ARTICHOKE. Bith mass, here's one; I'll ask him. Do you hear, sir? What, are you so proud? do you hear? which is the way to Master Civet's house? what will you not speak? O me, this is filching Flowerdale.

LANCELOT. O wonderful, is this lewd villain here? O you cheating Rogue, you cut-purse coni-catcher, What ditch, you villain, is my daughter's grave? A cozening rascal, that must make a will, Take on him that strict habit—very that, When he should turn to angel—a dying grace. I'll father in law you, sir, I'll make a will! Speak, villain, where's my daughter? Poisoned, I warrant you, or knocked a the head And to abuse good Master Weathercock, With his forged will, and Master Weathercock To make my grounded resolution, Than to abuse the Devonshire gentleman: Go, away with him to prison.

FLOWERDALE. Wherefore to prison? sir, I will not go.

[Enter Master Civet, his wife, Oliver, Sir Arthur, Father, and Uncle, Delia.]

LANCELOT. O here's his Uncle! welcome, gentlemen, welcome all. Such a cozener, gentlemen, a murderer too, for any thing I know: my daughter is missing: hath been looked for, cannot be found. A vild upon thee.

UNCLE. He is my kinsman, although his life be wild; Therefore, in God's name, do with him what you will.

LANCELOT. Marry, to prison.

FLOWERDALE. Wherefore to prison? snick up, I owe you nothing.

LANCELOT. Bring forth my daughter then: away with him.

FLOWERDALE. Go seek your daughter; what do you lay to my charge.

LANCELOT. Suspicion of murder: go, away with him.

FLOWERDALE. Murder, you dogs? I murder your daughter! Come, Uncle, I know you'll bail me.

UNCLE. Not I, were there no more, than I the Jailor, thou the prisoner.

LANCELOT. Go; away with him.

[Enter Lucy like a Frau.]

LUCY. O my life, here; where will you ha de man? Vat ha de yonker done?

WEATHERCOCK. Woman, he hath killed his wife.

LUCY. His vife: dat is not good, dat is not seen.

LANCELOT. Hang not upon him, huswife; if you do, I'll lay you by him.

LUCY. Have me no oder way dan you have him: He tell me dat he love me heartily.

FRANCES. Lead away my maid to prison! why, Tom, will you suffer that?

CIVET. No, by your leave, father, she is no vagrant: she is my wife's chamber maid, & as true as the skin between any man's brows here.

LANCELOT. Go to, you're both fools: Son Civet, of my life, this is a plot, Some straggling counterfeit preferred to you, No doubt to rob you of your plate and jewels. I'll have you led away to prison, trull.

LUCY. I am no trull, neither outlandish Frau. Nor he, nor I shall to the prison go: Know you me now? nay, never stand amazed. Father, I know I have offended you, And though that duty wills me bend my knees To you in duty and obedience: Yet this ways do I turn, and to him yield My love, my duty and my humbleness.

LANCELOT. Bastard in nature! kneel to such a slave?

LUCY. O Master Flowerdale, if too much grief Have not stopped up the organs of your voice, Then speak to her that is thy faithful wife: Or doth contempt of me thus tie thy tongue? Turn not away, I am no Aethiope, No wanton Cressida, nor a changing Helen: But rather one made wretched by thy loss. What, turnst thou still from me? O then I guess thee woefulst among hapless men.

FLOWERDALE. I am, indeed, wife, wonder among wives! Thy chastity and virtue hath infused Another soul in me, red with defame, For in my blushing cheeks is seen my shame.

LANCELOT. Out, hypocrite. I charge thee, trust him not.

LUCY. Not trust him? by the hopes of after bliss, I know no sorrow can be compared to his.

LANCELOT. Well, since thou wert ordained to beggary, Follow thy fortune; I defy thee, I.

OLIVER. Ywood che were so well ydoussed as was ever white cloth in a tocking mill, and che ha not made me weep.

FATHER. If he hath any grace, he'll now repent.

ARTHUR. It moves my heart.

WEATHERCOCK. By my troth, I must weep, I can not choose.

UNCLE. None but a beast would such a maid misuse.

FLOWERDALE. Content thy self, I hope to win his favour, And to redeem my reputation lost: And, gentlemen, believe me, I beseech you: I hope your eyes shall behold such change, As shall deceive your expectation.

OLIVER. I would che were ysplit now, but che believe him.

LANCELOT. How, believe him?

WEATHERCOCK. By the mackins, I do.

LANCELOT. What, do you think that ere he will have grace?

WEATHERCOCK. By my faith, it will go hard.

OLIVER. Well, che vor ye, he is changed: and Master Flowerdale, in hope you been so, hold, there's vorty pound toward your zetting up: what, be not ashamed; vang it, man, vang it: be a good husband, loven your wife: and you shall not want for vorty more, I che vor thee.

ARTHUR. My means are little, but if you'll follow me, I will instruct my ablest power: But to your wife I give this diamond, And prove true diamond fair in all your life.

FLOWERDALE. Thanks, good Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, You being my enemy, and grown so kind, Binds me in all endeavor to restore—

OLIVER. What! restore me no restorings, man. I have vorty pound more for Lucy; here, vang it: Zouth, chil devie London else. What, do not think me a Mezel or a Scoundrel to throw away my money: che have a hundred pound more to pace of any good spotation: I hope your vader and your uncle here wil vollow my examples.

UNCLE. You have guessed right of me; if he leave of this course of life, he shall be mine heir.

LANCELOT. But he shall never get a groat of me: A cozener, a deceiver, one that killed His painful father, honest gentleman That passed the fearful danger of the sea, To get him living and maintain him brave.

WEATHERCOCK. What, hath he killed his father?

LANCELOT. Aye, sir, with conceit of his wild courses.

FATHER. Sir, you are misinformed.

LANCELOT. Why, thou old knave, thou toldst me so thy self.

FATHER. I wronged him then: and toward my Master's stock, There's twenty nobles for to make amends.

FLOWERDALE. No, Kester, I have troubled thee, and wronged thee more. What thou in love gives, I in love restore.

FRANCES. Ha, ha, sister, there you played bo-peep with Tom. What shall I give her toward household? Sister Delia, shall I give her my fan?

DELIA. You were best ask your husband.

FRANCES. Shall I, Tom?

CIVET. Aye, do, Frances; I'll buy thee a new one, with a longer handle.

FRANCES. A russet one, Tom.

CIVET. Aye, with russet feathers.

FRANCES. Here, sister, there's my fan towad household, to keep you warm.

LUCY. I thank you, sister.

WEATHERCOCK. Why this is well, and toward fair Lucy's stock, here's forty shillings: and forty good shillings more, I'll give her, marry. Come, Sir Lancelot, I must have you friends.

LANCELOT. Not I, all this is counterfeit; He will consume it, were it a million.

FATHER. Sir, what is your daughter's dower worth?

LANCELOT. Had she been married to an honest man, It had been better than a thousand pound.

FATHER. Pay it him, and I'll give you my bond, To make her jointer better worth than three.

LANCELOT. Your bond, sir? why, what are you?

FATHER. One whose word in London, though I say it, Will pass there for as much as yours.

LANCELOT. Wert not thou late that unthrift's serving-man?

FATHER. Look on me better, now my scar is off. Ne'er muse, man, at this metamorphosis.

LANCELOT. Master Flowerdale!

FLOWERDALE. My father! O, I shame to look on him. Pardon, dear father, the follies that are past.

FATHER. Son, son, I do, and joy at this thy change, And applaud thy fortune in this virtuous maid, Whom heaven hath sent to thee to save thy soul

LUCY. This addeth joy to joy, high heaven be praised.

FATHER. I caused that rumour to be spread myself, Because I'd see the humours of my son, Which to relate the circumstance is needless: And, sirrah, see you run no more into That same disease: For he that's once cured of that malady, Of Riot, Swearing, Drunkenness, and Pride, And falls again into the like distress, That fever is deadly, doth till death endure: Such men die mad as of a callenture.

FLOWERDALE. Heaven helping me, I'll hate the course as hell.

UNCLE. Say it and do it, cousin, all is well.

LANCELOT. Well, being in hope you'll prove an honest man, I take you to my favour. Brother Flowerdale, Welcome with all my heart: I see your care Hath brought these acts to this conclusion, And I am glad of it: come, let's in and feast.

OLIVER. Nay, zoft you awhile: you promised to make Sir Arthur and me amends. Here is your wisest daughter; see which ans she'll have.

LANCELOT. A God's name, you have my good will, get hers.

OLIVER. How say you then, damsel, tyters hate?

DELIA. I, sir, am yours.

OLIVER. Why, then, send for a Vicar, and chil have it dispatched in a trice, so chill.

DELIA. Pardon me, sir, I mean I am yours, In love, in duty, and affection, But not to love as wife: shall ne'er be said, Delia was buried married, but a maid.

ARTHUR. Do not condemn yourself forever, Virtuous fair, you were born to love.

OLIVER. Why, you say true, Sir Arthur, she was ybere to it so well as her mother: but I pray you shew us some zamples or reasons why you will not marry.

DELIA. Not that I do condemn a married life, For tis no doubt a sanctimonious thing: But for the care and crosses of a wife, The trouble in that world that children bring; My vow is in heaven in earth to live alone, Husbands, howsoever good, I will have none.

OLIVER. Why, then che will live Bachelor too. Che zet not a vig by a wife, if a wife zet not a vig by me. Come, shalls go to dinner?

FATHER. Tomorrow I crave your companies in Mark-lane: Tonight we'll frolic in Master Civet's house, And to each health drink down a full carouse.

FINIS