[Enter Father.]
LUCY.
O here, God, so young an armine.
FLOWERDALE.
Armine, sweet-heart? I know not what you mean by
that, but I am almost a beggar.
LUCY.
Are you not a married man? vere bin your wife? Here
is all I have: take dis.
FLOWERDALE.
What, gold, young Frau? this is brave.
FATHER.
--If he have any grace, he'll now repent.
LUCY.
Why speak you not? were be your vife?
FLOWERDALE.
Dead, dead, she's dead; tis she hath undone me:
spent me all I had, and kept rascals under mine
nose to brave me.
LUCY.
Did you use her vell?
FLOWERDALE.
Use her? there's never a gentle-woman in England
could be better used than I did her. I could but
coach her; her diet stood me in forty pound a month,
but she is dead and in her grave my care are buried.
LUCY.
Indeed, dat vas not scone.
FATHER.
--He is turned more devil than he was before.
FLOWERDALE.
Thou doest belong to Master Civet here, doest thou not?
LUCY.
Yes me do.
FLOWERDALE.
Why, there's it: there's not a handful of plate but
belongs to me, God's my judge: if I had but such a wench
as thou art, there's never a man in England would make
more of her, than I would do, so she had any stock.
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