Weath. Woman, he hath kill'd his Wife. Luce. His Wife, dat is not good, dat is not seen. Lanc. Hang not upon him, Hufwife, if you do I'll lay you by him. Luce. Have me no, and or way do you have him, He tell me dat he love me heartily. Fran. Lead away my Maid to Prifon! why, Tom, will you fuffer that? Civ. No, by your leave, Father, fhe is no Vagrant: Lanc. Go to, you're both Fools: Luce. I am no Trull, neither Outlandish Frow, Know you me now? nay, never ftand amaz'd. And though that Duty wills me bend my Knees Yet this ways do I turn, and to him yield No wanton Creffid, nor a changing Hellen: Flow. I am indeed, Wife, wonder among Wives! U 3 Lanc Lanc. Well, fince thou wert ordain'd to Beggary, Follow thy Fortune, I defie thee. Oli. Ywood che were fo well ydouffed as was ever white Cloth in tocking Mill, an che ha not made me weep. Fath. If he hath any Grace he'll now repent. Arth. It moves my Heart. Weath. By my troth I must weep, I cannot chuse. And, Gentlemen, believe me, I beseech you, Oli. I would che were fplit now, but che believe him. Weath. By the Matkins, I do. Lanc. What do you think that e'er he will have Grace? Weath. By my Faith it will go hard. Oli. Well, che vor ye he is chang'd; and, Mr. Flowerdale, in hope you been fo, hold there's vorty pound toward your zetting up; what be not afhamed, vang it Man, vang it, be a good Husband, loven to your Wife: And you shall not want for vorty more, I che vor thee. Arth. My means are little, but if you'll follow me, But to your Wife I give this Diamond, Oli. What, restore me no reftorings, Man, Zouth chil devie London elfe: What, do not think me A Mezel or a Scoundrel, to throw away my Mony? che have an hundred Pound more to pace of any good Spotation: I hope your under and your Uncle will vollow my zamplas. Unc. You have gueft right of me, if he leave off this courfe of Life, he fhall be mine Heir. Lanc. But he shall never get a Groat of me; A Cozener, a Deceiver, one that kill'd his painful Father, Father, honeft Gentleman, Lanc. Ay, Sir, with conceit of his vile Courses. Lanc. Why, thou old Knave, thou told'ft me fo thy felf. Fath. I wrong'd him then: And toward my Mafter's Stock, There's twenty Nobles for to make amends. Flow. No, Kefter, I have troubled thee, and wrong'd thee What thou in love gives, I in love restore. Fran. Ha, ha, Sifter, there you plaid bo-peep with Tom, what fhall I give her toward Houfhold? Sifter Delia, fhall I give her my Fan? Del. You were beft ask your Husband. Fran. Shall I, Tom? [more, Civ. Ay, do, Frank, I'll buy thee a new one, with a longer handle. Fran. A ruffet one, Tom. Civ. Ay with ruffet Feathers. Fran. Here, Sifter, there's my Fan toward Houfhold, to keep you warm. Luce. I thank you, Sifter. Weath. Why this is well, and toward fair Luce's Stock, here's forty Shillings : And forty good Shillings more, I'll give her, marry. Come Sir Lancelot, I muft have you Friends. Lanc. Not I, all this is Counterfeit, He will confume it, were it a Million. Fath. Sir, what is your Daughter's Dower worth? Lanc. Wert not thou late that Unthrift's Serving-man? Fath. Look on me better, now my Scar is off: Flow. My Father! OI fhame to look on him. Fath. Son, Son, I do, and joy at this thy Change, And applaud thy Fortune in this virtuous Maid, Whom Heav'n hath fent to thee to fave thy Soul. Luce. This addeth Joy to Joy, high Heav'n be prais'd. Weath. Mr. Flowerdale, welcome from Death, good Mr. (Flowerdale. 'Twas faid fo here, 'twas faid fo here good Faith. Fath. I caus'd that Rumour to be fpread my felf, Because I'd fee the Humours of my Son, Which to relate the Circumftance is needlefs: And Sirrah, fee you run no more into that fame Disease: Of Riot, Swearing, Drunkenness, and Pride, And falls again into the like diftrefs, That Fever is deadly, doth 'till Death endure: Flow. Heav'n helping me, I'll hate the course as Hell. Lanc. Well, being in hope you'll prove an honeft Man, I take you to my favour. Brother Flowerdale, Welcome with all my Heart: I fee your Care Hath brought these Acts to this Conclufion, And I am glad of it, come let's in and feaft. Oli. Nay zoft you a while, you promis'd to make Sir Arthur and me amends, here is your wifeft Daughter, fee which an's fhe'll have. Lanc. A God's name, you have my good will, get hers. Oli. How fay you then, Damfel. Del. I, Sir, am yours. Oli. Why, then fend for a Vicar, and chil have it Dispatched in a trice, so chil. Del. Pardon me, Sir, I mean I am yours, In Love, in Duty, and Affection. But not to love as Wife, fhall ne'er be faid, Arth Arth. Do not condemn your felf for ever, Virtuous Fair, you were born to love. Oli. Why you fay true, Sir Arthur, fhe was ybore to it, So well as her Mother; but I pray you fhew us Some Zamples or Reasons why you will not marry? But for the care and croffes of a Wife, Che zet not a vig by a Wife, if a Wife zet not a vig Fath. To morrow I crave your Companies in Mark-lane To Night we'll frolick in Mr. Civet's House, And to each Health drink down a full Carouse. |