The Complete Works of William Shakespeare - Israel Gollancz William Shakespeare [1811]
[Enter Sir Arthur, and M. Oliver.]
God save you, Sir Arthur: God save you, Master Oliver.
OLIVER.
Byn you there, zirrah? come, will you ytaken yourself to your tools, Coystrell?
FLOWERDALE.
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.
Five golden angels compassed in an hour!
If this trade hold, I'll never seek a new.
Welcome, sweet gold: and beggary, adieu.
[Enter Uncle and Father.]
UNCLE.
See, Kester, if you can find the house.
FLOWERDALE.
Who's here? my Uncle, and my man Kester? By the mass, tis they. How do you, Uncle, how dost thou, Kester? By my troth, Uncle, you must needs lend me some money: the poor gentlewoman my wife, so God help me, is very sick. I was robbed of the hundred angels you gave me; they are gone.
UNCLE.
Aye, they are gone indeed; come, Kester, away.
FLOWERDALE.
Nay, Uncle, do you hear? good Uncle.
UNCLE.
Out, hypocrite, I will not hear thee speak;
Come, leave him, Kester.
FLOWERDALE.
Kester, honest Kester.
FATHER.
Sir, I have nought to say to you. Open the door,
Tanikin: thou hadst best lock it fast, for there's a
false knave without.
FLOWERDALE.
You are an old lying Rascal, so you are.
[Exit both.]
[Enter Lucy.]
LUCY.
Vat is de matter? Vat be you, yonker?
FLOWERDALE.
By this light, a Dutch Frau: they say they are called kind. By this light, I'll try her.
LUCY.
Vat bin you, yonker? why do you not speak?
FLOWERDALE.
By my troth, sweet heart, a poor gentleman that would desire of you, if it stand with your liking, the bounty of your purse.
[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.
[They call within: O, why, Tanikin.]
LUCY.
Stay, one doth call; I shall come by and by again.
FLOWERDALE.
By this hand, this Dutch wench