Very willingly, sir.

FLOWERDALE.

Why, I'll tell thee what thou shalt do: thou saith thou hast twenty pound: go into Burchin Lane, put thy self into clothes; thou shalt ride with me to Croyden fair.

FATHER.

I thank you, sir; I will attend you.

FLOWERDALE.

Well, Uncle, you will not fail me an hour hence?

UNCLE.

I will not, cousin.

FLOWERDALE.

What's thy name? Kester?

FATHER.

Aye, sir.

FLOWERDALE.

Well, provide thy self: Uncle, farewell till anon.

[Exit Flowerdale.]

UNCLE.

Brother, how do you like your son?

FATHER.

Yfaith, brother, like a mad unbridled colt, Or as a Hawk, that never stooped to lure: The one must be tamed with an iron bit, The other must be watched, or still she is wild.

Such is my son; awhile let him be so: For counsel still is folly's deadly foe.

I'll serve his youth, for youth must have his course, For being restrained, it makes him ten times worse; His pride, his riot, all that may be named, Time may recall, and all his madness tamed.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. The high street in Croydon. An inn appearing, with an open drinking booth before it.

[Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weatherc.o.c.k, Daffodil, Artichoke, Lucy, and Frances.]

LANCELOT.

Sirrah Artichoke, get you home before, And as you proved yourself a calf in buying, Drive home your fellow calves that you have bought.

ARTICHOKE.

Yes, forsooth; shall not my fellow Daffodil go along with me?

LANCELOT.

No, sir, no; I must have one to wait on me.

ARTICHOKE.

Daffodil, farewell, good fellow Daffodil.

You may see, mistress, I am set up by the halves; Instead of waiting on you, I am sent to drive home calves.

LANCELOT.

Yfaith, Frances, I must turn away this Daffodil, He's grown a very foolish saucy fellow.

FRANCES.

Indeed law, father, he was so since I had him: Before he was wise enough for a foolish serving-man.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

But what say you to me, Sir Lancelot?

LANCELOT.

O, about my daughters? well, I will go forward.

Here's two of them, G.o.d save them: but the third, O she's a stranger in her course of life.

She hath refused you, Master Weatherc.o.c.k.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

Aye, by the Rood, Sir Lancelot, that she hath, But had she tried me, She should a found a man of me indeed.

LANCELOT.

Nay be not angry, sir, at her denial.

She hath refused seven of the worshipfulest And worthiest housekeepers this day in Kent: Indeed she will not marry, I suppose.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

The more fool she.

LANCELOT.

What, is it folly to love Chast.i.ty?

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

No, mistake me not, Sir Lancelot, But tis an old proverb, and you know it well, That women dying maids lead apes in h.e.l.l.

LANCELOT.

That's a foolish proverb, and a false.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

By the ma.s.s I think it be, and therefore let it go: But who shall marry with mistress Frances?

FRANCES.

By my troth, they are talking of marrying me, sister.

LUCY.

Peace, let them talk; Fools may have leave to prattle as they walk.

DAFFODIL.

Sentesses still, sweet mistress; You have a wit, and it were your Alliblaster.

LUCY.

Yfaith, and thy tongue trips trenchmore.