The London Prodigal (Folio 3, 1664)
Not Peer Reviewed
The London Prodigal.
3
¶ Or as a Hawk, that never stoop'd to lure:
¶The one must be tamed with an iron bit,
235His pride, his riot, all that may
be nam'd,
¶
Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock, Daffidill,
¶
Artichoak, Luce, and Frank.
¶Lance. Sirrha Artichoak, get you home before,
240And as you proved your self a calf in buying,
¶Drive home your fellow calfes that you have bought.
¶along with me.
245Arti. Daffadill, farewell, good fellow Daffidill,
¶Lan. O, about my daughters, well I will go forward,
¶Here's two of them, God save them: but the third,
¶Lance. What is it folly to love Charity?
¶But 'tis an old proverb, and you know it well,
¶That women dying maids, lead apes in hell.
¶Wea. By the mass, I think it be, and therefore let it go:
¶Luce. Peace, let them talk:
¶Fools may have leave to prattle as they walk.
275You have a wit, and it were your Allablaster.
¶Luce. Ifaith and thy tongue trips trench-more.
¶Alas God help her, silly girle, a fool, a very fool:
¶But there's the other black-brows a shrewd girle,
280She hath wit at will, and suters two or three:
¶Sir Arthur Green-sheld one, a gallant Knight,
¶A valiant Souldier, but his power but poor.
¶Then there's young Oliver, the Devon-shire lad,
¶A wary fellow, marry full of wit,
285And rich by the Rood, but there's a third all aire,
¶Light as a feather, changing as the wind: young Flower-
(dale.
¶Bar him your house.
¶Lance. I proper enough, had he good qualities.
¶Wea. I marry, there's the point, Sir Lancelot:
¶For there's an old saying,
¶Be he rich, or be he poor,
295Be he high, or be he low:
¶Be he born in Barn or Hall,
¶'Tis manners makes the man and all.
¶
Enter Mounsieur Civet.
¶Or witcht with an owle, I have haunted them, Inne after
¶Inne, Booth after Booth, yet cannot find them; ha, yon-
¶before.
¶a word with you?
¶Civ. Why then the whole.
¶I pray, sir, what may yonder Gentlewomen be?
¶tality work.
¶cock's daughter.
320I would be loth to be ridelled, sir.
325glad to bestow the wine of that Gentlewoman.
¶Civet.
Exit Civet.
¶Drawer, let me have sack for us old men:
¶A pinte of Sack, no more.
¶Draw. A quart of Sack in the three Tuns,
340Lance. A pinte, draw but a pinte, Daffidill,
¶Call for wine to make your selves drink.
¶
Enter young Flowerdale.
¶Weathercock.
¶What at your pinte, a quart for shame.
350Be gone Sir Lancelot, what, and fair day too?
¶Lan. 'Twere fouly done, to dance within the fayr.
¶Then I'le not dance, a pox upon my Taylor,
¶such another trick, I'le give him leave, ifaith, to put me
¶in the calender of fools: and you, and you, Sir Lancelot;
*2
thou
