WEATHERCOCK.
The more fool she.
LANCELOT.
What, is it folly to love Chastity?
WEATHERCOCK.
No, mistake me not, Sir Lancelot,
But tis an old proverb, and you know it well,
That women dying maids lead apes in hell.
LANCELOT.
That's a foolish proverb, and a false.
WEATHERCOCK.
By the mass 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.
LANCELOT.
No, of my knighthood, not a suitor yet:
Alas, God help her, silly girl, a fool, a very fool:
But there's the other black-brows, a shrewd girlie,
She hath wit at will, and suitors two or three:
Sir Arthur Greenshield one, a gallant knight,
A valiant soldier, but his power but poor.
Then there's young Oliver, the Devonshire lad,
A wary fellow, marry, full of wit,
And rich by the rood: but there's a third all air,
Light as a feather, changing as the wind:
Young Flowerdale.
WEATHERCOCK.
O he, sir, he's a desperate dick indeed.
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