FLOWERDALE. By this light, a Dutch Frau: they say they are called kind. By this light, I’ll try her.
LUCY.
Vat bin you, yonker? why do you not speak?
FLOWERDALE. By my troth, sweet heart, a poor gentleman that would desire of you, if it stand with your liking, the bounty of your purse.
[Enter Father.]
LUCY.
O here, God, so young an armine.
FLOWERDALE. Armine, sweet-heart? I know not what you mean by that, but I am almost a beggar.
LUCY. Are you not a married man? vere bin your wife? Here is all I have: take dis.
FLOWERDALE.
What, gold, young Frau? this is brave.
FATHER.
—If he have any grace, he’ll now repent.
LUCY.
Why speak you not? were be your vife?