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ARTHUR.

Married to Flowerdale! tis impossible.

OLIVER.

Married, man, che hope thou doest but jest,

To make an a volowten merriment of it.

DAFFODIL.

O, tis too true. Here comes his Uncle.

[Enter Flowerdale, Sheriff, Officers.]

UNCLE.

God morrow, Sir Arthur, good morrow, master Oliver.

OLIVER.

God and good morn, Master Flowerdale. I pray you tellen us,

Is your scoundrel kinsman married?

UNCLE.

Master Oliver, call him what you will, but he is married to Sir Lancelot's daughter here.

ARTHUR.

Unto her?

OLIVER.

Aye, ha the old yellow zarved me thick trick?

Why, man, he was a promise, chil chud a had her.

Is a zitch a vox? chil look to his water, che vor him.

UNCLE.

The music plays, they are coming from the Church.

Sheriff, do your Office: fellows, stand stoutly to it.

[Enter all to the Wedding.]

OLIVER.

God give you joy, as the old zaid Proverb is, and some zorrow among. You met us well, did you not?

LANCELOT.

Nay, be not angry, sir, the fault is in me. I have done all the wrong, kept him from coming to the field to you, as I might, sir, for I am a Justice, and sworn to keep the peace.

WEATHERCOCK.

Aye, marry, is he, sir, a very Justice, and sworn to keep the peace: you must not disturb the wedding.

LANCELOT.

Nay, never frown nor storm, sir; if you do,

I'll have an order taken for you.

OLIVER.

Well, well, chill be quiet.

WEATHERCOCK.

Master Flowerdale! Sir Lancelot, look you who here is.

Master Flowerdale.

LANCELOT.

Master Flowerdale, welcome with all my heart.

FLOWERDALE.

Uncle, this is she, yfaith: master under-sheriff,

Arrest me? at whose suit? draw, Kit.

UNCLE.

At my suit, sir.

LANCELOT.

Why, what's the matter, Master Flowerdale?

UNCLE.

This is the matter, sir: this unthrift here hath cozened you, and hath had of me, in several sums, three thousand pound.

FLOWERDALE.

Why, Uncle, Uncle.

UNCLE.

Cousin, cousin, you have uncled me, and if you be not staid, you'll prove a cozener unto all who know you.

LANCELOT.

Why, sir, suppose he be to you in debt

Ten thousand pound, his state to me appears,

To be at least three thousand a year.

UNCLE.

O sir, I was too late informed of that plot,

How that he went about to cozen you:

And formed a will, and sent it

To your good friend here, Master Weathercock,

In which was nothing true, but brags and lies.

LANCELOT.

Ha, hath he not such Lordships, lands, and ships?

UNCLE.

Not worth a groat, not worth a halfpenny, he.

LANCELOT.

I pray, tell us true, be plain, young Flowerdale?

FLOWERDALE.

My uncle here's mad, and disposed to do my wrong, but here's my man, an honest fellow, by the lord, and of good credit, knows all is true.

FATHER.

Not I, sir.

I am too old to lie, I rather know

You forged a will, where every line you writ,

You studied where to coat your lands might lie.

WEATHERCOCK.

And I prithee, where be they, honest friend?

FATHER.

Yfaith, no where, sir, for he hath none at all.

WEATHERCOCK.

Benedicite, we are o'er wretched, I believe.

LANCELOT.

I am cozened, and my hopefulst child undone.

FLOWERDALE.

You are not cozened, nor is she undone. They slander me, by this light they slander me: Look you, my uncle here's an usurer, and would undo me, but I'll stand in law; do you but bail me, you shall do no more: you, brother Civet, and Master Weathercock, do but bail me, and let me have my marriage money paid me, and we'll ride down, and there your own eyes shall see, how my poor tenants there will welcome me. You shall but bail me, you shall do no more, and, you greedy gnat, their bail will serve.

UNCLE.

Aye, sir, I'll ask no better bail.

LANCELOT.

No, sir, you shall not take my bail, nor his,

Nor my son Civet's; I'll not deal with him:

Let's Uncle make false dice with his false bones,

I will not have to do with him: mocked, gulled, & wronged!

Come, girl, though it be late, it falls out well,

Thou shalt not live with him in beggar's hell.

LUCY.

He is my husband, & high heaven doth know,

With what unwillingness I went to Church.