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To imprison him that nothing hath to pay?
And where nought is, the King doth lofe his due;
O pity him as God fhall pity you.

Unc. Lady, I know his Humours all too well,
And nothing in the World can do him good,
But mifery it felf to chain him with.

Luce. Say that your Debts were paid, then is he free? Unc. Ay, Virgin, that being answer'd, I have done. But to him that is all as impoffible,

As I to scale the high Pyramids.

Sheriff, take your Prifoner; Maiden, fare thee well,
Luce. O go not yet, good Mafter Flowerdale :
Take my word for the Debt, my Word,
Word, my Bond.
Flow. Ay, by Gad, Uncle, and my Bond too.
Luce. Alas, I jne'er ought nothing but I paid it ;
And I can work, alas, he can do nothing:
I have fome Friends perhaps will pity me,
His chiefeft Friends do feek his Misery.
All that I can, or beg, get, or receive,
Shall be for you: O do not turn away :
Methinks within a Face fo reverend,
So well experienc'd in this tottering World,
Should have fome feeling of a Maiden's Grief:
For my fake, his Father's and your Brother's fake,
Ay, for your Soul's fake that doth hope for Joy,
Pity my ftate, do not two Souls deftroy.

Unc. Fair Maid, stand up; not in regard of him,
But in pity of thy hapless Choice,

I do releafe him: Mafter Sheriff, I thank

And Officers, there is for you to drink.

you:

Here, Maid, take this Mony, there is a hundred Angels;

And, for I will be fure he fhall not have it,
Here, Kefter, take it you, and use it sparingly,
But let not her have any want at all.

Dry your Eyes, Neice, do not too much lament
For him, whofe Life hath been in riot spent:
If well he useth thee, he gets him Friends,
If ill, a fhameful end on him depends

Exit Uncle

Flow. A plague go with you for an old Fornicator: Come, Kit, the Mony, come, honest Kit.

Fath. Nay by my Faith, Sir, you shall pardon me.

Flon

you

Flow. And why, Sir, pardon you? give me the Mony, old Rafcal, or I will make you.

Luce. Pray hold your Hands, give it him honeft Friend. Fath. If you be fo content, with all my Heart.

Flow. Content, Sir, 'sblood fhe fhall be content Whether the will or no. A rattle-baby come to follow me? Go, get you gone to the greafie Chuff your Father, Bring me your Dowry, or never look on me.

Fath. Sir, fhe hath forfook her Father, and all her Friends for you.

Flow. Hang thee, her Friends and Father all together. Fath. Yet part with fomething to provide her Lodging. Flow. Yes, I mean to part with her and you, but if I part with one Angel, hang me at a Poft. I'll rather throw them at a caft of Dice, as I have done a thousand of their Fellows.

Fath. Nay then I will be plain, degenerate Boy,
Thou hadft a Father would have been afham'd.
Flow. My Father was an Afs, an old Ass.
Fath. Thy Father? proud licentious Villain;
What are you at your foils? I'll foil with you.
Luce. Good Sir, forbear him.

Fath. Did not this whining Woman hang on me,
I'd teach thee what it was to abufe thy Father:
Go hang, beg, ftarve, Dice, Game, that when all's gone,
Thou may'ft after defpair and hang thy felf.

Luce. O do not curfe him.

Fath. I do not curfe him, and to pray for him were vain, It grieves me that he bears his Father's Name.

Flow. Well, you old Rafcal, I fhall meet with you. Sirrah, get you gone, I will not ftrip the Livery

Over your Ears, because you paid for it:

But do not use my Name, Sirrah,

Do you hear? Look you do not

Use my Name, you were beft.

Fath. Pay me the twenty Pound then that I lent you,

Or give me Security when I may have it.

Flow. I'll pay thee not a Penny,

And for Security I'll give thee none.

Minckins, look you do not follow me, look you do not:

If you do, Beggar, I fhall flit your Nofe.

T 4

Luco

Luce. Alas, what fhall I do?

Flow. Why turn Whore, that's a good Trade, And fo perhaps I'll fee thee now and then,

[Exit Flowerdale.

Luce. Alas-the-day that ever I was born.

Fath. Sweet Miftrefs, do not weep, I'll ftick to you.
Luce. Alas, my Friend, I know not what to do,
My Father and my Friends, they have defpis'd me:
And I a wretched Maid, thus caft away,
Knows neither where to go, nor what to say.
Fath. It grieves me at the Soul, to fee her Tears.
Thus ftain the Crimson Roses of her Cheeks:
Lady, take comfort, do not mourn in vain,
I have a little living in this Town,

The which I think comes to a hundred Pound,
All that and more shall be at your difpofe;
I'll ftrait go help you to fome strange disguise,
And place you in a Service in this Town:
Where you fhall know all, yet your self unknown :
Come, grieve no more, where no help can be had,.
Weep not for him, that is more worse than bad.
Luce. I thank you, Sir.
[Exeunt.
Enter Sir Lancelot, Mafter Weathercock and the rest.
Oli. Well, cha a bin zerved many a fluttish Trick,
But fuch a lerripoop as thick ych was ne'er a farved,

Lanc. Son Civet, Daughter Frances, bear with me,
You fee how I am prefs'd down with inward Grief,
About that lucklefs Girl, your Sifter Luce.

But 'tis faln out with me, as with many Families befide, They are moft unhappy, that are most belov'd.

Civ. Father, 'tis fo, 'tis even faln out fo,

But what remedy? fet Hand to your Heart, and let it pass,
Here is your Daughter Frances and I, and we'll not fay,
We'll bring forth as witty Children, but as pretty
Children as ever fhe was; tho' fhe had the prick
And praife for a pretty Wench: But Father, done is
The Moufe, you'll come?

Lanc. Ay, Son Civet, I'll come.

Civ. And you, Mafter Oliver?

Oli. Ay, for che a vext out this veaft, chil fee if a gan Make a better veaft there.

Civ. And you, Sir Arthur?

Arth. Ay, Sir, although my Heart be full, I'll be a Partner at your Wedding Feast.

Civ. And welcome all indeed, and welcome; come Frank, are you ready?

Frank. Jefhue, how hafty thefe Husbands are, I pray, Father, pray to God to bless me.

Lanc. God bless thee, and I do; God make thee wife, Send you both Joy, I wish it with wet Eyes.

Frank, But, Father, fhall not my Sifter Delia go along with us? She is excellent good at Cookery, and fuch things.

Lanc. Yes marry fhall fhe: Delia, make you ready. Del. I am ready, Sir, I will firft go to Greenwich, From thence to my Coufin Chesterfield, and fo to London. Civ. It fhall fuffice, good Sifter Delia, it fhall fuffice, but fail us not, good Sifter, give order to Cooks and others, for I would not have my fweet Frank to foil her Fingers.

Frank. No by my troth not I, a Gentlewoman, and a marrried Gentlewoman too, to be Companion to Cooks, And Kitchin-boys, not I i'faith, I fcorn that.

Civ. Why, I do not mean thou fhalt, fweet Heart, thou feeft I do not go about it; well, farewel too: You Gods pity Mr. Weathercock, we fhall have your Company too? Weath. With all my Heart, for I love good Cheer.

Civ. Well, God be with you all, come, Frank.

Frank. God be with you, Father, God be with you, Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, and Mafter Weathercock, Sifter, God be with you all: God be with you, Father, God be with you every one.

Weath. Why, how now, Sir Arthur, all a mort, Master Oliver, how now, Man?

Cheerly, Sir Lancelot, and merrily fay,

Who can hold that will away.

Lanc. Ay, the is gone indeed, poor Girl, undone, But when these be felf-will'd, Children muft fmart. Art. But, Sir, that he is wronged, you are the chiefest Caufe, therefore 'tis reafon you redrefs her wrong. Weath. Indeed you muft, Sir Lancelot, you must.

Lanc.

Lanc. Muft? who can compel me, Mr. Weathercock? I hope I may do what I lift.

Weath. I grant you may, you may do what
you lift.
Oli. Nay, but and you be well evifen, it were not good,
By this vrampolnefs, and vrowardness, to caft away
As pretty a dowffabel, as am chould chance to fee
In a Summers Day; chil tell you what chall do,
Chil go fpy up and down the Town, and fee if I
Can hear any Tale or Tydings of her,

And take her away from thick a Meffel, vor cham
Afhured, heel but bring her to the spoil,

And fo var you well, we fhall meet at your Son Civer's,
Lane. I thank you, Sir, I take it very kindly.

Arth. To find her out, I'll spend my dearest Blood.
So well I lov'd her, to affect her Good.

Lanc. O Mafter Weathercock,

What hap had I, to force my Daughter

[Exeunt Ambo.

From Mafter Oliver, and this good Knight,
To one that hath no Goodnefs in his Thought?
Weath. Ill luck, but what remedy?

Lanc. Yes, I have almoft devised a Remedy,
Young Flowerdale is fure a Prifoner.
Weath. Sure? nothing more fure.

Lane. And yet perhaps his Uncle hath releas'd him.
Weath. It may be very like, no doubt he hath.
Lanc. Well if he be in Prifon, I'll have Warrants
To tache my Daughter 'till the Law be tried,
For I will fue him upon Cozenage.

Weath. Marry may you, and overthrow him too.
Lanc. Nay that's not fo; I may chance be fcoft,
And sentence past with him.

Weath. Believe me, fo he may, therefore take heed.
Lanc. Well how foever, yet I will have warrants,

In Prison, or at Liberty, all's one :

You will help to serve them, Mafter Weathercock?

Enter Flowerdale.

Exeunt.

Flow. A plague of the Devil, the Devil take the Dice. The Dice, and the Devil, and his D.m go together; Of all my hundred golden Angels,

I have not left me one Denier:

A

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