet this Morning.
Though of my Soul, Oliver fears him not,
Yet for I'd fee fair play on either fide,
Made me to come, to fee their Valours try'd
Good morrow to Mafter Oliver.

Oli. God and good Morrow.

Arth. What, Mafter Oliver, are you angry?
Oli. What an it be, tyt an grieven you?
Arth. Not me at all, Sir, but I imagine
By your being here thus arm'd,

You ftay for fome that you should fight withal.

Oli. Why and he do, che would not dezire you to take

his part.

Arth. No, by my troth, I think you need it not,

For he you look for, I think means not to come.

Oli. No, and che war afhure of that, ched avese him in another Place.

Enter Daffidil.

Daff. O, Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, ay me,
Your Love, and yours, and mine, fweet Mistress Luce
This Morning is married to young Flowerdale.
Arth. Married to Flowerdale! 'tis impoffible.
Oli. Married, Man? che hope thou dost but jest
To make an a volowten merriment of it.
Daff. O'tis too true, here comes his Uncle.
VOL. VI.

T

Enter

Enter young Flowerdale's Uncle, with Sheriff and Officers. Unc. Good morrow, Sir Arthur, good morrow, Mafter Oliver.

Oli. God and good Morn, Mr. Flowerdale. I tellen pray us, is your fcoundrel Kinsman married?

Arth. Mr. Oliver, call him what you will, but he is married To Sir Lancelot's Daughter here.

Unc. Sir Arthur, unto her?

Oli. Ay, ha the old vellow zerved me thick a trick? Why Man, he was a promife, chil chud a had her, Is a zitch a vox, chil look to his Water che vor him. Unc. The Mufick plays; they are coming from the Church. Sheriff, do your Office: Fellows, ftand ftoutly to it. Enter all to the Wedding.

Oli. God give you Joy, as the old zaid Proverb is, and fome Zorrow among. You met us well, did you not? Lanc. Nay, be not angry, Sir, the fault is in me,

I have done all the wrong, kept him from coming to the Field to you, as I might, Sir, for I am a Juftice, and fworn to keep the Peace.

Weath. Ay marry is he, Sir, a very Juftice, and fworn to keep the Peace, you must not difturb the Weddings. Lanc. Nay, never frown nor ftorm, Sir, if you do, I'll have an order taken for you.

Oli. Well, well, chil be quiet.

Weath. Mr. Flowerdale, Sir Lancelot, look you, who here

is? Mr. Flowerdale.

Lanc. Mr. Flowerdale, welcome with all my

Heart.

Flow. Uncle, this is fhe i'faith: Mafter Under-Sheriff,

Arreft me? At whofe Suit? Draw, Kit.

Unc. At my Suit, Sir.

Lanc. Why, what's the Matter, Mr. Flowerdale? Unc. This is the matter, Sir, this Unthrift here Hath cozen'd you, and hath had of me

In feveral Sums three thoufand Pound.

Flow. Why, Uncle, Uncle.

Unc. Coufin, Coufin, you have Uncled me,
And if you be not staid, you'll prove
A cozener unto all that know you.

Lanc.

Lanc. Why, Sir, fuppofe he be to you in debt
Ten thoufand Pound, his State to me appears,
To be at leaft three thousand by the Year.

Unc. O, Sir, I was too late inform'd of that Plot,
How that he went about to cozen you :
And form'd a Will, and fent it to your good
Friend there, Mafter Weathercock, in which was
Nothing true, but brags and lies.

Lanc. Ha, hath he not fuch Lordships,

Lands, and Ships?

Unc. Not worth a Groat, not worth a Half-penny he.
Lanc. I pray tell us true, be plain, young Flowerdale.
Flow. My Uncle here's mad,

And difpos'd to do me wrong,

But here's my Man an honeft Fellow

By the Lord, and of good Credit, knows all is true.
Fath. Not I, Sir, I am too old to lie; I rather know
You forg'd a Will, where every Line you writ,
You ftudied where to quote your Lands might lye.
Weath. And I prithee where be thy honeft Friends?
Fath. I'faith no where, Sir, for he hath none at all.
Weath. Benedicity, we are o'er-reach'd, I believe.
Lanc. I am cozen'd, and my hopefull❜ft Child undone.
Flow. You are not cozen'd, nor is the undone,
They flander me, by this Light, they flander me:
Look you, my Uncle here's an Ufurer, and would undo me,
But I'll stand in Law, do you but bail me, you shall do no
You Brother Civet, and Mafter Weathercock, do but [more:
Bail me, and let me have my Marriage Mony
Paid me, and we'll ride down,

And there your own Eyes fhall fee

How my poor Tenants there will welcome me.
You fhall but bail me, you fhall do no more,
And you, greedy Gnat, their bail will ferve.
Unc. Ay, Sir, F'll ask no better bail.

Lanc. No, Sir, you shall not take my bail, nor his,

Nor my Son Civer's, I'll not be cheated, I.
Sheriff, take your Prifoner, I'll not deal with him
Let's Uncle make falfe Dice with his falfe Bones,

I will not have to do with him: Mock'd, gull'd, and wrong'd!

T 2

Come

Come, Girl, though it be late, it falls out well,
Thou shalt not live with him in Beggar's Hell.
Luce. He is my Husband, and high Heav'n doth know,
With what unwillingness I went to Church,
But you enforc'd me, you compell'd me to it:

The holy Church-man pronounc'd thefe Words but now,
I muft not leave my Husband in diftrefs:

Now I must comfort him, not go with you.

Lanc. Comfort a Cozener? On my curfe forfake him? Luce. This day you caus'd me on your Curse to take him: Do not, I pray, my grieved Soul opprefs;

God knows my Heart doth bleed at his diftrefs.
Lanc. O Mafter Weathercock,

I must confefs I forc'd her to this match.
Led with Opinion his false Will was true.
Weath. Ah, he hath over-reach'd me too.

Lanc. She might have liv'd like Delia, in a happy Virgin's ftate.

Del. Father, be patient, Sorrow comes too late.

Lane. And on her Knees fhe begg'd and did intreat, If the muft needs taste a fad Marriage Life,

She crav'd to be Sir Arthur Greenfield's Wife.

Arth. You have done her and me the greater wrong.
Lanc. O take her yet.

Arth. Not I.

Lanc. Or, Mafter Oliver, accept my Child, and half my Wealth is yours.

Oli. No, Sir, chil break no Laws.

Luce. Never fear, the will not trouble you.

Del. Yet, Sifter, in this Paffion do not run headlong to Confufion. You may affect him, tho' not follow him. Frank. Do, Sifter, hang him, let him go.

Weath. Do faith, Mistress Luce, leave him.
Luce. You are three grofs Fools, let me alone,

I fwear, I'll live with him in all his moan.
Oli. But an he have his Legs at liberty,

Cham aveard he will never live with you.

Arth. Ay, but he is now in Huckiters handling for running away.

Lant

Lanc. Hufwife, you hear how you and I are wrong'd, And if you will redrefs it yet you may: But if you ftand on terms to follow him, Never come near my fight, nor look on me, Call me not Father, look not for a Groat, For all the Portion I will this Day give Unto thy Sifter Frances.

Fran. How fay you to that, Tom? I shall have a good deal,

Befides, I'll be a good Wife; and a good Wife

Is a good thing I can tell.

Civ. Peace, Frank, I would be forry to fee thy Sifter caft away, as I am a Gentleman.

Lane. What, are you yet refolv'd?

Luce. Yes, I am refolv'd.

Lanc. Come then away, or now, or never come. Luce. This way I turn, go you unto your Feaft, And I to weep, that am with Grief oppreft.

Lanc. For ever fly my fight: Come, Gentlemen, Let's in, I'll help you to far better Wives than her. Delia, upon my Bleffing talk not to her,

Bafe Baggage, in fuch hafte to Beggary?

Unc. Sheriff, take your Prifoner to your charge. Flow. Uncle, be-gad you have us'd me very hardly, By my troth, upon my Wedding-day.

[Exeunt all but Luce, young Flowerdale, his Father, Uncle, Sheriff and Officers.

Luce. O Mafter Flowerdale, but hear me speak, Stay but a little while, good Master Sheriff,

If not for him, for my fake pity him:

Good Sir, ftop not your Ears at my Complaint,

My Voice grows weak, for Womens words are faint.
Flow. Look you, she kneels to you.

Unc. Fair Maid, for

you, I love you with my Heart,

And grieve, fweet Soul, thy Fortune is so bad,

That thou fhould't match with fuch a graceless Youth,

!

Go to thy Father, think not upon him,

Whom Hell hath mark'd to be the Son of Shame.

Luce. Impute his wildnefs, Sir, unto his Youth,

And think that now's the time he doth repent:

Alas, what good or gain can you receive,

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