DAFFODIL. I have a trick to know his name, sir. He hath a month’s mind here to mistress Frances, his name is Master Civet. LANCELOT. Call him in, Daffodil. FLOWERDALE. O I know him, sir, he is a fool, but reasonable rich; his father was one of these lease-mongers, these corn-mongers, these money-mongers, but he never had the wit to be a whore-monger. [Enter Master Civet.] LANCELOT. I promise you, sir, you are at too much charge. CIVET. The charge is small charge, sir; I thank God my father left me wherewithal: if it please you, sir, I have a great mind to this gentlewoman here, in the way of marriage. LANCELOT. I thank you, sir: please you come to Lewsome, To my poor house, you shall be kindly welcome: I knew your father, he was a wary husband.— To pale here, Drawer. DRAWER. All is paid, sir: this gentleman hath paid all. LANCELOT. Yfaith, you do us wrong, But we shall live to make amends ere long: Master Flowerdale, is that your man? FLOWERDALE. Yes, faith, a good old knave. LANCELOT. Nay, then I think You will turn wise, now you take such a servant: Come, you’ll ride with us to Lewsome; let’s away. Tis scarce two hours to the end of day. [Exit Omnes.] ACT II. SCENE I. A road near Sir Lancelot Spurcock’s house, in Kent. [Enter Sir Arthur Greenshood, Oliver, Lieutenant and Soldiers.] ARTHUR. Lieutenant, lead your soldiers to the ships, There let them have their coats, at their arrival They shall have pay: farewell, look to your charge. SOLDIER. Aye, we are now sent away, and cannot so much as speak with our friends. OLIVER. No, man; what, ere you used a zutch a fashion, thick you cannot take your leave of your vrens? ARTHUR. Fellow, no more. Lieutenant, lead them off. SOLDIER. Well, if I have not my pay and my clothes, I’ll venture a running away tho I hang for’t. ARTHUR. Away, sirrah, charm your tongue. [Exit Soldiers.] OLIVER. Been you a presser, sir? ARTHUR. I am a commander, sir, under the King. OLIVER. Sfoot, man, and you be ne’er zutch a commander, should a spoke with my vrens before I should agone, so should. ARTHUR. Content yourself, man, my authority will stretch to press so good a man as you. OLIVER. Press me? I deuve ye, press scoundrels, and thy messels: Press me! chee scorns thee, yfaith: For seest thee, here’s a worshipful knight knows cham not to be pressed by thee. [Enter Sir Lancelot, Weathercock, young Flowerdale, old Flowerdale, Lucy, Frances.] LANCELOT. Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewsome, welcome by my troth. What’s the matter, man? why are you vexed? OLIVER. Why, man, he would press me. LANCELOT. O fie, Sir Arthur, press him? he is a man of reckoning. WEATHERCOCK. Aye, that he is, Sir Arthur, he hath the nobles, The golden ruddocks he. ARTHUR. The fitter for the wars: and were he not In favour with your worships, he should see, That I have power to press so good as he. OLIVER. Chill stand to the trial, so chill.