LUCY.
Not trust him? by the hopes of after bliss,
I know no sorrow can be compared to his.
LANCELOT.
Well, since thou wert ordained to beggary,
Follow thy fortune; I defy thee, I.
OLIVER. Ywood che were so well ydoussed as was ever white cloth in a tocking mill, and che ha not made me weep.
FATHER.
If he hath any grace, he’ll now repent.
ARTHUR.
It moves my heart.
WEATHERCOCK.
By my troth, I must weep, I can not choose.
UNCLE.
None but a beast would such a maid misuse.
FLOWERDALE.
Content thy self, I hope to win his favour,
And to redeem my reputation lost:
And, gentlemen, believe me, I beseech you:
I hope your eyes shall behold such change,
As shall deceive your expectation.
OLIVER.
I would che were ysplit now, but che believe him.
LANCELOT.
How, believe him?