The London Prodigal | Page 8

Call him in, Daffodil.
FLOWERDALE. O I know him, sir, he is a fool, but reasonable rich;
his father was one of these lease-mongers, these corn-mongers, these
money-mongers, but he never had the wit to be a whore-monger.
[Enter Master Civet.]
LANCELOT. I promise you, sir, you are at too much charge.
CIVET. The charge is small charge, sir; I thank God my father left me
wherewithal: if it please you, sir, I have a great mind to this
gentlewoman here, in the way of marriage.
LANCELOT. I thank you, sir: please you come to Lewsome, To my
poor house, you shall be kindly welcome: I knew your father, he was a
wary husband.-- To pale here, Drawer.
DRAWER. All is paid, sir: this gentleman hath paid all.
LANCELOT. Yfaith, you do us wrong, But we shall live to make
amends ere long: Master Flowerdale, is that your man?
FLOWERDALE. Yes, faith, a good old knave.
LANCELOT. Nay, then I think You will turn wise, now you take such
a servant: Come, you'll ride with us to Lewsome; let's away. Tis scarce
two hours to the end of day.
[Exit Omnes.]
ACT II.
SCENE I. A road near Sir Lancelot Spurcock's house, in Kent.
[Enter Sir Arthur Greenshood, Oliver, Lieutenant and Soldiers.]
ARTHUR. Lieutenant, lead your soldiers to the ships, There let them
have their coats, at their arrival They shall have pay: farewell, look to
your charge.
SOLDIER. Aye, we are now sent away, and cannot so much as speak
with our friends.
OLIVER. No, man; what, ere you used a zutch a fashion, thick you
cannot take your leave of your vrens?

ARTHUR. Fellow, no more. Lieutenant, lead them off.
SOLDIER. Well, if I have not my pay and my clothes, I'll venture a
running away tho I hang for't.
ARTHUR. Away, sirrah, charm your tongue.
[Exit Soldiers.]
OLIVER. Been you a presser, sir?
ARTHUR. I am a commander, sir, under the King.
OLIVER. Sfoot, man, and you be ne'er zutch a commander, should a
spoke with my vrens before I should agone, so should.
ARTHUR. Content yourself, man, my authority will stretch to press so
good a man as you.
OLIVER. Press me? I deuve ye, press scoundrels, and thy messels:
Press me! chee scorns thee, yfaith: For seest thee, here's a worshipful
knight knows cham not to be pressed by thee.
[Enter Sir Lancelot, Weathercock, young Flowerdale, old Flowerdale,
Lucy, Frances.]
LANCELOT. Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewsome, welcome by my troth.
What's the matter, man? why are you vexed?
OLIVER. Why, man, he would press me.
LANCELOT. O fie, Sir Arthur, press him? he is a man of reckoning.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, that he is, Sir Arthur, he hath the nobles, The
golden ruddocks he.
ARTHUR. The fitter for the wars: and were he not In favour with your
worships, he should see, That I have power to press so good as he.
OLIVER. Chill stand to the trial, so chill.
FLOWERDALE. Aye, marry, shall he, press-cloth and karsie, white
pot and drowsen broth: tut, tut, he cannot.
OLIVER. Well, sir, tho you see vlouten cloth and karsie, chee a zeen
zutch a karsie coat wear out the town sick a zilken jacket, as thick a one
you wear.
FLOWERDALE. Well said, vlitan vlattan.
OLIVER. Aye, and well said, cocknell, and bo-bell too: what, doest
think cham a veard of thy zilken coat? nefer vere thee.
LANCELOT. Nay, come, no more, be all lovers and friends.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, tis best so, good master Oliver.
FLOWERDALE. Is your name master Oliver, I pray you?
OLIVER. What tit and be tit, and grieve you.

FLOWERDALE. No, but I'd gladly know if a man might not have a
foolish plot out of master Oliver to work upon.
OLIVER. Work thy plots upon me! stand aside:--work thy foolish plots
upon me! chill so use thee, thou weart never so used since thy dame
bound thy head. Work upon me?
FLOWERDALE. Let him come, let him come.
OLIVER. Zirrah, zirrah, if it were not vor shame, chee would a given
thee zutch a whisterpoop under the ear, chee would a made thee a
vanged an other at my feet: stand aside, let me loose, cham all of a
vlaming fire-brand; Stand aside.
FLOWERDALE. Well, I forbear you for your friend's sake.
OLIVER. A vig for all my vrens! doest thou tell me of my vrens?
LANCELOT. No more, good master Oliver; no more, Sir Arthur. And,
maiden, here in the sight Of all your suitors, every man of worth, I'll
tell you whom I fainest would prefer To the hard bargain of your
marriage bed.-- Shall I be plain among you, gentlemen?
ARTHUR. Aye, sir, tis best.
LANCELOT. Then, sir, first to you:-- I do confess you a most gallant
knight, A worthy soldier,