What's the matter, man? why are you vexed?
OLIVER.
Why, man, he would press me.
LANCELOT.
O fie, Sir Arthur, press him? he is a man of reckoning.
WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, that he is, Sir Arthur, he hath the nobles,
The golden ruddocks he.
ARTHUR.
The fitter for the wars: and were he not
In favour with your worships, he should see,
That I have power to press so good as he.
OLIVER.
Chill stand to the trial, so chill.
FLOWERDALE.
Aye, marry, shall he, press-cloth and karsie,
white pot and drowsen broth: tut, tut, he cannot.
OLIVER.
Well, sir, tho you see vlouten cloth and karsie,
chee a zeen zutch a karsie coat wear out the town
sick a zilken jacket, as thick a one you wear.
FLOWERDALE.
Well said, vlitan vlattan.
OLIVER.
Aye, and well said, cocknell, and bo-bell too: what,
doest think cham a veard of thy zilken coat? nefer
vere thee.
LANCELOT.
Nay, come, no more, be all lovers and friends.
WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, tis best so, good master Oliver.
FLOWERDALE.
Is your name master Oliver, I pray you?
OLIVER.
What tit and be tit, and grieve you.
FLOWERDALE.
No, but I'd gladly know if a man might not have
a foolish plot out of master Oliver to work upon.
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