ACT IV.
SCENE I. A room in Sir Lancelot Spurcock’s house in Kent.
[Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock and them.]
OLIVER. Well, cha a bin zerved many a sluttish trick, but such a lerripoop as thick yeh was ne’er a sarved.
LANCELOT.
Son Civet, daughter Frances, bear with me,
You see how I am pressed down with inward grief,
About that luckless girl, your sister Lucy.
But tis fallen out with me,
As with many families beside,
They are most unhappy, that are most beloved.
CIVET. Father, tis so, tis even fallen out so, but what remedy? set hand to your heart, and let it pass. Here is your daughter Frances and I, and we’ll not say, we’ll bring forth as witty children, but as pretty children as ever she was: tho she had the prick and praise for a pretty wench. But, father, done is the mouse: you’ll come?
LANCELOT.
Aye, son Civet, I’ll come.
CIVET.
And you, Master Oliver?
OLIVER. Aye, for che a vext out this veast, chill see if a gan make a better veast there.
CIVET.
And you, Sir Arthur?
ARTHUR.
Aye, sir, although my heart be full,
I’ll be a partner at your wedding feast.
CIVET. And welcome all indeed, and welcome: come, Frances are you ready?
FRANCES. Jesu, how hasty these husbands are. I pray, father, pray to God to bless me.
LANCELOT.
God bless thee, and I do: God make thee wise,
Send you both joy: I wish it with wet eyes.
FRANCES.
But, Father, shall not my sister Delia go along with us?
She is excellent good at cookery and such things.
LANCELOT.
Yes, marry, shall she: Delia, make you ready.
DELIA. I am ready, sir. I will first go to Greenwich, from thence to my cousin Chesterfields, and so to London.
CIVET. It shall suffice, good sister Delia, it shall suffice, but fail us not, good sister; give order to cooks, and others, for I would not have my sweet Frances to soil her fingers.
FRANCES. No, by my troth, not I: a gentlewoman, and a married gentlewoman too, to be companions to cooks and kitchen-boys! not I, yfaith: I scorn that.
CIVET.
Why, I do not mean thou shalt, sweet heart; thou seest
I do not go about it: well farewell to you. God’s pity,
Master Weathercock, we shall have your company too?
WEATHERCOCK.
With all my heart, for I love good cheer.
CIVET.
Well, God be with you all. Come, Frances.
FRANCES. God be with you, father, God be with you, Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, and Master Weathercock, sister, God be with you all: God be with you, father, God be with you every one.
[Exeunt Civet and Frances.]
WEATHERCOCK.
Why, how now, Sir Arthur? all a mort? Master Oliver,
how now man?
Cheerly, Sir Lancelot, and merrily say,
Who can hold that will away?
LANCELOT.
Aye, she is gone indeed, poor girl, undone.
But when they’ll be self-willed, children must smart.
ARTHUR.
But, sir, that she is wronged, you are the chiefest cause,
Therefore tis reason, you redress her wrong.
WEATHERCOCK.
Indeed you must, Sir Lancelot, you must.
LANCELOT.
Must? who can compel me, Master Weathercock?
I hope I may do what I list.
WEATHERCOCK.
I grant you may, you may do what you list.
OLIVER. Nay, but and you be well evisen, it were not good by this vrampolness, and vrowardness, to cast away as pretty a dowsabell, as any chould chance to see in a Sommers day. Chil tell you what chall do. Chil go spy up and down the town, and see if I can hear any tale or tidings of her, and take her away from thick a messell, vor cham ashured, he’ll but bring her to the spoil. And so var you well; we shall meet at your son Civet’s.
LANCELOT.
I thank you, sir, I take it very kindly.
ARTHUR.
To find her out, I’ll spend my dearest blood:
So well I loved her, to affect her good.
[Exit both.]
LANCELOT.
O Master Weathercock,
What hap had I, to force my daughter
From Master Oliver, and this good knight
To one that hath no goodness in his thought?
WEATHERCOCK.
Ill luck, but what remedy?
LANCELOT.
Yes, I have almost devised a remedy:
Young Flowerdale is sure a prisoner.
WEATHERCOCK.
Sure, nothing more sure.
LANCELOT.
And yet perhaps his Uncle hath released him.
WEATHERCOCK.
It may be very like, no doubt he hath.
LANCELOT.
Well, if he be in prison, I’ll have warrants
To ’tach my daughter till the law be tried,
For I will sue him upon cozenage.
WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, may you, and overthrow him too.
LANCELOT.
Nay, that’s not so, I may chance be soft,
And sentence past with him.
WEATHERCOCK.
Believe me, so he may, therefore take heed.
LANCELOT.
Well, howsoever, yet I will have warrants:
In prison, or at liberty, all’s one:
You will help to serve them, Master Weathercock?
[Exit Omnes.]