FATHER.
By my troth, would I were your worship's man.
FLOWERDALE.
What, wouldst thou serve?
FATHER.
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.
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