Aye, sir, I do understand you, but my young mistress might
be better provided in matching with my fellow Daffodil.
LANCELOT.
No more; Daffodil is a knave:
That Daffodil is a most notorious knave.
[Exit Artichoke.]
[Enter Weathercock.]
Master Weathercock, you come in happy time. The
desperate Flowerdale hath writ a challenge: And who think
you must answer it, but the Devonshire man, my son Oliver?
WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, I am sorry for it, good Sir Lancelot,
But if you will be ruled by me, we'll stay the fury.
LANCELOT.
As how, I pray?
WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, I'll tell you: by promising young Flowerdale the
red lipped Lucy.
LANCELOT.
I'll rather follow her unto her grave.
WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, Sir Lancelot, I would have thought so too, but you
and I have been deceived in him: come read this will, or
deed, or what you call it, I know not. Come, come, your
spectacles I pray.
LANCELOT.
Nay, I thank God, I see very well.
WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, bless your eyes, mine hath been dim almost this
thirty years.
LANCELOT.
Ha, what is this? what is this?
WEATHERCOCK.
Nay, there is true love, indeed:
He gave it to me but this very morn,
And bid me keep it unseen from any one.
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