LANCELOT.
And fall out ill, assure 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.