FLOWERDALE. Nay, look you, you turn it to a jest now: by this light, I should ride to Croyden fair, to meet Sir Lancelot Spurcock. I should have his daughter Lucy, and for scurvy ten pound, a man shall lose nine hundred three-score and odd pounds, and a daily friend beside. By this hand, Uncle, tis true.
UNCLE.
Why, any thing is true for ought I know.
FLOWERDALE. To see now! why, you shall have my bond, Uncle, or Tom White’s, James Brock’s, or Nick Hall’s: as good rapier and dagger men, as any be in England. Let’s be damned if we do not pay you: the worst of us all will not damn ourselves for ten pound. A pox of ten pound!
UNCLE.
Cousin, this is not the first time I have believed you.
FLOWERDALE. Why, trust me now, you know not what may fall. If one thing were but true, I would not greatly care, I should not need ten pound, but when a man cannot be believed,—there’s it.
UNCLE.
Why, what is it, cousin?
FLOWERDALE. Marry, this, Uncle: can you tell me if the Katern-hue be come home or no?
UNCLE.
Aye, marry, ist.
FLOWERDALE. By God I thank you for that news. What, ist in the pool, can you tell?
UNCLE.
It is; what of that?