FLOWERDALE. Dead, dead, she’s dead; tis she hath undone me: spent me all I had, and kept rascals under mine nose to brave me.
LUCY.
Did you use her vell?
FLOWERDALE. Use her? there’s never a gentle-woman in England could be better used than I did her. I could but coach her; her diet stood me in forty pound a month, but she is dead and in her grave my care are buried.
LUCY.
Indeed, dat vas not scone.
FATHER.
—He is turned more devil than he was before.
FLOWERDALE.
Thou doest belong to Master Civet here, doest thou not?
LUCY.
Yes me do.
FLOWERDALE. Why, there’s it: there’s not a handful of plate but belongs to me, God’s my judge: if I had but such a wench as thou art, there’s never a man in England would make more of her, than I would do, so she had any stock.
[They call within: O, why, Tanikin.]
LUCY.
Stay, one doth call; I shall come by and by again.