FATHER.
Aye, sir, dead.
FLOWERDALE.
Sblood, how should my father come dead?
FATHER.
Yfaith, sir, according to the old Proverb:
The child was born and cried, became man,
After fell sick, and died.
UNCLE.
Nay, cousin, do not take it so heavily.
FLOWERDALE. Nay, I cannot weep you extempore: marry, some two or three days hence, I shall weep without any stintance. But I hope he died in good memory.
FATHER. Very well, sir, and set down every thing in good order; and the Katherine and Hue you talked of, I came over in: and I saw all the bills of lading, and the velvet that you talked of, there is no such aboard.
FLOWERDALE.
By God, I assure you, then, there is knavery abroad.
FATHER.
I’ll be sworn of that: there’s knavery abroad,
Although there were never a piece of velvet in Venice.
FLOWERDALE.
I hope he died in good estate.
FATHER.
To the report of the world he did, and made his will,
Of which I am an unworthy bearer.