[Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock, Daffodil, Artichoke, Lucy, and Frances.] LANCELOT. Sirrah Artichoke, get you home before, And as you proved yourself a calf in buying, Drive home your fellow calves that you have bought. ARTICHOKE. Yes, forsooth; shall not my fellow Daffodil go along with me? LANCELOT. No, sir, no; I must have one to wait on me. ARTICHOKE. Daffodil, farewell, good fellow Daffodil. You may see, mistress, I am set up by the halves; Instead of waiting on you, I am sent to drive home calves. LANCELOT. Yfaith, Frances, I must turn away this Daffodil, He’s grown a very foolish saucy fellow. FRANCES. Indeed law, father, he was so since I had him: Before he was wise enough for a foolish serving-man. WEATHERCOCK. But what say you to me, Sir Lancelot? LANCELOT. O, about my daughters? well, I will go forward. Here’s two of them, God save them: but the third, O she’s a stranger in her course of life. She hath refused you, Master Weathercock. WEATHERCOCK. Aye, by the Rood, Sir Lancelot, that she hath, But had she tried me, She should a found a man of me indeed. LANCELOT. Nay be not angry, sir, at her denial. She hath refused seven of the worshipfulest And worthiest housekeepers this day in Kent: Indeed she will not marry, I suppose. WEATHERCOCK. The more fool she. LANCELOT. What, is it folly to love Chastity? WEATHERCOCK. No, mistake me not, Sir Lancelot, But tis an old proverb, and you know it well, That women dying maids lead apes in hell. LANCELOT. That’s a foolish proverb, and a false. WEATHERCOCK. By the mass I think it be, and therefore let it go: But who shall marry with mistress Frances? FRANCES. By my troth, they are talking of marrying me, sister. LUCY. Peace, let them talk; Fools may have leave to prattle as they walk. DAFFODIL. Sentesses still, sweet mistress; You have a wit, and it were your Alliblaster. LUCY. Yfaith, and thy tongue trips trenchmore. LANCELOT. No, of my knighthood, not a suitor yet: Alas, God help her, silly girl, a fool, a very fool: But there’s the other black-brows, a shrewd girlie, She hath wit at will, and suitors two or three: Sir Arthur Greenshield one, a gallant knight, A valiant soldier, but his power but poor. Then there’s young Oliver, the Devonshire lad, A wary fellow, marry, full of wit, And rich by the rood: but there’s a third all air, Light as a feather, changing as the wind: Young Flowerdale. WEATHERCOCK. O he, sir, he’s a desperate dick indeed. Bar him you house. LANCELOT. Fie, not so, he’s of good parentage. WEATHERCOCK. By my fai’ and so he is, and a proper man. LANCELOT. Aye, proper, enough, had he good qualities. WEATHERCOCK. Aye, marry, there’s the point, Sir Lancelot, For there’s an old saying: Be he rich, or be he poor, Be he high, or be he low: Be he born in barn or hall, Tis manners makes the man and all. LANCELOT. You are in the right, Master Weathercock. [Enter Monsieur Civet.]