CIVET.
Aye, with russet feathers.
FRANCES. Here, sister, there’s my fan towad household, to keep you warm.
LUCY.
I thank you, sister.
WEATHERCOCK. Why this is well, and toward fair Lucy’s stock, here’s forty shillings: and forty good shillings more, I’ll give her, marry. Come, Sir Lancelot, I must have you friends.
LANCELOT.
Not I, all this is counterfeit;
He will consume it, were it a million.
FATHER.
Sir, what is your daughter’s dower worth?
LANCELOT.
Had she been married to an honest man,
It had been better than a thousand pound.
FATHER.
Pay it him, and I’ll give you my bond,
To make her jointer better worth than three.
LANCELOT.
Your bond, sir? why, what are you?
FATHER.
One whose word in London, though I say it,
Will pass there for as much as yours.