FLOWERDALE. Why, he said he would lend me none, and that had wont to be a direct denial, if the old phrase hold. Well, Uncle, come, we’ll fall to the Legacies: (reads) ‘In the name of God, Amen. Item, I bequeath to my brother Flowerdale three hundred pounds, to pay such trivial debts as I owe in London. Item, to my son Matt Flowerdale, I bequeath two bale of false dice; Videlicet, high men and low men, fullomes, stop cater traies, and other bones of function.’ Sblood, what doth he mean by this? UNCLE. Proceed, cousin. FLOWERDALE. “These precepts I leave him: let him borrow of his oath, for of his word no body will trust him. Let him by no means marry an honest woman, for the other will keep her self. Let him steal as much as he can, that a guilty conscience may bring him to his destinate repentance.”—I think he means hanging. And this were his last will and Testament, the Devil stood laughing at his bed’s feet while he made it. Sblood, what, doth he think to fop of his posterity with Paradoxes? FATHER. This he made, sir, with his own hands. FLOWERDALE. Aye, well; nay, come, good Uncle, let me have this ten pound. Imagine you have lost it, or been robbed of it, or misreckoned your self so much: any way to make it come easily off, good Uncle. UNCLE. Not a penny. FATHER. Yfaith, lend it him, sir. I my self have an estate in the City worth twenty pound: all that I’ll engage for him; he saith it concerns him in a marriage. FLOWERDALE. Aye, marry, it doth. This is a fellow of some sense, this: Come, good Uncle. UNCLE. Will you give your word for it, Kester? FATHER. I will, sir, willingly. UNCLE. Well, cousin, come to me some hour hence, you shall have it ready. FLOWERDALE. Shall I not fail? UNCLE. You shall not, come or send. FLOWERDALE. Nay, I’ll come my self. FATHER. By my troth, would I were your worship’s man. FLOWERDALE. What, wouldst thou serve? FATHER. Very willingly, sir. FLOWERDALE. Why, I’ll tell thee what thou shalt do: thou saith thou hast twenty pound: go into Burchin Lane, put thy self into clothes; thou shalt ride with me to Croyden fair. FATHER. I thank you, sir; I will attend you. FLOWERDALE. Well, Uncle, you will not fail me an hour hence? UNCLE. I will not, cousin. FLOWERDALE. What’s thy name? Kester? FATHER. Aye, sir. FLOWERDALE. Well, provide thy self: Uncle, farewell till anon. [Exit Flowerdale.] UNCLE. Brother, how do you like your son? FATHER. Yfaith, brother, like a mad unbridled colt, Or as a Hawk, that never stooped to lure: The one must be tamed with an iron bit, The other must be watched, or still she is wild. Such is my son; awhile let him be so: For counsel still is folly’s deadly foe. I’ll serve his youth, for youth must have his course, For being restrained, it makes him ten times worse; His pride, his riot, all that may be named, Time may recall, and all his madness tamed. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. The high street in Croydon. An inn appearing, with an open drinking booth before it.