The London Prodigal Part 9

OLIVER.

No, fie, man, no, let's meet at the Rose at Temple-Bar, That will be nearer your counsellor and mine.

LANCELOT.

At the Rose be it then, the hour nine: He that comes last forfeits a pint of wine.

OLIVER.

A pint is no payment, let it be a whole quart or nothing.

[Enter Artichoke.]

ARTICHOKE.

Master, here is a man would speak with Master Oliver: he comes from young Master Flowerdale.

OLIVER.

Why, chill speak with him, chill speak with him.

LANCELOT.

Nay, son Oliver, I'll surely see what young Flowerdale hath sent to you. I pray G.o.d it be no quarrel.

OLIVER.

Why, man, if he quarrel with me, chill give him, his hands full.

[Enter old Flowerdale.]

FATHER.

G.o.d save you, good Sir Lancelot.

LANCELOT.

Welcome, honest friend.

FATHER.

To you and yours my master wisheth health, But unto you, sir, this, and this he sends: There is the length, sir, of his rapier, And in that paper shall you know his mind.

OLIVER.

Here, chill meet him, my vrend, chill meet him.

LANCELOT.

Meet him! you shall not meet the ruffian, fie.

OLIVER.

And I do not meet him, chill give you leave to call me cut; where ist, sirrah, where ist? where ist?

FATHER.

The letter shows both the time and place, And if you be a man, then keep your word.

LANCELOT.

Sir, he shall not keep his word, he shall not meet.

FATHER.

Why, let him choose, he'll be the better known For a base rascal, and reputed so.

OLIVER.

Zirrah, zirrah: and tweare not an old fellow, and sent after an arrant, chid give thee something, but chud be no money: But hold thee, for I see thou art somewhat testorne; hold thee, there's vorty s.h.i.+llings: bring thy master a veeld, chil give thee vorty more; look thou bring him: chil mall him, tell him, chill mar his dauncing tressels, chil use him, he was ne'er so used since his dam bound his head; chill make him for capyring any more, chy vor thee.

FATHER.

You seem a man, stout and resolute, And I will so report, what ere befall.

LANCELOT.

And fall out ill, a.s.sure your master this, I'll make him fly the land, or use him worse.

FATHER.

My master, sir, deserves not this of you, And that you'll shortly find.

LANCELOT.

Thy master is an unthrift, you a knave, And I'll attach you first, next clap him up Or have him bound unto his good behavior.

OLIVER.

I would you were a sprite, if you do him any harm for this. And you do, chill ne'er see you, nor any of yours, while chill have eyes open: what, do you think, chil be abaffled up and down the town for a messell and a scoundrel? no, chy vor you: zirrah, chil come; zay no more, chil come, tell him.

FATHER.

Well, sir, my Master deserves not this of you, And that you'll shortly find.

[Exit.]

LANCELOT.

No matter, he's an unthrift; I defy him.

Now, gentle son, let me know the place.

OLIVER.

No, chy vore you.

LANCELOT.

Let me see the note.

OLIVER.

Nay, chill watch you for zutch a trick. But if che meet him, zoe, if not, zoe: chill make him know me, or chill know why I shall not, chill vare the worse.

LANCELOT.

What, will you then neglect my daughter's love?

Venture your state and hers, for a loose brawl?

OLIVER.

Why, man, chill not kill him; marry, chill veze him too, and again; and zoe G.o.d be with you, vather. What, man, we shall meet tomorrow.

[Exit.]

LANCELOT.

Who would a thought he had been so desperate.