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.