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?