FLOWERDALE. Use her? there’s never a gentle-woman in England could be better used than I did her. I could but coach her; her diet stood me in forty pound a month, but she is dead and in her grave my care are buried. LUCY. Indeed, dat vas not scone. FATHER. —He is turned more devil than he was before. FLOWERDALE. Thou doest belong to Master Civet here, doest thou not? LUCY. Yes me do. FLOWERDALE. Why, there’s it: there’s not a handful of plate but belongs to me, God’s my judge: if I had but such a wench as thou art, there’s never a man in England would make more of her, than I would do, so she had any stock. [They call within: O, why, Tanikin.] LUCY. Stay, one doth call; I shall come by and by again. FLOWERDALE. By this hand, this Dutch wench is in love with me. Were it not admiral to make her steal all Civet’s plate, and run away. FATHER. Twere beastly. O Master Flowerdale, Have you no fear of God, nor conscience? What do you mean by this wild course you take? FLOWERDALE. What do I mean? why, to live, that I mean. FATHER. To live in this sort? fie upon the course: Your life doth show, you are a very coward. FLOWERDALE. A coward? I pray, in what? FATHER. Why, you will borrow sixpence of a boy. FLOWERDALE. Snails, is there such cowardice in that? I dare borrow it of a man, I, and of the tallest man in England, if he will lend it me. Let me borrow how I can, and let them come by it how they dare. And it is well known, I might a rid out a hundred times if I would: so I might. FATHER. It was not want of will, but cowardice. There is none that lends to you, but know they gain: And what is that but only stealth in you? Delia might hang you now, did not her heart Take pity of you for her sister’s sake. Go, get you hence, least, lingering where you stay, You fall into their hands you look not for. FLOWERDALE. I’ll tarry here, till the Dutch Frau comes, if all the devils in hell were here. [Exit Father.] [Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock, and Artichoke.] LANCELOT. Where is the door? are we not past it, Artichoke? 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.]