FRANCES. No, by my troth, not I: a gentlewoman, and a married gentlewoman too, to be companions to cooks and kitchen-boys! not I, yfaith: I scorn that. CIVET. Why, I do not mean thou shalt, sweet heart; thou seest I do not go about it: well farewell to you. God’s pity, Master Weathercock, we shall have your company too? WEATHERCOCK. With all my heart, for I love good cheer. CIVET. Well, God be with you all. Come, Frances. FRANCES. God be with you, father, God be with you, Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, and Master Weathercock, sister, God be with you all: God be with you, father, God be with you every one. [Exeunt Civet and Frances.] WEATHERCOCK. Why, how now, Sir Arthur? all a mort? Master Oliver, how now man? Cheerly, Sir Lancelot, and merrily say, Who can hold that will away? LANCELOT. Aye, she is gone indeed, poor girl, undone. But when they’ll be self-willed, children must smart. ARTHUR. But, sir, that she is wronged, you are the chiefest cause, Therefore tis reason, you redress her wrong. WEATHERCOCK. Indeed you must, Sir Lancelot, you must. LANCELOT. Must? who can compel me, Master Weathercock? I hope I may do what I list. WEATHERCOCK. I grant you may, you may do what you list. OLIVER. Nay, but and you be well evisen, it were not good by this vrampolness, and vrowardness, to cast away as pretty a dowsabell, as any chould chance to see in a Sommers day. Chil tell you what chall do. Chil go spy up and down the town, and see if I can hear any tale or tidings of her, and take her away from thick a messell, vor cham ashured, he’ll but bring her to the spoil. And so var you well; we shall meet at your son Civet’s. LANCELOT. I thank you, sir, I take it very kindly. ARTHUR. To find her out, I’ll spend my dearest blood: So well I loved her, to affect her good. [Exit both.] LANCELOT. O Master Weathercock, What hap had I, to force my daughter From Master Oliver, and this good knight To one that hath no goodness in his thought? WEATHERCOCK. Ill luck, but what remedy? LANCELOT. Yes, I have almost devised a remedy: Young Flowerdale is sure a prisoner. WEATHERCOCK. Sure, nothing more sure. LANCELOT. And yet perhaps his Uncle hath released him. WEATHERCOCK. It may be very like, no doubt he hath. LANCELOT. Well, if he be in prison, I’ll have warrants To ’tach my daughter till the law be tried, For I will sue him upon cozenage. WEATHERCOCK. Marry, may you, and overthrow him too. LANCELOT. Nay, that’s not so, I may chance be soft, And sentence past with him. WEATHERCOCK. Believe me, so he may, therefore take heed. LANCELOT. Well, howsoever, yet I will have warrants: In prison, or at liberty, all’s one: You will help to serve them, Master Weathercock? [Exit Omnes.] SCENE II. A street in London. [Enter Flowerdale.]