WEATHERCOCK. Marry, bless your eyes, mine hath been dim almost this thirty years.
LANCELOT.
Ha, what is this? what is this?
WEATHERCOCK.
Nay, there is true love, indeed:
He gave it to me but this very morn,
And bid me keep it unseen from any one.
Good youth, to see how men may be deceived!
LANCELOT.
Passion of me, what a wretch am I
To hate this loving youth: he hath made me,
Together with my Lucy he loves so dear,
Executors of all his wealth.
WEATHERCOCK.
All, all, good man; he hath given you all.
LANCELOT.
Three ships now in the straits & homeward bound,
Two Lordships of two hundred pound a year,
The one in Wales, the other in Glostershire:
Debts and accounts are thirty thousand pound;
Plate, money, jewels, 16 thousand more;
Two housen furnished well in Cole-man street:
Beside whatsoever his Uncle leaves to him,
Being of great demeans and wealth at Peckham.
WEATHERCOCK.
How like you this, good knight? how like you this?
LANCELOT.
I have done him wrong, but now I’ll make amends,
The Devonshire man shall whistle for a wife:
He marry Lucy! Lucy shall be Flowerdale’s.
WEATHERCOCK.
Why, that is friendly said.
Let’s ride to London and prevent their match,
By promising your daughter to that lovely lad.
LANCELOT.
We’ll ride to London:—or it shall not need,
We’ll cross to Dedfort-strand, and take a boat.
Where be these knaves? what, Artichoke? what, Fop?