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.