FLOWERDALE. Aye, marry, shall he, press-cloth and karsie, white pot and drowsen broth: tut, tut, he cannot. OLIVER. Well, sir, tho you see vlouten cloth and karsie, chee a zeen zutch a karsie coat wear out the town sick a zilken jacket, as thick a one you wear. FLOWERDALE. Well said, vlitan vlattan. OLIVER. Aye, and well said, cocknell, and bo-bell too: what, doest think cham a veard of thy zilken coat? nefer vere thee. LANCELOT. Nay, come, no more, be all lovers and friends. WEATHERCOCK. Aye, tis best so, good master Oliver. FLOWERDALE. Is your name master Oliver, I pray you? OLIVER. What tit and be tit, and grieve you. FLOWERDALE. No, but I’d gladly know if a man might not have a foolish plot out of master Oliver to work upon. OLIVER. Work thy plots upon me! stand aside:—work thy foolish plots upon me! chill so use thee, thou weart never so used since thy dame bound thy head. Work upon me? FLOWERDALE. Let him come, let him come. OLIVER. Zirrah, zirrah, if it were not vor shame, chee would a given thee zutch a whisterpoop under the ear, chee would a made thee a vanged an other at my feet: stand aside, let me loose, cham all of a vlaming fire-brand; Stand aside. FLOWERDALE. Well, I forbear you for your friend’s sake. OLIVER. A vig for all my vrens! doest thou tell me of my vrens? LANCELOT. No more, good master Oliver; no more, Sir Arthur. And, maiden, here in the sight Of all your suitors, every man of worth, I’ll tell you whom I fainest would prefer To the hard bargain of your marriage bed.— Shall I be plain among you, gentlemen? ARTHUR. Aye, sir, tis best. LANCELOT. Then, sir, first to you:— I do confess you a most gallant knight, A worthy soldier, and an honest man: But honesty maintains not a french-hood, Goes very seldom in a chain of gold, Keeps a small train of servants: hath few friends.— And for this wild oats here, young Flowerdale, I will not judge: God can work miracles, But he were better make a hundred new, Then thee a thrifty and an honest one. WEATHERCOCK. Believe me, he hath bit you there, he hath touched you to the quick, that hath he. FLOWERDALE. Woodcock a my side! why, master Weathercock, you know I am honest, however trifles— WEATHERCOCK. Now, by my troth, I know no otherwise. O your old mother was a dame indeed: Heaven hath her soul, and my wives too, I trust: And your good father, honest gentleman, He is gone a Journey, as I hear, far hence. FLOWERDALE. Aye, God be praised, he is far enough. He is gone a pilgrimage to Paradice, And left me to cut a caper against care. Lucy, look on me that am as light as air. LUCY. Yfaith, I like not shadows, bubbles, breath I hate a light a love, as I hate death. LANCELOT. Girl, hold thee there: look on this Devonshire lad: Fat, fair, and lovely, both in purse and person.