hope to God 'tis fhe, nay I know 'tis fhe now, for fhe treads her Shoe a little awry.

Lane. Where is this Inn? We are past it, Daffidil.

Duf. The good Sign is here, Sir, but the black Gate is before.

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

Duf. No pieces, Sir.

Civ. Why then the whole,

I pray, Sir, what may yonder Gentlewomen be?

Daf. They may be Ladies, Sir, if the Deftinies and Mortality wor.

Civ. What's her Name, Sir?

Daf Mistress Frances Spurcock, Sir Lancelot Spurcock's Daughter.

Civ. Is the a Maid, Sir?

Daf. You may ask Pluto, and Dame Proferpine that : I would be loth to be ridled, Sir.

Civ. Is he married I mean, Sir?

Daf. The Fates know not yet what Shoe-maker shall make her Wedding Shoes.

Civ. I pray where Ian you, Sir? I would be very glad to beftow the Wine of that Gentlewoman.

Daf. At the George, Sir.

Civ. God fave you, Sir.

Daf. I pray your Name, Sir?"

Civ. My Name is Mafter Civet, Sir.

Daf. A fweet Name, God be with you, good Mafter

Civet.

[Exit Civet. Lanc. A, have we fpy'd you ftout St. George? For all your Dragon, you had beft fell's good Wine, That needs no Ivy-bufh: well, we'll not fit by it,

As

you do on your Horfe, this Room shall ferve: Drawer, let me have Sack for us Old Men ;

For thefe Girls and Knaves fmall Wines are beft.
A Pint of Sack, no more.

Draw. A Quart of Sack in the three Tuns.
Lanc. A Pint, draw but a Pint. Daffidil,

Call for Wine to make your felves drink.

Fran. And a Cup of fmall Beer, and a Cake, good Daffidil.

Enter

Enter young Flowerdale.

Flow. How now, fie, fit in the open Room, now good Sir Lancelot, and my kind Friend, worshipful Mafter Weathercock. What at your Pint? a Quart for fhame.

Lanc. Nay Royfter, by your leave we will away. Flow. Come, give's fome Mufick, we'll go Dance, Be gone, Sir Lancelot, what, and fair day too?

Lanc. 'Twere foully done, to dance within the Fair. Flow. Nay if you fay fo, faireft of all Fairs, then I'll not dance, a Pox upon my Taylor, he hath fpoil'd me a Peach-colour Sattin Suit, cut upon Cloth of Silver, but if ever the Rascal ferve me fuch another Trick, I'll give him leave, i'faith, to put me in the Calender of Fools, and you, and you, Sir Lancelot; and Mafter Weathercock, my Goldfmith too on t'other fide, I befpoke thee, Luce, a Carkenet of Gold, and thought thou should't a had it for a Fairing, and the Rogue puts me in Rerages for Orient Pearl but thou shalt have it by Sunday Night, Wench. Enter the Drawer,

Draw. Sir, here is one that hath fent you a Pottle of Rhenifh Wine, brewed with Rofe-Water.

Flow. To me ?

Draw. No, Sir, to the Knight; and defires his more Ac quaintance.

Lanc. To me? what's he that proves so kind?

Daf. I have a trick to know his Name, Sir, he hath a Month's Mind here to Mistress Frances, his Name is Mafter Civet.

Lanc. Call him in, Daffidil.

Flow. O, I know him, Sir, he is a Fool, but reasonable rich, his Father was one of thefe Leafe-mongers, thefe Cornmongers, thefe Mony-mongers, but he never had the Wit to be a Whore-monger.

Enter Mafter Civet.

Lanc. I promife you, Sir, you are at too much charge. Civ. The charge is fmall charge, Sir, I thank God my Father left me wherewithal, if it please you, Sir, I have a great Mind to this Gentlewoman here, in the way of Marriage.

Lanc. I thank you, Sir: please you to come to LewSome, to my poor Houfe, you fhall be kindly welcome: I

knew

knew your Father, he was a wary Husband. To pay here, Drawer?

Draw. All is paid, Sir; this Gentleman hath paid all.
Lanc. I'faith you do us wrong,

But we shall live to make amends e'er long:
Mafter Flowerdale, is that your Man?
Flow. Yes Faith, a good old Knave.

Lanc. Nay then I think you will turn wife,

Now you take fuch a Servant :

Come, you'll ride with us to Lewfome, let's away, 'Tis fcarce two Hours to the end of Day.

[Exeunt.

Enter Sir Arthur Greenfhood, Oliver, Lieutenant and Soldiers.

Arth. Lieutenant, lead your Soldiers to the Ships, There let them have their Coats, at their arrival They shall have pay; farewel, look to your Charge. Sol. Ay, we are now fent away, and cannot fo much as fpeak with our Friends.

Oli. No Man what ere you used a zutch a Fashion, thick you cannot take your leave of your vreens.

Arth. Fellow, no more. Lieutenant, lead them off.
Sol. Well, if I have not my Pay and my Cloaths,
I'll venture a running away, though I hang for't.
Arth. Away, Sirrah, charm your Tongue.

Oli. Bin you a Preffer, Sir?

[Exeunt Soldiers.

Arth. I am a Commander, Sir, under the King. Oli. Sfoot Man, and you be ne'er zutch a Commander, Shud a fpoke with my vreens before I chid a gone, fo fhud. Arth. Content your felf Man, my Authority will stretch to prefs fo good a Man as you.

Oli. Prefs me? I devy, prefs Scoundrels, and thy Meffels; Prefs me, chee fcorns thee i'faith: For feeft thee, here's a worshipful Knight knows, cham not to be preffed by thee.

Enter Sir Lancelot, Weathercock, young Flowerdale, old
Flowerdale, Luce and Frank.
Lanc. Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewfome, welcome by
my
Troth: What's the matter Man, why are you vext?
Oli. Why Man he would prefs me.

VOL. VI.

Lane

Lane. O fie, Sir Arthur, prefs him? He is a Man of reckoning.

Weath. Ay, that he is, Sir Arthur, he hath the Nobles, The golden Ruddocks he.

Arth. The freter for the Wars:

And were he not in favour

With your Worfhips, he should fee,
That I have Power to prefs fo good as he.
Oli. Chill stand to the Trial, fo chill.

Flow. Ay marry fhall he, prefs Cloth and Karfy,
White-Pot and drowfen Broth; tut, tut, he cannot.

Oli. Well, Sir, though you fee vlouten Cloth and Karfy; chee a zeen zutch a Karfy-Coat wear out the Town fick a zilken Jacket, as thick a one you wear.

Flow. Well fed vlitan vlattan.

Oli. A and well fed Cocknell, and Boe-Bell too: What doeft think cham aveard of thy Zilken-Coat, no fer vere thee.

Lanc. Nay, come no more, be all Lovers and Friends.
Weath. Ay, 'tis beft fo, good Mafter Oliver.
Flow. Is your name Mafter Oliver, I pray you.
Oli. What tit and be tit, and grieve you.

Flow. No, but I'd gladly know if a Man might not have a foolish Plot out of Mafter Oliver to work upon.

Oli. Work thy Plots upon me, stand afide, work thy foolish Plots upon me, chill fo ufe thee, thou wert never fo ufed fince thy Dam bound thy Head, work upon me ? Flow. Let him come, let him come.

Oli. Zyrrha, Zyrrha, if it were not for fhame, chee would a given thee zutch a whifter poop under the Ear chee would have made thee a vanged another at my Feet Stand afide, let me loofe, cham all of a vlaming Fire-brand ftand afide.

Flow. Well, I forbear you for your Friends fake.

Oli. A vig for all my vreens, do'ft thou tell me of my

Vreens ?

Lanc. No more, good Mafter Oliver, no more, Sir Arthur And Maiden, here in the fight of all your Suitors, every Ma of worth, I'll tell you whom I faineft would prefer to the hard Bargain of your Marriage Bed; fhall I be plain among you, Gentlemen?

Arth

Arth. Ay, Sir, 'tis best.

Lanc. Then, Sir, firft to you, I do confefs you à most gallant Knight, a worthy Soldier, and honeft Man: But Honefty maintains a French-hood, goes very feldom 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, God can work Miracles, but he were better make a hundred new, than thee a thrifty and an honest

one.

Weath. Believe me he hath hit you there, he hath touch'd you to the quick, that he hath.

Flow. Woodcock a my fide, why, Mafter Weather cock you know I am honeft, howfoever trifles.

Weath. Now by my troth I know no otherwife,
O, your old Mother was a Dame indeed:
Heav'n hath her Soul, and my Wife's too, I truft:
And your good Father, honeft Gentleman,
He is gone a Journey, as I hear, far hence.
Flow: Ay, God be praifed, he is far enough,
He is gone a Pilgrimage to Paradife,

And left me to cut a Caper against Care.
Luce look on me that am as light as Air.

Luce. I'faith I like not Shadows, Bubbles, Broth,
I hate a light Love, as I hate Death:

Lanc. Girl, hold thee there:

Look on this Devonshire Lad:

Fat, fair, and lovely, both in Purfe and Perfon.

Oli. Well, Sir, cham as the Lord hath made me, you koow me well ivin, cha have threefcore pack of Karfay, and Blacken Hall, and chief Credit befide, and my Fortunes may be fo good as anothers, zo it may.

Lanc. 'Tis you I love, whatsoever others fay.

Arth. Thanks, faireft.

Flow. What, would'ft thou have me quarrel with him? Fath. Do but fay he thall hear from you.

Lanc. Yet, Gentlemen, howfoever I prefer this Devonfire Suitor, I'll enforce no love, my Daughter fhall have her liberty to chufe whom the likes beft.

In your Love-fuit proceed:

Not all of you, but only one muft fpeed.

Weath. You have faid well: Indeed right well

S 2

Enter