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.