ARTICHOKE.
Not I, not a word.—Now do I smell knavery:
In every purse Flowerdale takes, he is half:
And gives me this to keep counsel.—No, not a word I.
FATHER.
Why, God a mercy.
FRANCES. Sister, look here, I have a new Dutch maid, and she speaks so fine, it would do your heart good.
CIVET.
How do you like her, sister?
DELIA.
I like your maid well.
CIVET. Well, dear sister, will you draw near, and give directions for supper? guests will be here presently.
DELIA.
Yes, brother; lead the way; I’ll follow you.
[Exit all but Delia and Lucy.]
Hark you, Dutch frau, a word.
LUCY.
Vat is your vill wit me?