UNCLE.
Why, any thing is true for ought I know.

FLOWERDALE.
To see now! why, you shall have my bond, Uncle, or Tom
White's, James Brock's, or Nick Hall's: as good rapier and
dagger men, as any be in England. Let's be damned if we do
not pay you: the worst of us all will not damn ourselves for
ten pound. A pox of ten pound!

UNCLE.
Cousin, this is not the first time I have believed you.

FLOWERDALE.
Why, trust me now, you know not what may fall. If one
thing were but true, I would not greatly care, I should not
need ten pound, but when a man cannot be believed,--there's
it.

UNCLE.
Why, what is it, cousin?

FLOWERDALE.
Marry, this, Uncle: can you tell me if the Katern-hue be
come home or no?

UNCLE.
Aye, marry, ist.