FATHER.
For howsoever the Devonshire man is, my master's mind
is bloody: that's a round o,
And therefore, sir, entreat is but vain:
LANCELOT.
I have no such thing to him, I tell thee once again.
FATHER.
I will then so signify to him.
[Exit Father.]
LANCELOT.
Aye, sirrah, I see this matter is hotly carried,
But I'll labour to dissuade him from it.--
[Enter Flowerdale.]
Good morrow, Master Flowerdale.
FLOWERDALE.
Good morrow, good Sir Lancelot; good morrow,
Master Weathercock. By my troth, gentlemen, I have
been a reading over Nick Matchivill; I find him good
to be known, not to be followed: a pestilent humane
fellow. I have made certain annotations of him such
as they be.--And how ist Sir Lancelot? ha? how ist?
A mad world, men cannot live quiet in it.
LANCELOT.
Master Flowerdale, I do understand there is
Some jar between the Devonshire man and you.
FATHER.
They, sir? they are good friends as can be.
FLOWERDALE.
Who? Master Oliver and I? as good friends as can be.
LANCELOT.
It is a kind of safety in you to deny it, and a generous
silence, which too few are indued withal: But, sir, such
a thing I hear, and I could wish it otherwise.
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