FLOWERDALE.
Uncle, this is she, yfaith: master under-sheriff,
Arrest me? at whose suit? draw, Kit.
UNCLE.
At my suit, sir.
LANCELOT.
Why, what’s the matter, Master Flowerdale?
UNCLE. This is the matter, sir: this unthrift here hath cozened you, and hath had of me, in several sums, three thousand pound.
FLOWERDALE.
Why, Uncle, Uncle.
UNCLE. Cousin, cousin, you have uncled me, and if you be not staid, you’ll prove a cozener unto all who know you.
LANCELOT.
Why, sir, suppose he be to you in debt
Ten thousand pound, his state to me appears,
To be at least three thousand a year.
UNCLE.
O sir, I was too late informed of that plot,
How that he went about to cozen you:
And formed a will, and sent it
To your good friend here, Master Weathercock,
In which was nothing true, but brags and lies.
LANCELOT.
Ha, hath he not such Lordships, lands, and ships?
UNCLE.
Not worth a groat, not worth a halfpenny, he.