LANCELOT.
Must? who can compel me, Master Weathercock?
I hope I may do what I list.
WEATHERCOCK.
I grant you may, you may do what you list.
OLIVER. Nay, but and you be well evisen, it were not good by this vrampolness, and vrowardness, to cast away as pretty a dowsabell, as any chould chance to see in a Sommers day. Chil tell you what chall do. Chil go spy up and down the town, and see if I can hear any tale or tidings of her, and take her away from thick a messell, vor cham ashured, he’ll but bring her to the spoil. And so var you well; we shall meet at your son Civet’s.
LANCELOT.
I thank you, sir, I take it very kindly.
ARTHUR.
To find her out, I’ll spend my dearest blood:
So well I loved her, to affect her good.
[Exit both.]
LANCELOT.
O Master Weathercock,
What hap had I, to force my daughter
From Master Oliver, and this good knight
To one that hath no goodness in his thought?
WEATHERCOCK.
Ill luck, but what remedy?
LANCELOT.
Yes, I have almost devised a remedy:
Young Flowerdale is sure a prisoner.
WEATHERCOCK.
Sure, nothing more sure.