The London Prodigal Part 4

LANCELOT.

No, of my knighthood, not a suitor yet: Alas, G.o.d help her, silly girl, a fool, a very fool: But there's the other black-brows, a shrewd girlie, She hath wit at will, and suitors two or three: Sir Arthur Greenshield one, a gallant knight, A valiant soldier, but his power but poor.

Then there's young Oliver, the Devonshire lad, A wary fellow, marry, full of wit, And rich by the rood: but there's a third all air, Light as a feather, changing as the wind: Young Flowerdale.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

O he, sir, he's a desperate d.i.c.k indeed.

Bar him you house.

LANCELOT.

Fie, not so, he's of good parentage.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

By my fai' and so he is, and a proper man.

LANCELOT.

Aye, proper, enough, had he good qualities.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

Aye, marry, there's the point, Sir Lancelot, For there's an old saying: Be he rich, or be he poor, Be he high, or be he low: Be he born in barn or hall, Tis manners makes the man and all.

LANCELOT.

You are in the right, Master Weatherc.o.c.k.

[Enter Monsieur Civet.]

CIVET.

Soul, I think I am sure crossed, or witched with an owl. I have haunted them, Inn after Inn, booth after booth, yet cannot find them: ha, yonder they are; that's she. I hope to G.o.d tis she! nay, I know tis she now, for she treads her shoe a little awry.

LANCELOT.

Where is this Inn? we are past it, Daffodil.

DAFFODIL.

The good sign is here, sir, but the back gate is before.

CIVET.

Save you, sir. I pray, may I borrow a piece of a word with you?

DAFFODIL.

No pieces, sir.

CIVET.

Why, then, the whole. I pray, sir, what may yonder gentlewomen be?

DAFFODIL.

They may be ladies, sir, if the destinies and mortalities work.

CIVET.

What's her name, sir?

DAFFODIL.

Mistress Frances Spurc.o.c.k, Sir Lancelot Spurc.o.c.k's daughter.

CIVET.

Is she a maid, sir?

DAFFODIL.

You may ask Pluto, and dame Proserpine that: I would be loath to be riddled, sir.

CIVET.

Is she married, I mean, sir?

DAFFODIL.

The Fates knows not yet what shoemaker shall make her wedding shoes.

CIVET.

I pray, where Inn you sir? I would be very glad to bestow the wine of that gentlewoman.

DAFFODIL.

At the George, sir.

CIVET.

G.o.d save you, sir.

DAFFODIL.

I pray your name, sir?

CIVET.

My name is Master Civet, sir.

DAFFODIL.

A sweet name. G.o.d be with you, good Master Civet.

[Exit Civet.]

LANCELOT.

Aye, have we spied you, stout Sir George?

For all your dragon, you had best sells good wine, That needs no yule-bush: well, we'll not sit by it, As you do on your horse. This room shall serve: Drawer, let me have sack for us old men: For these girls and knaves small wines are best.

A pint of sack, no more.

DRAWER.

A quart of sack in the three Tuns.

LANCELOT.

A pint, draw but a pint.--Daffodil, call for wine to make your selves drink.

FRANCES.

And a cup of small beer, and a cake, good Daffodil.

[Enter young Flowerdale.]