The London Prodigal Part 6

OLIVER.

Sfoot, man, and you be ne'er zutch a commander, should a spoke with my vrens before I should agone, so should.

ARTHUR.

Content yourself, man, my authority will stretch to press so good a man as you.

OLIVER.

Press me? I deuve ye, press scoundrels, and thy messels: Press me! chee scorns thee, yfaith: For seest thee, here's a worshipful knight knows cham not to be pressed by thee.

[Enter Sir Lancelot, Weatherc.o.c.k, young Flowerdale, old Flowerdale, Lucy, Frances.]

LANCELOT.

Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewsome, welcome by my troth.

What's the matter, man? why are you vexed?

OLIVER.

Why, man, he would press me.

LANCELOT.

O fie, Sir Arthur, press him? he is a man of reckoning.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

Aye, that he is, Sir Arthur, he hath the n.o.bles, The golden ruddocks he.

ARTHUR.

The fitter for the wars: and were he not In favour with your worships, he should see, That I have power to press so good as he.

OLIVER.

Chill stand to the trial, so chill.

FLOWERDALE.

Aye, marry, shall he, press-cloth and karsie, white pot and drowsen broth: tut, tut, he cannot.

OLIVER.

Well, sir, tho you see vlouten cloth and karsie, chee a zeen zutch a karsie coat wear out the town sick a zilken jacket, as thick a one you wear.

FLOWERDALE.

Well said, vlitan vlattan.

OLIVER.

Aye, and well said, c.o.c.knell, and bo-bell too: what, doest think cham a veard of thy zilken coat? nefer vere thee.

LANCELOT.

Nay, come, no more, be all lovers and friends.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

Aye, tis best so, good master Oliver.

FLOWERDALE.

Is your name master Oliver, I pray you?

OLIVER.

What t.i.t and be t.i.t, and grieve you.

FLOWERDALE.

No, but I'd gladly know if a man might not have a foolish plot out of master Oliver to work upon.

OLIVER.

Work thy plots upon me! stand aside:--work thy foolish plots upon me! chill so use thee, thou weart never so used since thy dame bound thy head. Work upon me?

FLOWERDALE.

Let him come, let him come.

OLIVER.

Zirrah, zirrah, if it were not vor shame, chee would a given thee zutch a whisterp.o.o.p under the ear, chee would a made thee a vanged an other at my feet: stand aside, let me loose, cham all of a vlaming fire-brand; Stand aside.

FLOWERDALE.

Well, I forbear you for your friend's sake.

OLIVER.

A vig for all my vrens! doest thou tell me of my vrens?

LANCELOT.

No more, good master Oliver; no more, Sir Arthur. And, maiden, here in the sight Of all your suitors, every man of worth, I'll tell you whom I fainest would prefer To the hard bargain of your marriage bed.-- Shall I be plain among you, gentlemen?

ARTHUR.

Aye, sir, tis best.

LANCELOT.

Then, sir, first to you:-- I do confess you a most gallant knight, A worthy soldier, and an honest man: But honesty maintains not a french-hood, Goes very seldom in a chain of gold, Keeps a small train of servants: hath few friends.-- And for this wild oats here, young Flowerdale, I will not judge: G.o.d can work miracles, But he were better make a hundred new, Then thee a thrifty and an honest one.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

Believe me, he hath bit you there, he hath touched you to the quick, that hath he.

FLOWERDALE.

Woodc.o.c.k a my side! why, master Weatherc.o.c.k, you know I am honest, however trifles--

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

Now, by my troth, I know no otherwise.

O your old mother was a dame indeed: Heaven hath her soul, and my wives too, I trust: And your good father, honest gentleman, He is gone a Journey, as I hear, far hence.

FLOWERDALE.

Aye, G.o.d be praised, he is far enough.

He is gone a pilgrimage to Paradice, And left me to cut a caper against care.

Lucy, look on me that am as light as air.

LUCY.

Yfaith, I like not shadows, bubbles, breath I hate a light a love, as I hate death.

LANCELOT.