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 God it be no quarrel.

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

[Enter old Flowerdale.]

FATHER.
God 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.