LANCELOT.
Out, hypocrite. I charge thee, trust him not.
LUCY.
Not trust him? by the hopes of after bliss,
I know no sorrow can be compared to his.
LANCELOT.
Well, since thou wert ordained to beggary,
Follow thy fortune; I defy thee, I.
OLIVER.
Ywood che were so well ydoussed as was ever
white cloth in a tocking mill, and che ha not made
me weep.
FATHER.
If he hath any grace, he'll now repent.
ARTHUR.
It moves my heart.
WEATHERCOCK.
By my troth, I must weep, I can not choose.
UNCLE.
None but a beast would such a maid misuse.
FLOWERDALE.
Content thy self, I hope to win his favour,
And to redeem my reputation lost:
And, gentlemen, believe me, I beseech you:
I hope your eyes shall behold such change,
As shall deceive your expectation.
OLIVER.
I would che were ysplit now, but che believe him.
LANCELOT.
How, believe him?
WEATHERCOCK.
By the mackins, I do.
LANCELOT.
What, do you think that ere he will have grace?
WEATHERCOCK.
By my faith, it will go hard.
OLIVER.
Well, che vor ye, he is changed: and Master
Flowerdale, in hope you been so, hold, there's
vorty pound toward your zetting up: what, be not
ashamed; vang it, man, vang it: be a good husband,
loven your wife: and you shall not want for vorty
more, I che vor thee.
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