[Exeunt Civet and Frances.]
WEATHERCOCK.
Why, how now, Sir Arthur? all a mort? Master Oliver,
how now man?
Cheerly, Sir Lancelot, and merrily say,
Who can hold that will away?
LANCELOT.
Aye, she is gone indeed, poor girl, undone.
But when they'll be self-willed, children must smart.
ARTHUR.
But, sir, that she is wronged, you are the chiefest cause,
Therefore tis reason, you redress her wrong.
WEATHERCOCK.
Indeed you must, Sir Lancelot, you must.
LANCELOT.
Must? who can compel me, Master Weathercock?
I hope I may do what I list.
WEATHERCOCK.
I grant you may, you may do what you list.
OLIVER.
Nay, but and you be well evisen, it were not good by
this vrampolness, and vrowardness, to cast away as
pretty a dowsabell, as any chould chance to see in a
Sommers day. Chil tell you what chall do. Chil go
spy up and down the town, and see if I can hear any
tale or tidings of her, and take her away from thick a
messell, vor cham ashured, he'll but bring her to the
spoil. And so var you well; we shall meet at your
son Civet's.
LANCELOT.
I thank you, sir, I take it very kindly.
ARTHUR.
To find her out, I'll spend my dearest blood:
So well I loved her, to affect her good.
Pages:
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77