The London Prodigal | Page 6

Well, Uncle, come,
we'll fall to the Legacies: (reads) 'In the name of God, Amen. Item, I
bequeath to my brother Flowerdale three hundred pounds, to pay such
trivial debts as I owe in London. Item, to my son Matt Flowerdale, I
bequeath two bale of false dice; Videlicet, high men and low men,
fullomes, stop cater traies, and other bones of function.' Sblood, what
doth he mean by this?
UNCLE. Proceed, cousin.
FLOWERDALE. "These precepts I leave him: let him borrow of his
oath, for of his word no body will trust him. Let him by no means
marry an honest woman, for the other will keep her self. Let him steal
as much as he can, that a guilty conscience may bring him to his
destinate repentance."--I think he means hanging. And this were his last
will and Testament, the Devil stood laughing at his bed's feet while he
made it. Sblood, what, doth he think to fop of his posterity with
Paradoxes?
FATHER. This he made, sir, with his own hands.
FLOWERDALE. Aye, well; nay, come, good Uncle, let me have this
ten pound. Imagine you have lost it, or been robbed of it, or
misreckoned your self so much: any way to make it come easily off,
good Uncle.

UNCLE. Not a penny.
FATHER. Yfaith, lend it him, sir. I my self have an estate in the City
worth twenty pound: all that I'll engage for him; he saith it concerns
him in a marriage.
FLOWERDALE. Aye, marry, it doth. This is a fellow of some sense,
this: Come, good Uncle.
UNCLE. Will you give your word for it, Kester?
FATHER. I will, sir, willingly.
UNCLE. Well, cousin, come to me some hour hence, you shall have it
ready.
FLOWERDALE. Shall I not fail?
UNCLE. You shall not, come or send.
FLOWERDALE. Nay, I'll come my self.
FATHER. By my troth, would I were your worship's man.
FLOWERDALE. What, wouldst thou serve?
FATHER. Very willingly, sir.
FLOWERDALE. Why, I'll tell thee what thou shalt do: thou saith thou
hast twenty pound: go into Burchin Lane, put thy self into clothes; thou
shalt ride with me to Croyden fair.
FATHER. I thank you, sir; I will attend you.
FLOWERDALE. Well, Uncle, you will not fail me an hour hence?
UNCLE. I will not, cousin.
FLOWERDALE. What's thy name? Kester?
FATHER. Aye, sir.
FLOWERDALE. Well, provide thy self: Uncle, farewell till anon.
[Exit Flowerdale.]
UNCLE. Brother, how do you like your son?
FATHER. Yfaith, brother, like a mad unbridled colt, Or as a Hawk,
that never stooped to lure: The one must be tamed with an iron bit, The
other must be watched, or still she is wild. Such is my son; awhile let
him be so: For counsel still is folly's deadly foe. I'll serve his youth, for
youth must have his course, For being restrained, it makes him ten
times worse; His pride, his riot, all that may be named, Time may recall,
and all his madness tamed.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The high street in Croydon. An inn appearing, with an open
drinking booth before it.

[Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock, Daffodil, Artichoke, Lucy,
and Frances.]
LANCELOT. Sirrah Artichoke, get you home before, And as you
proved yourself a calf in buying, Drive home your fellow calves that
you have bought.
ARTICHOKE. Yes, forsooth; shall not my fellow Daffodil go along
with me?
LANCELOT. No, sir, no; I must have one to wait on me.
ARTICHOKE. Daffodil, farewell, good fellow Daffodil. You may see,
mistress, I am set up by the halves; Instead of waiting on you, I am sent
to drive home calves.
LANCELOT. Yfaith, Frances, I must turn away this Daffodil, He's
grown a very foolish saucy fellow.
FRANCES. Indeed law, father, he was so since I had him: Before he
was wise enough for a foolish serving-man.
WEATHERCOCK. But what say you to me, Sir Lancelot?
LANCELOT. O, about my daughters? well, I will go forward. Here's
two of them, God save them: but the third, O she's a stranger in her
course of life. She hath refused you, Master Weathercock.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, by the Rood, Sir Lancelot, that she hath, But
had she tried me, She should a found a man of me indeed.
LANCELOT. Nay be not angry, sir, at her denial. She hath refused
seven of the worshipfulest And worthiest housekeepers this day in Kent:
Indeed she will not marry, I suppose.
WEATHERCOCK. The more fool she.
LANCELOT. What, is it folly to love Chastity?
WEATHERCOCK. No, mistake me not, Sir Lancelot, But tis an old
proverb, and you know it well, That women dying maids lead apes in
hell.
LANCELOT. That's a foolish proverb, and a false.
WEATHERCOCK. By the mass I think it be, and therefore let it go:
But