Nay, master Oliver, I'll not fight with you.
Alas, sir, you know it was not my doings,
It was only a plot to get Sir Lancelot's daughter:
By God, I never meant you harm.
OLIVER.
And whore is the Gentle-woman thy wife, Mezell?
Whore is shee, Zirrah, ha?
FLOWERDALE.
By my troth, Master Oliver, sick, very sick; and God
is my judge, I know not what means to make for her,
good Gentle-woman.
OLIVER.
Tell me true, is she sick? tell me true, itch vise thee.
FLOWERDALE.
Yes, faith, I tell you true: Master Oliver, if you would
do me the small kindness, but to lend me forty shillings:
so God help me, I will pay you so soon as my ability
shall make me able, as I am a gentleman.
OLIVER.
Well, thou zaist thy wife is zick: hold, there's vorty
shillings; give it to thy wife. Look thou give it her, or I
shall zo veze thee, thou wert not so vezed this zeven
year; look to it.
ARTHUR.
Yfaith, Master Oliver, it is in vain
To give to him that never thinks of her.
OLIVER.
Well, would che could yvind it.
FLOWERDALE.
I tell you true, Sir Arthur, as I am a gentleman.
OLIVER.
Well fare you well, zirrah: come, Sir Arthur.
[Exit both.]
FLOWERDALE.
By the Lord, this is excellent.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88