[Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock, and
Artichoke.]
LANCELOT.
Where is the door? are we not past it, Artichoke?
ARTICHOKE. Bith mass, here’s one; I’ll ask him. Do you hear, sir? What, are you so proud? do you hear? which is the way to Master Civet’s house? what will you not speak? O me, this is filching Flowerdale.
LANCELOT.
O wonderful, is this lewd villain here?
O you cheating Rogue, you cut-purse coni-catcher,
What ditch, you villain, is my daughter’s grave?
A cozening rascal, that must make a will,
Take on him that strict habit—very that,
When he should turn to angel—a dying grace.
I’ll father in law you, sir, I’ll make a will!
Speak, villain, where’s my daughter?
Poisoned, I warrant you, or knocked a the head
And to abuse good Master Weathercock,
With his forged will, and Master Weathercock
To make my grounded resolution,
Than to abuse the Devonshire gentleman:
Go, away with him to prison.
FLOWERDALE.
Wherefore to prison? sir, I will not go.
[Enter Master Civet, his wife, Oliver, Sir Arthur,
Father, and Uncle, Delia.]
LANCELOT. O here’s his Uncle! welcome, gentlemen, welcome all. Such a cozener, gentlemen, a murderer too, for any thing I know: my daughter is missing: hath been looked for, cannot be found. A vild upon thee.
UNCLE.
He is my kinsman, although his life be wild;
Therefore, in God’s name, do with him what you will.
LANCELOT.
Marry, to prison.
FLOWERDALE.
Wherefore to prison? snick up, I owe you nothing.