FATHER.
For howsoever the Devonshire man is, my master’s mind
is bloody: that’s a round o,
And therefore, sir, entreat is but vain:
LANCELOT.
I have no such thing to him, I tell thee once again.
FATHER.
I will then so signify to him.
[Exit Father.]
LANCELOT.
Aye, sirrah, I see this matter is hotly carried,
But I’ll labour to dissuade him from it.—
[Enter Flowerdale.]
Good morrow, Master Flowerdale.
FLOWERDALE. Good morrow, good Sir Lancelot; good morrow, Master Weathercock. By my troth, gentlemen, I have been a reading over Nick Matchivill; I find him good to be known, not to be followed: a pestilent humane fellow. I have made certain annotations of him such as they be.—And how ist Sir Lancelot? ha? how ist? A mad world, men cannot live quiet in it.
LANCELOT.
Master Flowerdale, I do understand there is
Some jar between the Devonshire man and you.
FATHER.
They, sir? they are good friends as can be.