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If this trade hold, I'll never seek a new.
Welcome, sweet gold: and beggary, adieu.
[Enter Uncle and Father.]
UNCLE.
See, Kester, if you can find the house.
FLOWERDALE.
Who's here? my Uncle, and my man Kester? By the ma.s.s, tis they. How do you, Uncle, how dost thou, Kester? By my troth, Uncle, you must needs lend me some money: the poor gentlewoman my wife, so G.o.d help me, is very sick. I was robbed of the hundred angels you gave me; they are gone.
UNCLE.
Aye, they are gone indeed; come, Kester, away.
FLOWERDALE.
Nay, Uncle, do you hear? good Uncle.
UNCLE.
Out, hypocrite, I will not hear thee speak; Come, leave him, Kester.
FLOWERDALE.
Kester, honest Kester.
FATHER.
Sir, I have nought to say to you. Open the door, Tanikin: thou hadst best lock it fast, for there's a false knave without.
FLOWERDALE.
You are an old lying Rascal, so you are.
[Exit both.]
[Enter Lucy.]
LUCY.
Vat is de matter? Vat be you, yonker?
FLOWERDALE.
By this light, a Dutch Frau: they say they are called kind. By this light, I'll try her.
LUCY.
Vat bin you, yonker? why do you not speak?
FLOWERDALE.
By my troth, sweet heart, a poor gentleman that would desire of you, if it stand with your liking, the bounty of your purse.
[Enter Father.]
LUCY.
O here, G.o.d, so young an armine.
FLOWERDALE.
Armine, sweet-heart? I know not what you mean by that, but I am almost a beggar.
LUCY.
Are you not a married man? vere bin your wife? Here is all I have: take dis.
FLOWERDALE.
What, gold, young Frau? this is brave.
FATHER.
--If he have any grace, he'll now repent.
LUCY.
Why speak you not? were be your vife?
FLOWERDALE.
Dead, dead, she's dead; tis she hath undone me: spent me all I had, and kept rascals under mine nose to brave me.
LUCY.
Did you use her vell?
FLOWERDALE.
Use her? there's never a gentle-woman in England could be better used than I did her. I could but coach her; her diet stood me in forty pound a month, but she is dead and in her grave my care are buried.
LUCY.
Indeed, dat vas not scone.
FATHER.
--He is turned more devil than he was before.
FLOWERDALE.
Thou doest belong to Master Civet here, doest thou not?
LUCY.
Yes me do.
FLOWERDALE.
Why, there's it: there's not a handful of plate but belongs to me, G.o.d's my judge: if I had but such a wench as thou art, there's never a man in England would make more of her, than I would do, so she had any stock.
[They call within: O, why, Tanikin.]
LUCY.
Stay, one doth call; I shall come by and by again.
FLOWERDALE.
By this hand, this Dutch wench is in love with me.
Were it not admiral to make her steal all Civet's plate, and run away.
FATHER.
Twere beastly. O Master Flowerdale, Have you no fear of G.o.d, nor conscience?
