LANCELOT.
No more; Daffodil is a knave:
That Daffodil is a most notorious knave.
[Exit Artichoke.]
[Enter Weathercock.]
Master Weathercock, you come in happy time. The desperate Flowerdale hath writ a challenge: And who think you must answer it, but the Devonshire man, my son Oliver?
WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, I am sorry for it, good Sir Lancelot,
But if you will be ruled by me, we’ll stay the fury.
LANCELOT.
As how, I pray?
WEATHERCOCK. Marry, I’ll tell you: by promising young Flowerdale the red lipped Lucy.
LANCELOT.
I’ll rather follow her unto her grave.
WEATHERCOCK. Aye, Sir Lancelot, I would have thought so too, but you and I have been deceived in him: come read this will, or deed, or what you call it, I know not. Come, come, your spectacles I pray.
LANCELOT.
Nay, I thank God, I see very well.