The London Prodigal | Page 9

only one must speed.
WEATHERCOCK. You have said well: indeed, right well.
[Enter Artichoke.]
ARTICHOKE. Mistress, here's one would speak with you. My fellow Daffodil hath him in the cellar already: he knows him; he met him at Croyden fair.
LANCELOT. O, I remember, a little man.
ARTICHOKE. Aye, a very little man.
LANCELOT. And yet a proper man.
ARTICHOKE. A very proper, very little man.
LANCELOT . His name is Monsieur Civet.
ARTICHOKE. The same, sir.
LANCELOT. 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 and Oliver, and old Flowerdale.]
FLOWERDALE. Hark you, sir, a word.
OLIVER. What haan you to say to me now?
FLOWERDALE. Ye shall hear from me, and that very shortly.
OLIVER. Is that all? vare thee well, chee vere thee not a vig.
[Exit Oliver.]
FLOWERDALE. What if he should come now? I am fairly dressed.
FATHER. I do not mean that you shall meet with him, But presently we'll go and draw a will: Where we'll set down land that we never saw, And we will have it of so large a sum, Sir Lancelot shall entreat you take his daughter: This being formed, give it Master Weathercock, And make Sir Lancelot's daughter heir of all: And make him swear never to show the will To any one, until that you be dead. This done, the foolish changing Weathercock Will straight discourse unto Sir Lancelot The form and tenor of your Testament. Nor stand to pause of it, be ruled by me: What will ensue, that shall you quickly see.
FLOWERDALE. Come, let's about it: if that a will, sweet Kit, Can get the wench, I shall renown thy wit.
[Exit Omnes.]
SCENE II. A room in Sir Lancelot's house.
[Enter Daffodil.]
DAFFODIL. Mistress, still froward? No kind looks Unto your Daffodil? now by the Gods--
LUCY. Away, you foolish knave, let my hand go.
DAFFODIL. There is your hand, but this shall go with me: My heart is thine, this is my true love's fee.
LUCY. I'll have your coat stripped o'er your ears for this, You saucy rascal.
[Enter Lancelot and Weathercock.]
LANCELOT. How now, maid, what is the news with you?
LUCY. Your man is something saucy.
[Exit Lucy.]
LANCELOT. Go to, sirrah, I'll talk with you anon.
DAFFODIL. Sir, I am a man to be talked withal, I am no horse, I tro: I know my strength, then no more than so.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, by the matkins, good Sir Lancelot, I saw him the other day hold up the bucklers, Like an Hercules. Yfaith, God a mercy, lad, I like thee well.
LANCELOT. Aye, I like him well: go, sirrah, fetch me a cup of wine, That ere I part with Master Weathercock, We may drink down our farewell in French wine.
WEATHERCOCK. I thank you, sir, I thank you, friendly knight, I'll come and visit you, by the mouse-foot I will: In the meantime, take heed of cutting Flowerdale. He is a desperate dick, I warrant you.
LANCELOT. He is, he is: fill, Daffodil, fill me some wine. Ha, what wears he on his arm? My daughter Lucy's bracelet. Aye, tis the same.--Ha to you, Master Weathercock.
WEATHERCOCK. I thank you, sir: Here, Daffodil, an honest fellow and a tall thou art. Well, I'll take my leave, good knight, and hope to have you and all your daughters at my poor house; in good sooth I must.
LANCELOT. Thanks, Master Weathercock, I shall be bold to trouble you, be sure.
WEATHERCOCK. And welcome heartily; farewell.
[Exit Weathercock.]
LANCELOT. Sirrah, I saw my daughter's wrong, and withal her bracelet on your arm: off with it, and with it my livery too. have I care to see my daughter matched with men of worship, and are you grown so bold? Go, sirrah, from my house, or I'll whip you hence.
DAFFODIL. I'll not be whipped, sir, there's your livery. This is a servingman's reward: what care I? I have means to trust to: I scorn service, I.
[Exit Daffodil.]
LANCELOT. Aye, a lusty knave, but I must let him go, Our servants must be taught what they should know.
[Exit.]
SCENE III. The same.
[Enter Sir Arthur and Lucy.]
LUCY. Sir, as I am a maid, I do affect You above any suitor that I have, Although that soldiers scarce knows how to love.
ARTHUR. I am a soldier, and a gentleman, Knows what belongs to war, what to a lady: What man offends me, that my sword shall right: What woman loves me, I am her faithful knight.
LUCY. I neither doubt your valour, nor your love, But there be some that bares a soldier's form, That swears by him they never think upon, Goes swaggering up and down from house to house, Crying God peace: and--
ARTHUR. Yfaith, Lady, I'll discry you such a man, of them there be many which you have spoke of, That bear the name and shape of soldiers, Yet God knows very seldom saw the war: