CIVET. Soul, I think I am sure crossed, or witched with an owl. I have haunted them, Inn after Inn, booth after booth, yet cannot find them: ha, yonder they are; that’s she. I hope to God tis she! nay, I know tis she now, for she treads her shoe a little awry. LANCELOT. Where is this Inn? we are past it, Daffodil. DAFFODIL. The good sign is here, sir, but the back gate is before. CIVET. Save you, sir. I pray, may I borrow a piece of a word with you? DAFFODIL. No pieces, sir. CIVET. Why, then, the whole. I pray, sir, what may yonder gentlewomen be? DAFFODIL. They may be ladies, sir, if the destinies and mortalities work. CIVET. What’s her name, sir? DAFFODIL. Mistress Frances Spurcock, Sir Lancelot Spurcock’s daughter. CIVET. Is she a maid, sir? DAFFODIL. You may ask Pluto, and dame Proserpine that: I would be loath to be riddled, sir. CIVET. Is she married, I mean, sir? DAFFODIL. The Fates knows not yet what shoemaker shall make her wedding shoes. CIVET. I pray, where Inn you sir? I would be very glad to bestow the wine of that gentlewoman. DAFFODIL. At the George, sir. CIVET. God save you, sir. DAFFODIL. I pray your name, sir? CIVET. My name is Master Civet, sir. DAFFODIL. A sweet name. God be with you, good Master Civet. [Exit Civet.] LANCELOT. Aye, have we spied you, stout Sir George? For all your dragon, you had best sells good wine, That needs no yule-bush: well, we’ll not sit by it, As you do on your horse. This room shall serve: Drawer, let me have sack for us old men: For these girls and knaves small wines are best. A pint of sack, no more. DRAWER. A quart of sack in the three Tuns. LANCELOT. A pint, draw but a pint.—Daffodil, call for wine to make your selves drink. FRANCES. And a cup of small beer, and a cake, good Daffodil. [Enter young Flowerdale.] FLOWERDALE. How now? fie, sit in the open room? now, good Sir Lancelot, & my kind friend worshipful Master Weathercock! What, at your pint? a quart for shame. LANCELOT. Nay, Royster, by your leave we will away. FLOWERDALE. Come, give’s some Music, we’ll go dance. Begone, Sir Lancelot? what, and fair day too? LUCY. Twere foully done, to dance within the fair. FLOWERDALE. Nay, if you say so, fairest of all fairs, then I’ll not dance. A pox upon my tailor, he hath spoiled me a peach colour satin shirt, cut upon cloth of silver, but if ever the rascal serve me such another trick, I’ll give him leave, yfaith, to put me in the calendar of fools: and you, and you, Sir Lancelot and Master Weathercock. My goldsmith too, on tother side—I bespoke thee, Lucy, a carkenet of gold, and thought thou shouldst a had it for a fairing, and the rogue puts me in rearages for Orient Pearl: but thou shalt have it by Sunday night, wench. [Enter the Drawer.] DRAWER. Sir, here is one hath sent you a pottle of rennish wine, brewed with rosewater. FLOWERDALE. To me? DRAWER. No, sir, to the knight; and desires his more acquaintance. LANCELOT. To me? what’s he that proves so kind?