The London Prodigal | Page 7

who shall marry with mistress Frances?
FRANCES. By my troth, they are talking of marrying me, sister.
LUCY. Peace, let them talk; Fools may have leave to prattle as they
walk.
DAFFODIL. Sentesses still, sweet mistress; You have a wit, and it
were your Alliblaster.

LUCY. Yfaith, and thy tongue trips trenchmore.
LANCELOT. No, of my knighthood, not a suitor yet: Alas, God help
her, silly girl, a fool, a very fool: But there's the other black-brows, a
shrewd girlie, She hath wit at will, and suitors two or three: Sir Arthur
Greenshield one, a gallant knight, A valiant soldier, but his power but
poor. Then there's young Oliver, the Devonshire lad, A wary fellow,
marry, full of wit, And rich by the rood: but there's a third all air, Light
as a feather, changing as the wind: Young Flowerdale.
WEATHERCOCK. O he, sir, he's a desperate dick indeed. Bar him you
house.
LANCELOT. Fie, not so, he's of good parentage.
WEATHERCOCK. By my fai' and so he is, and a proper man.
LANCELOT. Aye, proper, enough, had he good qualities.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, marry, there's the point, Sir Lancelot, For
there's an old saying: Be he rich, or be he poor, Be he high, or be he
low: Be he born in barn or hall, Tis manners makes the man and all.
LANCELOT. You are in the right, Master Weathercock.
[Enter Monsieur Civet.]
CIVET. Soul, I think I am sure crossed, or witched with an owl. I have
haunted them, Inn after Inn, booth after booth, yet cannot find them: ha,
yonder they are; that's she. I hope to God tis she! nay, I know tis she
now, for she treads her shoe a little awry.
LANCELOT. Where is this Inn? we are past it, Daffodil.
DAFFODIL. The good sign is here, sir, but the back gate is before.
CIVET. Save you, sir. I pray, may I borrow a piece of a word with you?
DAFFODIL. No pieces, sir.
CIVET. Why, then, the whole. I pray, sir, what may yonder
gentlewomen be?
DAFFODIL. They may be ladies, sir, if the destinies and mortalities
work.
CIVET. What's her name, sir?
DAFFODIL. Mistress Frances Spurcock, Sir Lancelot Spurcock's
daughter.
CIVET. Is she a maid, sir?
DAFFODIL. You may ask Pluto, and dame Proserpine that: I would be
loath to be riddled, sir.
CIVET. Is she married, I mean, sir?

DAFFODIL. The Fates knows not yet what shoemaker shall make her
wedding shoes.
CIVET. I pray, where Inn you sir? I would be very glad to bestow the
wine of that gentlewoman.
DAFFODIL. At the George, sir.
CIVET. God save you, sir.
DAFFODIL. I pray your name, sir?
CIVET. My name is Master Civet, sir.
DAFFODIL. A sweet name. God be with you, good Master Civet.
[Exit Civet.]
LANCELOT. Aye, have we spied you, stout Sir George? For all your
dragon, you had best sells good wine, That needs no yule-bush: well,
we'll not sit by it, As you do on your horse. This room shall serve:
Drawer, let me have sack for us old men: For these girls and knaves
small wines are best. A pint of sack, no more.
DRAWER. A quart of sack in the three Tuns.
LANCELOT. A pint, draw but a pint.--Daffodil, call for wine to make
your selves drink.
FRANCES. And a cup of small beer, and a cake, good Daffodil.
[Enter young Flowerdale.]
FLOWERDALE. How now? fie, sit in the open room? now, good Sir
Lancelot, & my kind friend worshipful Master Weathercock! What, at
your pint? a quart for shame.
LANCELOT. Nay, Royster, by your leave we will away.
FLOWERDALE. Come, give's some Music, we'll go dance. Begone,
Sir Lancelot? what, and fair day too?
LUCY. Twere foully done, to dance within the fair.
FLOWERDALE. Nay, if you say so, fairest of all fairs, then I'll not
dance. A pox upon my tailor, he hath spoiled me a peach colour satin
shirt, cut upon cloth of silver, but if ever the rascal serve me such
another trick, I'll give him leave, yfaith, to put me in the calendar of
fools: and you, and you, Sir Lancelot and Master Weathercock. My
goldsmith too, on tother side--I bespoke thee, Lucy, a carkenet of gold,
and thought thou shouldst a had it for a fairing, and the rogue puts me
in rearages for Orient Pearl: but thou shalt have it by Sunday night,
wench.
[Enter the Drawer.]

DRAWER. Sir, here is one hath sent you a pottle of rennish wine,
brewed with rosewater.
FLOWERDALE. To me?
DRAWER. No, sir, to the knight; and desires his more acquaintance.
LANCELOT. To me? what's he that proves so kind?
DAFFODIL. I have a trick to know his name, sir. He hath a month's
mind here to mistress Frances, his name is Master Civet.
LANCELOT.