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Flow. Why truft me now, you know not what may fall; if one thing were but true, I would not greatly care, I fhould not need ten Pound, but when a Man cannot be believ'd, there's it.

Unc. Why what is it, Coufin?

Flow. Marry this, Uncle, can you tell me if the Katern Hue be come home or no?

Unc. Ay marry is't.

Flow. By Gad I thank you for that News. What, is't in the Pool can you tell?

Unc. It is; what of that?

Flow. What? why then I have fix Pieces of Velvet fent me, I'll give you a Piece, Uncle: For thus faid the Letter, a Piece of Afh-colour, a three-pil'd black, a colour'd deroy, a Crimson, a fad Green, and a Purple: Yes i'faith. Unc. From whom fhould you receive this?

Flow. From who? why from my Father; with commen dations to you, Uncle, and thus he writes; I know, faith he, thou haft much troubled thy kind Uncle, whom God willing at my return I will fee amply fatisfied; amply, I remember was the very word; fo God help me.


Unc. Have you the Letter here?

Flow. Yes, I have the Letter here, here is the Letter: No, yes, no, let me fee, what Breeches wore I on Saturday: Let me fee, a Tuesday, my Calamanka, a Wednesday, Peach-colour Sattin, a Thursday my Vellure, a Friday my Calamanka again, a Saturday, let me fee, a Saturday, for in thofe Breeches I wore a Saturday is the Letter: 0 my riding Breeches, Uncle, thofe that you thought had been Velvet, in thofe very Breeches is the Letter.

Unc. When fhould it be dated?

Flow. Marry Didiffimo terfios Septembris, no, no, tridissi. mo tertio Octobris, Ay Octobris, so it is.

Unc. Dicditimo terfios Octobris: And here receive I a Letter that your Father died in June: How fay you, Kefter?

Fath. Yes truly, Sir, your Father is dead, thef: Hands of mine holp to wind him.

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Flow. Dead?

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Flow. 'Sblood, how fhould my Father come dead?
Fath. I'faith Sir, according to the old Proverb,
The Child was Born, and cryed, became Man,
After fell Sick, and Died.

Unc. Nay, Coufin, do not take it fo heavily..
Flow. Nay, I cannot weep you Extempory, marry fome
two or three Days hence I fhall weep without any flintance.
But I hope he died in good Memory.

Fath. Very well, Sir, and fet down every thing in good order, and the Katherine and Hue you talkt of, I came over in; and I faw all the Bills of Lading, and the Velvet that you talk of, there is no fuch aboard.

Flow. By Gad, I affure you, then there's Knavery abroad.

Fath. I'll be fworn of that: there's Knavery abroad, altho' there was never a piece of Velvet in Venice. Flow. I hope he died in good Eftate.

Fath. To the report of the World he did, and made his Will, of which I am an unworthy Bearer.

Flow. His Will, have you his Will?

Fath. Yes, Sir, and in the prefence of your Uncle I was willed to deliver it.

Unc. I hope, Coufin, now God hath bleffed you with Wealth, you will not be unmindful of me.

Flow. I'll do reafon, Uncle; yet i'faith I take the denial of this ten Pound very hardly.

Unc. Nay, I deny'd you not.

Flow. By Gad you deny'd me directly.
Unc. I'll be judg'd by this good Fellow.
Fath. Not directly, Sir.

Flow. Why, he faid he would lend me none, and that
had wont to be a direct denial, if the old Phrafe hold: Well,
Uncle, come we'll fall to the Legacies, in the Name of
God, Amen.

Item, I bequeath to my Brother Flowerdale, three Hundred Pounds, to pay fuch trivial Debts as I owe in Lon


Item, To my Son Mat. Flowerdale, I bequeath two Bail of falfe Dice, videlicet, high Men and low Men, Fullomes, ftop Cater Traies, and other Bones of Function.

Flow. 'Sblood, what doth he mean by this?

Unc. Pro

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Unc. Proceed, Coufin.

Flow. Thefe Precepts I leave him, let him borrow of his Oath, for of his Word no body will truft him. Let him by no means marry an honeft Woman, for the other will keep her felf. Let him fteal as much as he can, that a guilty Confcience may bring him to his deftinate Repentance: I think he means Hanging. And this were his laft Will and Teftament, the Devil ftood laughing at his Beds feet while he made it. 'Sbloud, what doth he think to fop off his Pofterity with Paradoxes?

Fath. This he made, Sir, with his own Hands.

Flow. Ay, well, nay come, good Uncle, let me have this Ten Pound, imagine you have loft it, or robb'd of it, or mifreckon'd your felf fo much: any way to make it come cafily off, good Uncle.

Une. Not a penny.

Fath. I'faith lend it him, Sir, I my felf have an Estate in the City worth twenty Pound, all that I'll ingage for him, he faith it concerns him in a Marriage.

Flow. Ay marry doth it, this is a Fellow of fore Senfe, this: Come, good Uncle.

Unc. Will you give your Word for it, Kefter?

Fath. I will, Sir, willingly.

Unc. Well, Coufin, come to me an Hour hence, you fhall have it ready.

Flow. Shall I not fail?

Unc. You fhall not, come or fend.

Flow. Nay I'll come my felf.

Fath. By my troth, would I were your Worship's Man Flow. What would't thou ferve?

Fath. Very willingly, Sir.

Flow. Why I'll tell thee what thou shalt do, thou fait thou hast twenty Pound, go into Birchin-Lane, put thy felf into Cloaths, thou fhalt ride with me to Croydon Fair.

Fath. I thank you, Sir, I will attend you.

Flow. Well, Uncle, you will not fail me an Hour hence, Unc. I will not, Coufin.

Flow. What's thy name, Kefter?

Fath. Ay, Sir.


Flow. Well, provide thy felf: Uncle, farewel 'till anon

Unc. Brother, how do you like your

[Exit Flowerdale.


Fath. I'faith Brother, like a mad unbridled Colt,
Or as a Hawk, that never ftoop'd to lure:
The one must be tamed with an Iron bit,
The other must be watch'd, or fill the is wild,
Such is my Son, a while let him be fo;
For Counsel ftill is Folly's deadly Foe.

I'll ferve his Youth, for Youth must have his course,
For being reftrain'd, it makes him ten times worse:
His Pride, his Riot, all that may be nam'd,
Time may recal, and all his Madness tam'd.

[Exeunt. Enter Sir Lancelot, Mafter Weathercock, Daffidil, Artichoak, Luce, and Frank.

Lanc. Sirrab, Arthichoak, get you home before; And as you prov'd your felf a Calf in buying, Drive home your fellow Calves that you have bought. Art. Yes, forfooth, fhall not my Fellow Daffidil go along with me?

Lanc. No, Sir, no, I must have one to wait on me.
Art. Daffidil, farewel, good fellow Daffidil.

You may fee, Miftrefs, I am fet up by the halves,

Inftead of waiting on you, I am fent to dive home Calves.
Lanc. I'faith Frank, I must turn away this Daffidil,
He's grown a very foolish fawcy Fellow.

Fran. Indeed-law, Father, he was fo fince I had him: Before he was wife enough for a Foolish Serving-Man. Weath. But what fay you to me, Sir Lancelot?

Lanc. O, about my Daughters, well, I will go forward, Here's two of them, God fave them; but the third, he's a Stranger in her courfe of Life,

She hath refufed you, Mafter Weathercock.

Weath. Ay by the Rood, Sir Lancelot, that he hath, but had the try'dme, the fhould have found a Man of me indeed. Lanc. Nay be not angry, Sir, at her denial, he hath refus'd feven of the worshipfull'ft, and worthieft Houfekeepers this day in Kent: Indeed the will not marry, I fuppofe.

Weath. The more Fool fhe.
Lane. What, is it Folly to love Chaftity?


Weath. No, mistake me not, Sir Lancelot,
But 'tis an old Proverb, and you know it well,
That Women dying Maids, lead Apes in Hell.
Lanc. That's a foolish Proverb and a falfe.

Weath. By the Mafs, I think it be, and therefore let it go: But who fhall marry with Mistress Frances?

Fran. By my troth they are talking of marrying me, Sifter.

Luce. Peace, let them talk:

Fools may have leave to prattle as they walk.
Daff. Sentences ftill, fweet Mistress,

You have a Wit, and it were your Alablafter.
Luce. I'faith and thy Tongue trips trench more.
Lanc. No of my Knighthood, not a Suiter yet;
Alas, God help her, filly Girl, a Fool, a very Fool;
But there's the other black Brows a farewd Girl,
She hath Wit at Will, and Suiters two or three;
Sir Arthur Greenfield one, a gallant Knight,
A valiant Soldier, but his Power but poor.
Then there's young Oliver, the Devonshire Lad,
A wary Fellow, marry full of Wit,

And rich by the Rood, but there's a third all Air,
Light as a Feather, changing as the Wind:
Young Flowerdale.

Weath. O he, Sir, he's a defperate Dick indeed:
Bar him your House.

Lanc. Fie, not fo, he's of good Parentage.

Weath. By my fay and fo he is, and a proper Man.
Lanc. Ay, proper enough, had he good Qualities.
Weath. Ay marry, there's the point, Sir Lancelot :
For there's an old faying,

Be he rich, or be he poor,
Be he high, or be he low:

Be he born in Barn or Hall,

'Tis Manners makes the Man and all.

Lane. You are in the right, Mafter Weathercock.
Enter Monfieur Civet.

Civ. Soul, I think I am croffed fure, or witcht with an Owl, I have haunted them, Inn after Inn, Booth after Booth, yet cannot find them; ha, yonder they are, that's fhe, I


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