FATHER.
Aye, sir.

FLOWERDALE.
Well, provide thy self: Uncle, farewell till anon.

[Exit Flowerdale.]

UNCLE.
Brother, how do you like your son?

FATHER.
Yfaith, brother, like a mad unbridled colt,
Or as a Hawk, that never stooped to lure:
The one must be tamed with an iron bit,
The other must be watched, or still she is wild.
Such is my son; awhile let him be so:
For counsel still is folly's deadly foe.
I'll serve his youth, for youth must have his course,
For being restrained, it makes him ten times worse;
His pride, his riot, all that may be named,
Time may recall, and all his madness tamed.

[Exeunt.]


SCENE II. The high street in Croydon. An inn
appearing, with an open drinking booth before it.

[Enter Sir Lancelot, Master Weathercock, Daffodil,