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Title: The London Prodigal
Author: William Shakespeare [Apocrypha]
Release Date: May, 2003 [Etext #4031]
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[The actual date this file first posted = 10/15/01]
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Project Gutenberg's The London Prodigal, attributed in part to Skakespeare
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THE LONDON PRODIGAL, As it was played by the King's Majesties servants.
The Actor's Names in the London Prodigal.
M. FLOWERDALE (Senior), a Merchant trading at Venice.
MATTH. FLOWERDALE, his Prodigal Son.
M. FLOWERDALE (Junior), Brother to the Merchant.
SIR LANCELOT SPURCOCK, of Lewsome in Kent.
FRANCES, LUCY, DELIA, Daughters to Sir Lancelot Spurcock.
DAFFODIL, ARTICHOKE, Servants to Sir Lancelot Spurcock.
SIR ARTHUR GREENSHOOD, a Commander, in love with Lucy.
OLIVER, a Devonshire Clothier, in love with Lucy.
WEATHERCOCK, a Parasite to Sir Lancelot Spurcock.
TOM CIVET, in love with Frances.
DICK and RALPH, two cheating Gamesters.
RUFFIAN, a Pander to Mistress Apricot a Bawd.
SHERIFF and OFFICERS.
A CITIZEN and his wife.
Drawers.
The Scene: London (and the Parts adjacent).
ACT I.
SCENE I. London. A room in Flowerdale Junior's house.
[Enter old Flowerdale and his brother.]
FATHER.
Brother, from Venice, being thus disguised,
I come to prove the humours of my son.
How hath he borne himself since my departure,
I leaving you his patron and his guide?
UNCLE.
Ifaith, brother, so, as you will grieve to hear,
And I almost ashamed to report it.
FATHER. Why, how ist, brother? what, doth he spend beyond the allowance I left him?
UNCLE. How! beyond that? and far more: why, your exhibition is nothing. He hath spent that, and since hath borrowed; protested with oaths, alleged kindred to wring money from me,—by the love I bore his father, by the fortunes might fall upon himself, to furnish his wants: that done, I have had since his bond, his friend and friend's bond. Although I know that he spends is yours; yet it grieves me to see the unbridled wildness that reins over him.
FATHER. Brother, what is the manner of his life? how is the name of his offences? If they do not relish altogether of damnation, his youth may privilege his wantonness: I myself ran an unbridled course till thirty, nay, almost till forty;—well, you see how I am: for vice, once looked into with the eyes of discretion, and well-balanced with the weights of reason, the course past seems so abominable, that the Landlord of himself, which is the heart of the body, will rather entomb himself in the earth, or seek a new Tenant to remain in him:—which once settled, how much better are they that in their youth have known all these vices, and left it, than those that knew little, and in their age runs into it? Believe me, brother, they that die most virtuous hath in their youth lived most vicious, and none knows the danger of the fire more than he that falls into it. But say, how is the course of his life? let's hear his particulars.
UNCLE. Why, I'll tell you, brother; he is a continual swearer, and a breaker of his oaths, which is bad.
FATHER. I grant indeed to swear is bad, but not in keeping those oaths is better: for who will set by a bad thing? Nay, by my faith, I hold this rather a virtue than a vice. Well, I pray, proceed.
UNCLE.
He is a mighty brawler, and comes commonly by the worst.
FATHER. By my faith, this is none of the worst neither, for if he brawl and be beaten for it, it will in time make him shun it: For what brings man or child more to virtue than correction? What reigns over him else?
UNCLE.
He is a great drinker, and one that will forget himself.
FATHER. O best of all! vice should be forgotten; let him drink on, so he drink not churches. Nay, and this be the worst, I hold it rather a happiness in him, than any iniquity. Hath he any more attendants?
UNCLE.
Brother, he is one that will borrow of any man.
FATHER. Why, you see, so doth the sea: it borrows of all the small currents in the world, to increase himself.
UNCLE.
Aye, but the sea pales it again, and so will never your son.
FATHER.
No more would the sea neither, if it were as dry as my son.
UNCLE. Then, brother, I see you rather like these vices in your son, than any way condemn them.
FATHER. Nay, mistake me not, brother, for tho I slur them over now, as things slight and nothing, his crimes being in the bud, it would gall my heart, they should ever reign in him.
FLOWERDALE.
Ho! who's within? ho!
[Flowerdale knocks within.]
UNCLE.
That's your son, he is come to borrow more money.
FATHER. For Godsake give it out I am dead; see how he'll take it. Say I have brought you news from his father. I have here drawn a formal will, as it were from my self, which I'll deliver him.
UNCLE.
Go to, brother, no more: I will.
FLOWERDALE.
[Within.] Uncle, where are you, Uncle?
UNCLE.
Let my cousin in there.
FATHER.
I am a sailor come from Venice, and my name is Christopher.
[Enter Flowerdale.]
FLOWERDALE.
By the Lord, in truth, Uncle—
UNCLE.
In truth would a served, cousin, without the Lord.
FLOWERDALE. By your leave, Uncle, the Lord is the Lord of truth. A couple of rascals at the gate set upon me for my purse.
UNCLE.
You never come, but you bring a brawl in your mouth.
FLOWERDALE.
By my truth, Uncle, you must needs lend me ten pound.
UNCLE.
Give my cousin some small beer here.
FLOWERDALE. Nay, look you, you turn it to a jest now: by this light, I should ride to Croyden fair, to meet Sir Lancelot Spurcock. I should have his daughter Lucy, and for scurvy ten pound, a man shall lose nine hundred three-score and odd pounds, and a daily friend beside. By this hand, Uncle, tis true.
UNCLE.
Why, any thing is true for ought I know.
FLOWERDALE. To see now! why, you shall have my bond, Uncle, or Tom White's, James Brock's, or Nick Hall's: as good rapier and dagger men, as any be in England. Let's be damned if we do not pay you: the worst of us all will not damn ourselves for ten pound. A pox of ten pound!
UNCLE.
Cousin, this is not the first time I have believed you.
FLOWERDALE. Why, trust me now, you know not what may fall. If one thing were but true, I would not greatly care, I should not need ten pound, but when a man cannot be believed,—there's it.
UNCLE.
Why, what is it, cousin?
FLOWERDALE. Marry, this, Uncle: can you tell me if the Katern-hue be come home or no?
Aye, marry, ist.
FLOWERDALE. By God I thank you for that news. What, ist in the pool, can you tell?
UNCLE.
It is; what of that?
FLOWERDALE. What? why then I have six pieces of velvet sent me; I'll give you a piece, Uncle: for thus said the letter,—a piece of Ashcolour, a three piled black, a colour de roi, a crimson, a sad green, and a purple: yes, yfaith.
UNCLE.
From whom should you receive this?
FLOWERDALE. From who? why, from my father; with commendations to you, Uncle, and thus he writes: I know, said he, thou hast much troubled thy kind Uncle, whom God-willing at my return I will see amply satisfied. Amply, I remember was the very word, so God help me.
UNCLE.
Have you the letter here?
FLOWERDALE. Yes, I have the letter here, here is the letter: no, yes, no;—let me see, what breeches wore I a Saturday? let me see: a Tuesday my Salamanca; a Wednesday my peach colour Satin; a Thursday my Vellour; a Friday my Salamanca again; a Saturday—let me see—a Saturday,—for in those breeches I wore a Saturday is the letter: O, my riding breeches, Uncle, those that you thought been velvet; in those very breeches is the letter.
UNCLE.
When should it be dated?
FLOWERDALE.
Marry, Decimo tertio septembris—no, no—decimo tertio Octobris;
Aye, Octobris, so it is.
UNCLE. Decimo tertio Octobris! and here receive I a letter that your father died in June: how say you, Kester?
FATHER. Yes, truly, sir, your father is dead, these hands of mine holp to wind him.
FLOWERDALE.
Dead?
FATHER.
Aye, sir, dead.
FLOWERDALE.
Sblood, how should my father come dead?
FATHER.
Yfaith, sir, according to the old Proverb:
The child was born and cried, became man,
After fell sick, and died.
UNCLE.
Nay, cousin, do not take it so heavily.
FLOWERDALE. Nay, I cannot weep you extempore: marry, some two or three days hence, I shall weep without any stintance. But I hope he died in good memory.
FATHER. Very well, sir, and set down every thing in good order; and the Katherine and Hue you talked of, I came over in: and I saw all the bills of lading, and the velvet that you talked of, there is no such aboard.
FLOWERDALE.
By God, I assure you, then, there is knavery abroad.
FATHER.
I'll be sworn of that: there's knavery abroad,
Although there were never a piece of velvet in Venice.
FLOWERDALE.
I hope he died in good estate.
FATHER.
To the report of the world he did, and made his will,
Of which I am an unworthy bearer.
FLOWERDALE.
His will! have you his will?
FATHER.
Yes, sir, and in the presence of your Uncle
I was willed to deliver it.
UNCLE. I hope, cousin, now God hath blessed you with wealth, you will not be unmindful of me.
FLOWERDALE. I'll do reason, Uncle, yet, yfaith, I take the denial of this ten pound very hardly.
UNCLE.
Nay, I denied you not.
FLOWERDALE.
By God, you denied me directly.
UNCLE.
I'll be judged by this good fellow.
FATHER.
Not directly, sir.
FLOWERDALE. Why, he said he would lend me none, and that had wont to be a direct denial, if the old phrase hold. 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?
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 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.
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, and an honest man:
But honesty maintains not a french-hood,
Goes very seldom in a chain of gold,
Keeps a small train of servants: hath few friends.—
And for this wild oats here, young Flowerdale,
I will not judge: God can work miracles,
But he were better make a hundred new,
Then thee a thrifty and an honest one.
WEATHERCOCK. Believe me, he hath bit you there, he hath touched you to the quick, that hath he.
FLOWERDALE. Woodcock a my side! why, master Weathercock, you know I am honest, however trifles—
WEATHERCOCK.
Now, by my troth, I know no otherwise.
O your old mother was a dame indeed:
Heaven hath her soul, and my wives too, I trust:
And your good father, honest gentleman,
He is gone a Journey, as I hear, far hence.
FLOWERDALE.
Aye, God be praised, he is far enough.
He is gone a pilgrimage to Paradice,
And left me to cut a caper against care.
Lucy, look on me that am as light as air.
LUCY.
Yfaith, I like not shadows, bubbles, breath
I hate a light a love, as I hate death.
LANCELOT.
Girl, hold thee there: look on this Devonshire lad:
Fat, fair, and lovely, both in purse and person.
OLIVER. Well, sir, cham as the Lord hath made me. You know me well, uyine: cha have three-score pack a karsie, and black-em hal, and chief credit beside, and my fortunes may be so good as an others, zo it may.
LUCY. [Aside to Arthur.] Tis you I love, whatsoever others say.
ARTHUR.
Thanks, fairest.
FLOWERDALE. [Aside to Father.] What, wouldnst thou have me quarrel with him?
FATHER.
Do but say he shall hear from you.
LANCELOT.
Yet, gentleman, howsoever I prefer
This Devonshire suitor, I'll enforce no love;
My daughter shall have liberty to choose
Whom she likes best; in your love suit proceed:
Not all of you, but 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.
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:
That haunt your taverns, and your ordinaries,
Your ale-houses sometimes, for all a-like
To uphold the brutish humour of their minds,
Being marked down, for the bondmen of despair:
Their mirth begins in wine, but ends in blood,
Their drink is clear, but their conceits are mud.
LUCY.
Yet these are great gentlemen soldiers.
ARTHUR.
No, they are wretched slaves,
Whose desperate lives doth bring them timeless graves.
LUCY.
Both for your self, and for your form of life,
If I may choose, I'll be a soldier's wife.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The same.
[Enter Sir Lancelot and Oliver.]
OLIVER.
And tyt trust to it, so then.
LANCELOT.
Assure your self,
You shall be married with all speed we may:
One day shall serve for Frances and for Lucy.
OLIVER. Why che would vain know the time, for providing wedding raiments.
LANCELOT. Why, no more but this: first get your assurance made, touching my daughter's jointer; that dispatched, we will in two days make provision.
OLIVER.
Why, man, chil have the writings made by tomorrow.
LANCELOT. Tomorrow be it then: let's meet at the king's head in fish street.
OLIVER.
No, fie, man, no, let's meet at the Rose at Temple-Bar,
That will be nearer your counsellor and mine.
LANCELOT.
At the Rose be it then, the hour nine:
He that comes last forfeits a pint of wine.
OLIVER.
A pint is no payment, let it be a whole quart or nothing.
[Enter Artichoke.]
ARTICHOKE. Master, here is a man would speak with Master Oliver: he comes from young Master Flowerdale.
OLIVER.
Why, chill speak with
LANCELOT. Nay, son Oliver, I'll surely see what young Flowerdale hath sent to you. I pray God it be no quarrel.
OLIVER.
Why, man, if he quarrel with me, chill give him, his hands full.
[Enter old Flowerdale.]
FATHER.
God save you, good Sir Lancelot.
LANCELOT.
Welcome, honest friend.
FATHER.
To you and yours my master wisheth health,
But unto you, sir, this, and this he sends:
There is the length, sir, of his rapier,
And in that paper shall you know his mind.
OLIVER.
Here, chill meet him, my vrend, chill meet him.
LANCELOT.
Meet him! you shall not meet the ruffian, fie.
OLIVER. And I do not meet him, chill give you leave to call me cut; where ist, sirrah, where ist? where ist?
FATHER.
The letter shows both the time and place,
And if you be a man, then keep your word.
LANCELOT.
Sir, he shall not keep his word, he shall not meet.
FATHER.
Why, let him choose, he'll be the better known
For a base rascal, and reputed so.
OLIVER. Zirrah, zirrah: and tweare not an old fellow, and sent after an arrant, chid give thee something, but chud be no money: But hold thee, for I see thou art somewhat testorne; hold thee, there's vorty shillings: bring thy master a veeld, chil give thee vorty more; look thou bring him: chil mall him, tell him, chill mar his dauncing tressels, chil use him, he was ne'er so used since his dam bound his head; chill make him for capyring any more, chy vor thee.
FATHER.
You seem a man, stout and resolute,
And I will so report, what ere befall.
LANCELOT.
And fall out ill, assure your master this,
I'll make him fly the land, or use him worse.
FATHER.
My master, sir, deserves not this of you,
And that you'll shortly find.
LANCELOT.
Thy master is an unthrift, you a knave,
And I'll attach you first, next clap him up
Or have him bound unto his good behavior.
OLIVER. I would you were a sprite, if you do him any harm for this. And you do, chill ne'er see you, nor any of yours, while chill have eyes open: what, do you think, chil be abaffled up and down the town for a messell and a scoundrel? no, chy vor you: zirrah, chil come; zay no more, chil come, tell him.
FATHER.
Well, sir, my Master deserves not this of you,
And that you'll shortly find.
[Exit.]
LANCELOT.
No matter, he's an unthrift; I defy him.
Now, gentle son, let me know the place.
OLIVER.
No, chy vore you.
LANCELOT.
Let me see the note.
OLIVER. Nay, chill watch you for zutch a trick. But if che meet him, zoe, if not, zoe: chill make him know me, or chill know why I shall not, chill vare the worse.
LANCELOT.
What, will you then neglect my daughter's love?
Venture your state and hers, for a loose brawl?
OLIVER. Why, man, chill not kill him; marry, chill veze him too, and again; and zoe God be with you, vather. What, man, we shall meet tomorrow.
[Exit.]
LANCELOT.
Who would a thought he had been so desperate.
Come forth, my honest servant Artichoke.
[Enter Artichoke.]
ARTICHOKE.
Now, what's the matter? some brawl toward, I warrant you.
LANCELOT.
Go get me thy sword bright scoured, thy buckler mended.
O for that knave, that villain Daffodil would have done
good service. But to thee.
ARTICHOKE. Aye, this is the tricks of all you gentlemen, when you stand in need of a good fellow. O for that Daffodil, O where is he? but if you be angry, and it be but for the wagging of a straw, then: out a doors with the knave, turn the coat over his ears. This is the humour of you all.
LANCELOT.
O for that knave, that lusty Daffodil.
ARTICHOKE. Why, there tis now: our year's wages and our vails will scarce pay for broken swords and bucklers that we use in our quarrels. But I'll not fight if Daffodil be a tother side, that's flat.
LANCELOT. Tis no such matter, man. Get weapons ready, and be at London ere the break of day: watch near the lodging of the Devonshire youth, but be unseen: and as he goes out, as he will go out, and that very early without doubt—
ARTICHOKE. What, would you have me draw upon him, as he goes in the street?
LANCELOT. Not for a world, man: into the fields; for to the field he goes, there to meet the desperate Flowerdale. Take thou the part of Oliver my son, for he shall be my son, and marry Lucy. Doest understand me, knave?
ARTICHOKE. Aye, sir, I do understand you, but my young mistress might be better provided in matching with my fellow Daffodil.
LANCELOT.
No more; Daffodil is a knave:
That Daffodil is a most notorious knave.
[Exit Artichoke.]
[Enter Weathercock.]
Master Weathercock, you come in happy time. The desperate Flowerdale hath writ a challenge: And who think you must answer it, but the Devonshire man, my son Oliver?
WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, I am sorry for it, good Sir Lancelot,
But if you will be ruled by me, we'll stay the fury.
LANCELOT.
As how, I pray?
WEATHERCOCK. Marry, I'll tell you: by promising young Flowerdale the red lipped Lucy.
LANCELOT.
I'll rather follow her unto her grave.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, Sir Lancelot, I would have thought so too, but you and I have been deceived in him: come read this will, or deed, or what you call it, I know not. Come, come, your spectacles I pray.
LANCELOT.
Nay, I thank God, I see very well.
WEATHERCOCK. Marry, bless your eyes, mine hath been dim almost this thirty years.
LANCELOT.
Ha, what is this? what is this?
WEATHERCOCK.
Nay, there is true love, indeed:
He gave it to me but this very morn,
And bid me keep it unseen from any one.
Good youth, to see how men may be deceived!
LANCELOT.
Passion of me, what a wretch am I
To hate this loving youth: he hath made me,
Together with my Lucy he loves so dear,
Executors of all his wealth.
WEATHERCOCK.
All, all, good man; he hath given you all.
LANCELOT.
Three ships now in the straits & homeward bound,
Two Lordships of two hundred pound a year,
The one in Wales, the other in Glostershire:
Debts and accounts are thirty thousand pound;
Plate, money, jewels, 16 thousand more;
Two housen furnished well in Cole-man street:
Beside whatsoever his Uncle leaves to him,
Being of great demeans and wealth at Peckham.
WEATHERCOCK.
How like you this, good knight? how like you this?
LANCELOT.
I have done him wrong, but now I'll make amends,
The Devonshire man shall whistle for a wife:
He marry Lucy! Lucy shall be Flowerdale's.