LANCELOT.
Wert not thou late that unthrift’s serving-man?
FATHER.
Look on me better, now my scar is off.
Ne’er muse, man, at this metamorphosis.
LANCELOT.
Master Flowerdale!
FLOWERDALE.
My father! O, I shame to look on him.
Pardon, dear father, the follies that are past.
FATHER.
Son, son, I do, and joy at this thy change,
And applaud thy fortune in this virtuous maid,
Whom heaven hath sent to thee to save thy soul
LUCY.
This addeth joy to joy, high heaven be praised.
FATHER.
I caused that rumour to be spread myself,
Because I’d see the humours of my son,
Which to relate the circumstance is needless:
And, sirrah, see you run no more into
That same disease:
For he that’s once cured of that malady,
Of Riot, Swearing, Drunkenness, and Pride,
And falls again into the like distress,
That fever is deadly, doth till death endure:
Such men die mad as of a callenture.
FLOWERDALE.
Heaven helping me, I’ll hate the course as hell.
UNCLE.
Say it and do it, cousin, all is well.
LANCELOT.
Well, being in hope you’ll prove an honest man,
I take you to my favour. Brother Flowerdale,
Welcome with all my heart: I see your care
Hath brought these acts to this conclusion,
And I am glad of it: come, let’s in and feast.