UNCLE.
O sir, I was too late informed of that plot,
How that he went about to cozen you:
And formed a will, and sent it
To your good friend here, Master Weathercock,
In which was nothing true, but brags and lies.
LANCELOT.
Ha, hath he not such Lordships, lands, and ships?
UNCLE.
Not worth a groat, not worth a halfpenny, he.
LANCELOT.
I pray, tell us true, be plain, young Flowerdale?
FLOWERDALE.
My uncle here's mad, and disposed to do my wrong,
but here's my man, an honest fellow, by the lord, and
of good credit, knows all is true.
FATHER.
Not I, sir.
I am too old to lie, I rather know
You forged a will, where every line you writ,
You studied where to coat your lands might lie.
WEATHERCOCK.
And I prithee, where be they, honest friend?
FATHER.
Yfaith, no where, sir, for he hath none at all.
WEATHERCOCK.
Benedicite, we are o'er wretched, I believe.
LANCELOT.
I am cozened, and my hopefulst child undone.
FLOWERDALE.
You are not cozened, nor is she undone. They
slander me, by this light they slander me: Look
you, my uncle here's an usurer, and would undo me,
but I'll stand in law; do you but bail me, you shall
do no more: you, brother Civet, and Master
Weathercock, do but bail me, and let me have my
marriage money paid me, and we'll ride down, and
there your own eyes shall see, how my poor tenants
there will welcome me.
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