[Enter Daffodil.]
DAFFODIL.
O Sir Arthur, Master Oliver, aye me!
Your love, and yours, and mine, sweet mistress Lucy,
This morn is married to young Flowerdale.
ARTHUR.
Married to Flowerdale! tis impossible.
OLIVER.
Married, man, che hope thou doest but jest,
To make an a volowten merriment of it.
DAFFODIL.
O, tis too true. Here comes his Uncle.
[Enter Flowerdale, Sheriff, Officers.]
UNCLE.
God morrow, Sir Arthur, good morrow, master Oliver.
OLIVER.
God and good morn, Master Flowerdale. I pray you tellen us,
Is your scoundrel kinsman married?
UNCLE. Master Oliver, call him what you will, but he is married to Sir Lancelot’s daughter here.
ARTHUR.
Unto her?