LANCELOT.
Aye, sir, with conceit of his wild courses.
FATHER.
Sir, you are misinformed.
LANCELOT.
Why, thou old knave, thou toldst me so thy self.
FATHER.
I wronged him then: and toward my Master’s stock,
There’s twenty nobles for to make amends.
FLOWERDALE.
No, Kester, I have troubled thee, and wronged thee more.
What thou in love gives, I in love restore.
FRANCES. Ha, ha, sister, there you played bo-peep with Tom. What shall I give her toward household? Sister Delia, shall I give her my fan?
DELIA.
You were best ask your husband.
FRANCES.
Shall I, Tom?
CIVET. Aye, do, Frances; I’ll buy thee a new one, with a longer handle.
FRANCES.
A russet one, Tom.