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.