OLIVER.
Work thy plots upon me! stand aside:--work thy
foolish plots upon me! chill so use thee, thou weart
never so used since thy dame bound thy head. Work
upon me?
FLOWERDALE.
Let him come, let him come.
OLIVER.
Zirrah, zirrah, if it were not vor shame, chee would a
given thee zutch a whisterpoop under the ear, chee
would a made thee a vanged an other at my feet: stand
aside, let me loose, cham all of a vlaming fire-brand;
Stand aside.
FLOWERDALE.
Well, I forbear you for your friend's sake.
OLIVER.
A vig for all my vrens! doest thou tell me of my vrens?
LANCELOT.
No more, good master Oliver; no more,
Sir Arthur. And, maiden, here in the sight
Of all your suitors, every man of worth,
I'll tell you whom I fainest would prefer
To the hard bargain of your marriage bed.--
Shall I be plain among you, gentlemen?
ARTHUR.
Aye, sir, tis best.
LANCELOT.
Then, sir, first to you:--
I do confess you a most gallant knight,
A worthy soldier, and an honest man:
But honesty maintains not a french-hood,
Goes very seldom in a chain of gold,
Keeps a small train of servants: hath few friends.--
And for this wild oats here, young Flowerdale,
I will not judge: God can work miracles,
But he were better make a hundred new,
Then thee a thrifty and an honest one.
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