FATHER.
I am a sailor come from Venice, and my name is Christopher.

[Enter Flowerdale.]

FLOWERDALE.
By the Lord, in truth, Uncle--

UNCLE.
In truth would a served, cousin, without the Lord.

FLOWERDALE.
By your leave, Uncle, the Lord is the Lord of truth. A couple
of rascals at the gate set upon me for my purse.

UNCLE.
You never come, but you bring a brawl in your mouth.

FLOWERDALE.
By my truth, Uncle, you must needs lend me ten pound.

UNCLE.
Give my cousin some small beer here.

FLOWERDALE.
Nay, look you, you turn it to a jest now: by this light, I
should ride to Croyden fair, to meet Sir Lancelot Spurcock.
I should have his daughter Lucy, and for scurvy ten pound,
a man shall lose nine hundred three-score and odd pounds,
and a daily friend beside. By this hand, Uncle, tis true.