FLOWERDALE.
By my truth, Uncle, you must needs lend me ten pound.
UNCLE.
Give my cousin some small beer here.
FLOWERDALE.
Nay, look you, you turn it to a jest now: by this light, I
should ride to Croyden fair, to meet Sir Lancelot Spurcock.
I should have his daughter Lucy, and for scurvy ten pound,
a man shall lose nine hundred three-score and odd pounds,
and a daily friend beside. By this hand, Uncle, tis true.
UNCLE.
Why, any thing is true for ought I know.
FLOWERDALE.
To see now! why, you shall have my bond, Uncle, or Tom
White's, James Brock's, or Nick Hall's: as good rapier and
dagger men, as any be in England. Let's be damned if we do
not pay you: the worst of us all will not damn ourselves for
ten pound. A pox of ten pound!
UNCLE.
Cousin, this is not the first time I have believed you.
FLOWERDALE.
Why, trust me now, you know not what may fall. If one
thing were but true, I would not greatly care, I should not
need ten pound, but when a man cannot be believed,--there's
it.
UNCLE.
Why, what is it, cousin?
FLOWERDALE.
Marry, this, Uncle: can you tell me if the Katern-hue be
come home or no?
UNCLE.
Aye, marry, ist.
FLOWERDALE.
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