No, Master Oliver; tis Master Flowerdale, he did but
jest with me.
OLIVER.
How, Flowerdale, that scoundrel? sirrah, you meeten us
well: vang thee that.
FLOWERDALE.
Well, sir, I'll not meddle with you, because I have a
charge.
DELIA.
Here, brother Flowerdale, I'll lend you this same money.
FLOWERDALE.
I thank you, sister.
OLIVER.
I wad you were ysplit, and you let the mezell have a
penny. But since you cannot keep it, chil keep it myself.
ARTHUR.
Tis pity to relieve him in this sort,
Who makes a triumphant life his daily sport.
DELIA.
Brother, you see how all men censure you,
Farewell, and I pray God amend your life.
OLIVER.
Come, chill bring you along, and you safe enough from
twenty such scoundrels as thick a one is. Farewell and
be hanged, zirrah, as I think so thou wilt be shortly.
Come, Sir Arthur.
[Exit all but Flowerdale.]
FLOWERDALE.
A plague go with you for a karsie rascal.
This Devonshire man, I think, is made all of pork,
His hands made only for to heave up packs:
His heart as fat and big as his face;
As differing far from all brave gallant minds
As I to serve the hogs, and drink with hinds,
As I am very near now. Well, what remedy?
When money, means, and friends do grow so small,
Then farewell life, and there's an end of all.
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