LANCELOT.
Tomorrow be it then: let's meet at the king's head in
fish street.
OLIVER.
No, fie, man, no, let's meet at the Rose at Temple-Bar,
That will be nearer your counsellor and mine.
LANCELOT.
At the Rose be it then, the hour nine:
He that comes last forfeits a pint of wine.
OLIVER.
A pint is no payment, let it be a whole quart or nothing.
[Enter Artichoke.]
ARTICHOKE.
Master, here is a man would speak with Master Oliver: he
comes from young Master Flowerdale.
OLIVER.
Why, chill speak with him, chill speak with him.
LANCELOT.
Nay, son Oliver, I'll surely see what young Flowerdale hath
sent to you. I pray God it be no quarrel.
OLIVER.
Why, man, if he quarrel with me, chill give him, his hands full.
[Enter old Flowerdale.]
FATHER.
God save you, good Sir Lancelot.
LANCELOT.
Welcome, honest friend.
FATHER.
To you and yours my master wisheth health,
But unto you, sir, this, and this he sends:
There is the length, sir, of his rapier,
And in that paper shall you know his mind.
OLIVER.
Here, chill meet him, my vrend, chill meet him.
LANCELOT.
Meet him! you shall not meet the ruffian, fie.
OLIVER.
And I do not meet him, chill give you leave to call me cut;
where ist, sirrah, where ist? where ist?
FATHER.
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