The London Prodigal Part 26

I wronged him then: and toward my Master's stock, There's twenty n.o.bles for to make amends.

FLOWERDALE.

No, Kester, I have troubled thee, and wronged thee more.

What thou in love gives, I in love restore.

FRANCES.

Ha, ha, sister, there you played bo-peep with Tom. What shall I give her toward household? Sister Delia, shall I give her my fan?

DELIA.

You were best ask your husband.

FRANCES.

Shall I, Tom?

CIVET.

Aye, do, Frances; I'll buy thee a new one, with a longer handle.

FRANCES.

A russet one, Tom.

CIVET.

Aye, with russet feathers.

FRANCES.

Here, sister, there's my fan towad household, to keep you warm.

LUCY.

I thank you, sister.

WEATHERc.o.c.k.

Why this is well, and toward fair Lucy's stock, here's forty s.h.i.+llings: and forty good s.h.i.+llings more, I'll give her, marry. Come, Sir Lancelot, I must have you friends.

LANCELOT.

Not I, all this is counterfeit; He will consume it, were it a million.

FATHER.

Sir, what is your daughter's dower worth?

LANCELOT.

Had she been married to an honest man, It had been better than a thousand pound.

FATHER.

Pay it him, and I'll give you my bond, To make her jointer better worth than three.

LANCELOT.

Your bond, sir? why, what are you?

FATHER.

One whose word in London, though I say it, Will pa.s.s there for as much as yours.

LANCELOT.

Wert not thou late that unthrift's serving-man?

FATHER.

Look on me better, now my scar is off.

Ne'er muse, man, at this metamorphosis.

LANCELOT.

Master Flowerdale!

FLOWERDALE.

My father! O, I shame to look on him.

Pardon, dear father, the follies that are past.

FATHER.

Son, son, I do, and joy at this thy change, And applaud thy fortune in this virtuous maid, Whom heaven hath sent to thee to save thy soul

LUCY.

This addeth joy to joy, high heaven be praised.

FATHER.

I caused that rumour to be spread myself, Because I'd see the humours of my son, Which to relate the circ.u.mstance is needless: And, sirrah, see you run no more into That same disease: For he that's once cured of that malady, Of Riot, Swearing, Drunkenness, and Pride, And falls again into the like distress, That fever is deadly, doth till death endure: Such men die mad as of a callenture.

FLOWERDALE.

Heaven helping me, I'll hate the course as h.e.l.l.

UNCLE.

Say it and do it, cousin, all is well.

LANCELOT.

Well, being in hope you'll prove an honest man, I take you to my favour. Brother Flowerdale, Welcome with all my heart: I see your care Hath brought these acts to this conclusion, And I am glad of it: come, let's in and feast.

OLIVER.

Nay, zoft you awhile: you promised to make Sir Arthur and me amends. Here is your wisest daughter; see which ans she'll have.

LANCELOT.

A G.o.d's name, you have my good will, get hers.

OLIVER.

How say you then, damsel, tyters hate?

DELIA.

I, sir, am yours.

OLIVER.

Why, then, send for a Vicar, and chil have it dispatched in a trice, so chill.

DELIA.

Pardon me, sir, I mean I am yours, In love, in duty, and affection, But not to love as wife: shall ne'er be said, Delia was buried married, but a maid.