The Complete Works of William Shakespeare - Israel Gollancz William Shakespeare [1792]
UNCLE.
He is a great drinker, and one that will forget himself.
FATHER.
O best of all! vice should be forgotten; let him drink on, so he drink not churches. Nay, and this be the worst, I hold it rather a happiness in him, than any iniquity. Hath he any more attendants?
UNCLE.
Brother, he is one that will borrow of any man.
FATHER.
Why, you see, so doth the sea: it borrows of all the small currents in the world, to increase himself.
UNCLE.
Aye, but the sea pales it again, and so will never your son.
FATHER.
No more would the sea neither, if it were as dry as my son.
UNCLE.
Then, brother, I see you rather like these vices in your son, than any way condemn them.
FATHER.
Nay, mistake me not, brother, for tho I slur them over now, as things slight and nothing, his crimes being in the bud, it would gall my heart, they should ever reign in him.
FLOWERDALE.
Ho! who's within? ho!
[Flowerdale knocks within.]
UNCLE.
That's your son, he is come to borrow more money.
FATHER.
For Godsake give it out I am dead; see how he'll take it. Say I have brought you news from his father. I have here drawn a formal will, as it were from my self, which I'll deliver him.
UNCLE.
Go to, brother, no more: I will.
FLOWERDALE.
[Within.] Uncle, where are you, Uncle?
UNCLE.
Let my cousin in there.
FATHER.
I am a sailor come from Venice, and my name is Christopher.
[Enter Flowerdale.]
FLOWERDALE.
By the Lord, in truth, Uncle—
UNCLE.
In truth would a served, cousin, without the Lord.
FLOWERDALE.
By your leave, Uncle, the Lord is the Lord of truth. A couple of rascals at the gate set upon me for my purse.
UNCLE.
You never come, but you bring a brawl in your mouth.
FLOWERDALE.
By my truth, Uncle, you must needs lend me ten pound.
UNCLE.
Give my cousin some small beer here.
FLOWERDALE.
Nay, look you, you turn it to a jest now: by this light, I should ride to Croyden fair, to meet Sir Lancelot Spurcock. I should have his daughter Lucy, and for scurvy ten pound, a man shall lose nine hundred three-score and odd pounds, and a daily friend beside. By this hand, Uncle, tis true.
UNCLE.
Why, any thing is true for ought I know.
FLOWERDALE.
To see now! why, you shall have my bond, Uncle, or Tom White's, James Brock's, or Nick Hall's: as good rapier and dagger men, as any be in England. Let's be damned if we do not pay you: the worst of us all will not damn ourselves for ten pound. A pox of ten pound!
UNCLE.
Cousin, this is not the first time I have believed you.
FLOWERDALE.
Why, trust me now, you know not what may fall. If one thing were but true, I would not greatly care, I should not need ten pound, but when a man cannot be believed,—there's it.
UNCLE.
Why, what is it, cousin?
FLOWERDALE.
Marry, this, Uncle: can you tell me if the Katern-hue be come home or no?
UNCLE.
Aye, marry, ist.
FLOWERDALE.
By God I thank you for that news. What, ist in the pool, can you tell?
UNCLE.
It is; what of that?
FLOWERDALE.
What? why then I have six pieces of velvet sent me; I'll give you a piece, Uncle: for thus said the letter,—a piece of Ashcolour, a three piled black, a colour de roi, a crimson, a sad green, and a purple: yes, yfaith.
UNCLE.
From whom should you receive this?
FLOWERDALE.
From who? why, from my father; with commendations to you, Uncle, and thus he writes: I know, said he, thou hast much troubled thy kind Uncle, whom God-willing at my return I will see amply satisfied. Amply, I remember was the very word, so God help me.
UNCLE.
Have you the letter here?
FLOWERDALE.
Yes, I have the letter here, here is the letter: no, yes, no;—let me see, what breeches wore I a Saturday? let me see: a Tuesday my Salamanca; a Wednesday my peach colour Satin; a Thursday my Vellour; a Friday my Salamanca again; a Saturday—let me see—a Saturday,—for in those breeches I wore a Saturday is the letter: O, my riding breeches, Uncle, those that you thought