NOw o' my faith, old Bishop Valentine,

You' ha' brought us nipping weather: Februere

Doth cut and sheare; your day, and diocesse

Are very cold. All your Parishioners;

As well your Layicks, as your Quiristers,

Had need to keepe to their warme Fether-beds,

If they be sped of loves: this is no season,

To seeke new Makes in; though Sir Hugh of Pancrace,

Be hither come to Totten, on intelligence,

To the young Lord o'the Mannor, Squire Tripoly,

On such an errand as a Mistris is.

What, Squire! I say?

I should call him too:

Sir Peter Tub was his father, a Salt-peeter-man;

Who left his Mother, Lady Tub of Totten-

Court, here, to revell, and keepe open house in;

With the young Squire her sonne, and's Governour Basket-

Hilts, both by sword, and dagger: Domine,

Armiger Tub, Squire Tripoly, Expergiscere.

I dare not call aloud, lest she should heare me;

And thinke I conjur'd up the spirither, sonne,

In Priests-Iack-latine: O shee is jealous

Of all man-kind for him.

Chanon, i'st you?

The Vicar of Pancrace, Squire Tub! wa' hoh!

I come, I stoop unto the call; Sir Hugh!

He knowes my lure is from his Love: faire Awdrey,

Th'high Constables Daughter of Kentish Towne, here Mr.

Tobias Turfe.

What newes of him?

He has wak'd me,

An houre before I would, Sir. And my duty,

To the young worship of Totten-Court, Squire Tripoly;

Who hath my heart, as I have his: your Mrs.

Is to be made away from you, this morning,

Saint Valentines day: there are a knot of Clownes,

The Counsell of Finsbury, so they are y-styl'd,

Met at her Fathers; all the wise o' th' hundred;

Old Basi' Clench of Hamsted, petty Constable;

In-and-In Medlay, Cooper of Islington,

And Headborough; with lowd To-Pan the Tinker,

Or Mettall-man of Belsise, the Third-borough:

And D'ogenes Scriben, the great Writer of Chalcot.

And why all these?

Sir to conclude in Counsell,

A Husband, or a Make for Mrs. Awdrey;

Whom they have nam'd, and prick'd downe, Clay of Kilborne,

A tough young fellow, and a Tile-maker.

And what must he doe?

Cover her, they say:

And keepe her warme Sir: Mrs. Awdrey Turfe,

Last night did draw him for her Valentine;

Which chance, it hath so taken her Father, and Mother,

(Because themselves drew so, on Valentine's Eve

Was thirty yeare) as they will have her married

To day by any meanes; they have sent a Messenger

To Kilborne, post, for Clay; which when I knew,

I posted with the like to worshipfull Tripoly,

The Squire of Totten: and my advise to crosse it.

What is't Sir Hugh?

Where is your Governour Hilts?

Basquet must doe it.

Basquet shall be call'd:

Hilts, can you see to rise?

Cham not blind Sir

With too much light.

Open your tother eye,

And view if it be day.

Che can spy that

At's little a hole, as another, through a Milstone.

Hee will ha' the last word, though he talke Bilke for't.

Bilke? what's that?

Why nothing, a word signifying

Nothing; and borrow'd here to expresse nothing.

A fine device!

Yes, till we heare a finer.

What's your device now, Chanon Hugh?

In private.

Lend it your eare; I will not trust the ayre with it;

Or scarce my Shirt; my Cassock sha' not know it;

If I thought it did, Ile burne it.

That's the way,

You ha' thought to get a new one, Hugh: Is't worth it?

Let's heare it first.

Then hearken, and receive it.

This 'tis Sir, doe you relish it?

If Hilts

Be close enough to carry it; there's all.

It i'no sand? nor Butter-milke? If't be,

Ich'am no zive, or watring pot, to draw

Knots i' your 'casions. If you trust me, zo:

If not, praforme it your zelves. 'Cham no mans wife,

But resolute Hilts: you'll vind me i' the Buttry.

A testie Clowne: but a tender Clowne, as wooll:

And melting as the Weather in a Thaw:

Hee'll weepe you, like all Aprill: But he' ull roare you

Like middle March afore: He will be as mellow,

And tipsie too, as October: And as grave,

And bound up like a frost (with the new yeare)

In Ianuary; as rigid, as he is rusticke.

You know his nature, and describe it well;

Ile leave him to your fashioning.

Stay, Sir Hugh;

Take a good Angell with you, for your Guide:

And let this guard you home-ward, as the blessing,

To our devise.

I thanke you Squires-worship,

Most humbly (for the next, for this I am sure of.)

O for a Quire of these voices, now,

To chime in a mans pocket, and cry chinke!

One doth not chirpe: it makes no harmony.

Grave Justice Bramble, next must contribute;

His charity must offer at this wedding:

Ile bid more to the Bason, and the Bride-ale;

Although but one can beare away the Bride.

I smile to thinke how like a Lottery

These Weddings are. Clay hath her in possession;

The Squire he hopes to circumvent the Tile-Kill:

And now, if Justice Bramble doe come off,

'Tis two to one but Tub may loose his botome.

Why, 'tis thirty yeare, eene as this day now:

Zin Valentines day, of all dayes cursin'd, looke you;

And the zame day o'the moneth, as this Zin Valentine,

Or I am vowly deceiv'd.

That our High Constable,

Mr. Tobias Turfe, and his Dame were married.

I thinke you are right. But what was that Zin Valentine?

Did you ever know 'um, Good-man Clench? Cle. Zin Valentine,

Hee was a deadly Zin, and dwelt at High-gate,

As I have heard, but 't was avore my time:

Hee was a Cooper too, as you are. Medlay,

An' In-an-In: A woundy, brag young vellow:

As th' port went o' hun, then, and i' those dayes.

Did he not write his name, Sim Valentine?

Vor I have met no Sin in Finsbury bookes;

And yet I have writ 'hem sixe or seven times over.

O' you mun looke for the nine deadly Sims,

I' the Church bookes, Doge'; not the 'high Constables;

Nor i' the Counties: Zure, that same Zin Valentine,

Hee was a stately Zin: an' hee were a Zin,

And kept 'brave house.

At the Cock and Hen, in High-gate.

You ha' 'fresh'd my rememory well in't! neighbour Pan:

He had a place, in last King Harrie's time,

Of sorting all the young couples; joyning 'hem;

And putting 'hem together; which is, yet,

Praform'd, as on his day—Zin Valentine;

As being the Zin o' the shire, or the whole Countie:

I am old Rivet still, and beare a braine,

The Clench, the Varrier, and true Leach of Hamsted.

You are a shrewd antiquity, neighbour Clench!

And a great Guide to all the Parishes!

The very Bel-wether of the Hundred, here,

As I may zay. Mr. Tobias Turfe,

High Constable, would not misse you, for a' score on us,

When he doe' scourse of the great Charty to us.

What's that, a Horse? Can 'scourse nought but a Horse?

I neere read o' hun, and that in Smith-veld Chartie:

I' the old Fabians Chronicles: nor I thinke

In any new. He may be a Giant there,

For I ought I know.

You should doe well to study

Records, Fellow Ball, both Law and Poetry.

Why, all's but writing, and reading, is it Scriben?

An't be any more, it's meere cheating zure.

Vlat cheating: all your Law, and Poets too.

Mr. High Constable comes.

Ile zay't avore 'hun.

What's that, makes you'all so merry, and lowd, Sirs, ha?

I could ha' heard you to my privie walke.

A Contervarsie, 'twixt your two learn'd men here:

Annibal Puppy sayes, that Law and Poetry

Are both flat cheating; All's but writing and reading,

He sayes, be't verse or prose.

I thinke in conzience,

He do' zay true? Who is't doe thwart 'un, ha?

Why my friend Scriben, and't please your worship.

Who D'oge? my D'ogenes? a great Writer, marry!

Hee'll vace mee down, mee my selfe sometimes,

That verse goes upon veete, as you and I doe:

But I can gi' 'un the hearing; zit me downe;

And laugh at 'un; and to my selfe conclude,

The greatest Clarkes, are not the wisest men

Ever. Here they'are both! What Sirs, disputin,

And holdin Arguments of verse, and prose?

And no greene thing afore the Door, that shewes,

Or speakes a wedding?

Those were verses now,

Your worship spake, and run upon vive feet.

Feet, vrom my mouth, D'oge? Leave your'zurd uppinions:

And get me in some boughes.

Let'hem ha' leaves first.

There's nothing greene but Bayes, and Rosemary.

And they're too good for strewings, your Maids say.

You take up 'dority still, to vouch against me.

All the twelve smocks i'the house, zur, are your Authors.

Get some fresh hay then, to lay under foot:

Some Holly and Ivie, to make vine the posts:

Is't not Sonne Valentines day? and Mrs. Awdrey,

Your young Dame to be married? I wonder Clay

Should be so tedious: Hee's to play Sonne Valentine!

And the Clowne sluggard's not come fro' Kilborne yet?

Do you call your Son i' Law Clowne, and't please your worship?

Yes, and vor worship too; my neighbour Medlay.

A Midlesex Clowne; and one of Finsbury:

They were the first Colon's o' the kingdome here:

The Primitory Colon's; my D'ogenes sayes.

Where's D'ogenes, my Writer now? What were those

You told me, D'ogenes, were the first Colon's

O' the Countrey? that the Romans brought in here?

The Coloni. Sir, Colonus is an Inhabitant:

A Clowne originall: as you'ld zay a Farmer, a Tiller o' th' Earth,

Ere sin' the Romans planted their Colonie first,

Which was in Midlesex.

Why so, I thanke you heartily, good D'ogenes, you ha' zertified me.

I had rather be an ancient Colon, (as they zay) a Clowne of Midlesex:

A good rich Farmer, or high Constable.

I'ld play hun 'gaine a Knight, or a good Squire;

Or Gentleman of any other Countie

I' the Kindome.

Out-cept Kent, for there they landed

All Gentlemen, and came in with the Conquerour,

Mad Iulius Cæsar; who built Dover-Castle:

My Ancestor To-Pan, beat the first Ketle-drum,

Avore 'hun, here vrom Dover on the March:

Which peice of monumentall copper hangs

Vp, scourd, at Hammer-smith yet; for there they came

Over the Thames, at a low water marke;

Vore either London, I, or Kingston Bridge—

I doubt were kursind.

Zee, who is here: Iohn Clay!

Zonne Valentine, and Bride-groome! ha' you zeene

Your Valentine-Bride yet, sin' you came?Iohn Clay?

No wusse. Che lighted, I, but now i' the yard:

Puppy ha' scarce unswadled my legges yet.

What? wispes o' your wedding day, zonne? This is right

Originous Clay: and Clay o' Kilborne too!

I would ha' had bootes o' this day, zure, zonne Iohn.

I did it to save charges: we mun dance,

O this day, zure: and who can dance in boots?

No, I got on my best straw-coloured stockins,

And swaddeld 'hem over to zave charges; I.

And his new shamois Doublet too with points;

I like that yet: and his long sawsedge-hose,

Like the Commander of foure smoaking Tile-kils,

Which he is Captaine of; Captaine of Kilborne:

Clay with his hat turn'd up, o' the leere side, too:

As if he would leape my Daughter yet ere night,

And spring a new Turfe to the old house:

Looke, and the wenches ha' not vound un out;

And doe parzent un, with a van of Rosemary,

And Bayes; to vill a Bow-pot, trim the head

Of my best vore-horse: wee shall all ha' Bride-laces,

Or points, I zee; my Daughter will be valiant;

And prove a very Mary Anbry i' the busines.

They zaid, your worship had sur'd her to Squire Tub

Of Totten-Court here; all the hundred rings on't.

A Tale of a Tub, Sir; a meere tale of a Tub.

Lend it no eare I pray you: The Squire Tub

Is a fine man, but he is too fine a man,

And has a Lady Tub too to his Mother:

Ile deale with none o' these vine silken Tubs.

Iohn Clay, and Cloath-breech for my money, and Daughter.

Here comes another old Boy too, vor his colours

Will stroake downe my wives udder of purses, empty

Of all her milke money, this Winter Quarter;

Old Father Rosin, the chiefe Minstrell here:

Chiefe Minstrell too of High gate: she has hir'd him

And all, his two Boyes for a day and a halfe,

And now they come for Ribbanding, and Rosemary;

Give 'hem enough Girles, gi' 'hem enough, and take it

Out in his tunes anon.

I'll ha' Tom Tiler,

For our Iohn Clay's sake, and the Tile kils, zure.

And I the jolly Joyner, for mine owne sake.

Ile ha' the joviall Tinker for To. Pans sake.

Wee'll all be jovy this day, vor sonne Valentine.

My sweet sonne Iohn's sake.

There's another reading now:

My Mr. reades it Sonne, and not Sinne Valentine.

Nor Zim: And hee is i' the right: He is high Constable.

And who should reade above un, or avore 'hun?

Sonne Iohn shall bid us welcome all, this day:

Wee'll zerve under his colours: Leade the troop Iohn,

And Puppy; see the Bels ring. Presse all noises

Of Finsbury, in our name; D'ogenes Scriben

Shall draw a score of warrants vor the busines.

Do's any wight parzent hir Majesties person,

This Hundred, 'bove the high Constable?

No, no.

Vse our Authority then, to the utmost on't.

So, you are sure Sir to prevent 'hem all;

And throw a block i' the Bride-groomes way, Iohn Clay,

That he will hardly leape ore.

I conceive you,

Sir Hugh; as if your Rhetoricke would say,

Whereas the Father of her is a Turfe,

A very superficies of the earth;

Hee aimes no higher, then to match in Clay;

And there hath pitch'd his rest.

Right Justice Bramble:

You ha' the winding wit, compassing all.

Subtile Sir Hugh, you now are i' the wrong,

And erre with the whole Neighbour-hood, I must tell you;

For you mistake my name. Justice Preamble

I write my selfe; which with the ignorant Clownes, here

(Because of my profession of the Law,

And place o' the peace) is taken to be Bramble.

But all my warrants Sir, doe run Preamble:

Richard Preamble.

Sir I thanke you for't.

That your good worship, would not let me run

Longer in error, but would take me up thus—

You are my learned, and canonick neighbour:

I would not have you stray; but the incorrigible

Knot-headed beast, the Clownes, or Constables,

Still let them graze; eat Sallads; chew the Cud:

All the Towne-musicke will not move a log.

The Beetle and Wedges will, where you will have 'hem.

True, true Sir Hugh, here comes Miles Metaphore,

My Clarke: Hee is the man shall carry it, Chanon,

By my instructions.

Hee will do't ad unguem,

Miles Metaphore: Hee is a pretty fellow.

I love not to keepe shadowes, or halfe-wits,

To foile a busines. Metaphore! you ha' seene

A King ride forth in state.

Sir that I have:

King Edward our late Leige, and soveraigne Lord:

And have set downe the pompe.

Therefore I ask'd you.

Ha' you observ'd the Messengers o' the Chamber?

What habits they were in?

Yes; Minor Coats.

Vnto the Guard, a Dragon, and a Grey-hound,

For the supporters of the Armes.

Well mark'd;

You know not any of 'hem?

Here's one dwels

In Maribone.

Ha' you acquaintance with him?

To borrow his coat an houre?

Or but his badge,

'Twill serve: A little thing he weares on his brest.

His coat, I say, is of more authority:

Borrow his coat for an houre. I doe love

To doe all things compleately, Chanon Hugh;

Borrow his coat, Miles Metaphore, or nothing.

The Taberd of his office, I will call it,

Or the Coat-Armour of his place: and so

Insinuate with him by that Trope—.

I know your powers of Rhetorick, Metaphore.

Fetch him off in a fine figure for his coat I say.

Ile take my leave Sir of your worship too:

Bycause I may expect the issue anone.

Stay my diviner Counsell, take your fee;

Wee that take fees, allow 'hem to our Counsell;

And our prime learned Counsell, double fees:

There are a brace of Angels to support you

I' your foot-walke this frost, for feare of falling;

Or spraying of a point of Matrimony,

When you come at it.

I' your worships service;

That the exploit is done, and you possest

Of Mrs. Awdrey Turfe—

I like your project.

And I, of this effect of two to one;

It worketh in my pocket, 'gainst the Squire,

And his halfe bottome here, of halfe a peice:

Which was not worth the stepping ore the stile for:

His Mother has quite marr'd him: Lady Tub,

She's such a vessell of fæces: all dry'd earth!

Terra damnata, not a drop of salt!

Or Peeter in her! All her Nitre is gone.

Is the Nag ready Marten? call the Squire.

This frosty morning wee will take the aire,

About the fields: for I doe meane to be

Some-bodies Valentine, i' my Velvet Gowne,

This morning, though it be but a beggar-man.

Why stand you still, and doe not call my sonne?

Madam, if he had couched with the Lambe,

He had no doubt beene stirring with the Larke:

But he sat up at Play, and watch'd the Cock,

Till his first warning chid him off to rest.

Late Watchers are no early Wakers, Madam;

But if your Ladiship will have him call'd—.

Will have him call'd? Wherefore did I, Sir, bid him

Be call'd, you Weazell, Vermin of an Huisher?

You will returne your wit to your first stile

Of Marten Polcat, by these stinking tricks,

If you doe use 'hem: I shall no more call you

Pol-marten, by the title of a Gentleman,

If you goe on thus—

I am gone.

Be quick then,

I' your come off: and make amends you Stote!

Was ever such a Full-mart for an Huisher,

To a great worshipfull Lady, as my selfe;

Who, when I heard his name first, Martin Polcat,

A stinking name, and not to be pronounc'd

In any Ladies presence; my very heart eene earn'd, seeing the Fellow

Young, pretty and handsome; being then I say,

A Basket-Carrier, and a man condemn'd

To the Salt-peeter workes; made it my suit

To Mr. Peeter Tub, that I might change it;

And call him as I doe now, by Pol-marten,

To have it sound like a Gentleman in an Office,

And made him mine owne Fore-man, daily waiter,

And he to serve me thus! Ingratitude!

Beyond the Coursenes yet of any Clownage,

Shewen to a Lady! what now, is he stirring?

Stirring betimes out of his bed, and ready.

And comes he then?

No Madam, he is gone.

Gone? whither? aske the Porter: Where's he gone?

I met the Porter, and have ask'd him for him;

He sayes he let him forth an houre agoe.

An houre agoe! what busines could he have,

So early? where is his man, grave Basket Hilts?

His Guide, and Governour?

Gone with his Master.

Is he gone too? O that same surly knave,

Is his right hand: and leads my sonne amisse.

He has carried him to some drinking match, or other:

Pol-marten, I will call you so againe;

I' am friends with you now. Goe get your horse, and ride

To all the Townes about here, where his haunts are;

And crosse the fields to meet, and bring me word;

He cannot be gone farre, being a foot.

Be curious to inquire him: and bid Wispe

My woman come, and waite on me. The love

Wee Mothers beare our Sonnes, we ha' bought with paine,

Makes us oft view them, with too carefull eyes,

And over-looke 'hem with a jealous feare,

Out-fitting Mothers.

How now Wispe? Ha' you

A Valentine yet: I'm taking th' aire to choose one.

Fate send your Ladiship a fit one then.

What kind of one is that?

A proper man,

To please your Ladiship.

Out o' that vanity,

That takes the foolish eye: Any poore creature,

Whose want may need my almes, or courtesie;

I rather wish; so Bishop Valentine,

Left us example to doe deeds of Charity;

To feed the hungry; cloath the naked, visit

The weake, and sicke; to entertaine the poore;

And give the dead a Christian Funerall;

These were the workes of piety he did practise,

And bad us imitate; not looke for Lovers,

Or handsome Images to please our senses.

I pray thee Wispe, deale freely with me now:

Wee are alone, and may be merry a little:

Tho' art none o' the Court-glories; nor the wonders

For wit, or beauty i' the Citie: tell me,

What man would satisfie thy present phansie?

Had thy ambition leave to choose a Valentine,

Within the Queenes Dominion, so a subject.

Yo' ha' gi' me a large scope, Madam, I confesse,

And I will deale with your Ladiship sincerely:

I'll utter my whole heart to you. I would have him,

The bravest, richest, and the properest man

A Taylor could make up; or all the Poets,

With the Perfumers: I would have him such;

As not another woman, but should spite me!

Three Citie Ladies should run mad for him:

And Countri-Madams infinite.

You'ld spare me,

And let me hold my wits?

I should with you—

For the young Squire, my Masters sake, dispense

A little; but it should be very little.

Then all the Court-wives I'ld ha' jealous of me;

As all their husbands jealous of them:

And not a Lawyers Pusse of any quality,

But lick her lips, for a snatch in the Terme time.

Come,

Let's walke: wee'll heare the rest, as we goe on:

You are this morning in a good veine, Dido:

Would I could be as merry. My sonnes absence

Troubles me not a little: though I seeke

These wayes to put it off; which will not helpe:

Care that is entred, once into the brest,

Will have the whole possession, ere it rest.

ZOnne Clay, cheare up, the better leg avore:

This is a veat is once done, and no more.

And then 'tis done vorever, as they say.

Right! vor a man ha' his houre, and a dog his day.

True neighbour Medlay, yo' are still In-and-In.

I would be Mr. Constable, if' ch' could win.

I zay, Iohn Clay, keepe still on his old gate:

Wedding, and hanging, both goe at a rate.

Well said To-Pan: you ha' still the hap to hit

The naile o' the head at a close: I thinke there ne ver

Marriage was manag'd with a more avisement,

Then was this mariage, though I say't, that should not;

Especially 'gain' mine owne flesh, and blood;

My wedded Wife. Indeed my Wife would ha' had

All the young Batchelers and Maids, forsooth,

O' the zixe Parishes hereabout: But I

Cry'd none, sweet Sybil: none of that geare, I:

It would lick zalt, I told her, by her leave.

No, three, or voure our wise, choise honest neighbours:

Vpstantiall persons: men that ha' borne office:

And mine owne Family, would bee inough

To eate our dinner. What? Deare meate's a theife:

I know it by the Butchers, and the Mercat-volke;

Hum drum I cry. No halfe-Oxe in a Pie:

A man that's bid to Bride-ale, if hee ha' cake,

And drinke enough, hee need not veare his stake.

Tis right: he has spoke as true as a Gun; beleeve it.

Come Sybil, come: Did not I tell you o' this?

This pride, and muster of women would marre all?

Sixe women to one Daughter, and a Mother!

The Queene (God save her) ha' no more her selfe.

Why, if you keepe so many, Mr. Turfe,

Why, should not all present our service to her?

Your service? good! I thinke you'll write to her shortly,

Your very loving and obedient Mother.

Come, send your Maids off, I will have 'hem sent

Home againe wife: I love no traines o' Kent,

Or Christendome, as they say.

Wee will not back,

And leave our Dame.

Why should her worship lack

Her taile of Maids, more then you doe of men?

What, mutinin Madge?

Zend back your C'lons agen.

And wee will vollow.

Else wee'll guard our Dame.

I ha' zet the nest of waspes all on a flame.

Come, you are such another Mr. Turfe:

A Clod you should be call'd, of a high Constable:

To let no musicke goe afore your child,

To Church, to cheare her heart up this cold morning.

You are for Father Rosin, and his consort

Of fidling Boyes, the great Feates, and the lesse:

Bycause you have entertain'd 'hem all from High-gate.

To shew your pompe, you'ld ha' your Daughter, and Maids

Dance ore the fields like Faies, to Church this frost?

Ile ha' no rondels, I, i' the Queenes pathes;

Let 'un scrape the Gut at home, where they ha' fill'd it

At after-noone.

Ile ha' 'hem play at dinner.

She is i' th' right, Sir; vor your wedding dinner

Is starv'd without the Musicke.

If the Pies

Come not in piping hot, you ha' lost that Proverbe.

I yield to truth: wife are you sussified?

A right good man! when he knowes right, he loves it.

And he will know't, and shew't too by his place

Of being high Constable, if no where else.

Well over-taken, Gentlemen! I pray you,

Which is the Queenes High Constable among you?

The tallest man: who should be else, doe you thinke?

It is no matter what I thinke, young Clowne:

Your answer savours of the Cart.

How? Cart?

and Clowne? Doe you know whose teame you speake to?

No: nor I care not: Whose Jade may you be?

Jade? Cart? and Clowne? O for a lash of whip-cord!

Three-knotted coard!

Doe you mutter? Sir, snorle this way;

That I may heare, and answer what you say,

With my schoole-dagger, 'bout your Costard Sir.

Looke to't, young growse: Ile lay it on, and sure;

Take't off who's wull.

Nay, pray you Gentleman—.

Goe too: I will not bate him an ace on't.

What? Rowle-powle? Maple-face? All fellowes?

Doe you heare friend, I wou'd wish you, vor your good,

Tie up your brended Bitch there, your dun rustie

Pannyer-hilt poinard: and not vexe the youth

With shewing the teeth of it. Wee now are going

To Church, in way of matrimony, some on us:

Tha' rung all in a'ready. If it had not,

All the horne beasts are grazing i' this close,

Sould not ha' pull' me hence, till this Ash-plant

Had rung noone o' your pate, Mr. Broome-beard.

That would I faine zee, quoth the blind George

Of Holloway: Come Sir.

O their naked weapons!

For the passion of man, hold Gentleman, and Puppy.

Murder, O Murder!

O my Father, and Mother!

Husband, what doe you meane? Sonne Clay for Gods sake—

I charge you in the Queenes name, keepe the peace.

Tell me o' no Queene, or Keysar: I must have

A legge, or a hanch of him, ere I goe.

But zir,

You must obey the Queenes high Officers.

Why must I, Good-man Must?

You must, an' you wull.

Gentleman, I'am here for fault, high Constable—

Are you zo? what then?

I pray you Sir put up

Your weapons; doe, at my request: For him,

On my authority, he shall lie by the heeles,

Verbatim continente, an' I live.

Out on him for a knave, what a dead fright

He has put me into? Come Awdrey, doe not shake.

But is not Puppy hurt? nor the tother man?

No Bun; but had not I cri'd Murder, I wusse—

Sweet Good-man Clench, I pray you revise my Mr.

I may not zit i' the stocks, till the wedding be past

Dame. Mrs. Awdrey: I shall breake the Bride-cake else.

Zomething must be, to save authority, Puppy.

Husband—

And Gossip—

Father—

'Treat

mee not.

It is i' vaine. If he lye not by the heeles,

Ile lie there for 'hun. Ile teach the Hine,

To carry a tongue in his head, to his subperiors.

This 's a wise Constable! where keepes he schoole?

In Kentish Towne, a very survere man.

But as survere as he is; Let me Sir tell him,

He sha' not lay his man by the heeles for this.

This was my quarrell: And by his office leave,

If't carry 'hun for this, it shall carry double;

Vor he shall carry me too.

Breath of man!

Hee is my chattell, mine owne hired goods:

An' if you doe abet 'un in this matter,

Ile clap you both by the heeles, ankle to ankle.

You'll clap a dog of waxe as soone, old Blurt?

Come, spare not me, Sir; I am no mans wife:

I care not, I, Sir, not three skips of a Lowse for you,

And you were ten tall Constables, not I.

Nay, pray you Sir, be not angry; but content:

My man shall make you, what amends you'll aske 'hun.

Let 'hun mend his manners then, and know his betters:

It's all I aske 'hun: and 'twill be his owne;

And's Masters too, another day. Che vore 'hun.

As right as a Club, still. Zure this angry man

Speakes very neere the marke, when he is pleas'd.

I thanke you Sir, an' I meet you at Kentish Towne,

I ha' the courtesie o' hundred for you.

Gramercy, good high Constables Hine! But hear you.

Mass: Constable, I have other manner o' matter,

To bring you about, then this. And so it is,

I doe belong to one o' the Queenes Captaines;

A Gent'man o' the Field, one Captaine Thum's:

I know not, whether you know 'hun, or no: It may be

You doe, and't may be you doe not againe.

No, I assure you on my Constable-ship,

I doe not know 'hun.

Nor I neither i' faith.

It skils not much; my Captaine, and my selfe,

Having occasion to come riding by, here,

This morning, at the corner of Saint Iohn's wood,

Some mile o' this Towne, were set upon

By a sort of countrey fellowes: that not onely

Beat us, but rob'd us, most sufficiently;

And bound us to our behaviour, hand and foot;

And so they left us. Now, Don Constable,

I am to charge you in her Majesties name,

As you will answer it at your apperill:

That forth-with you raise Hue and Cry i' the Hundred,

For all such persons as you can dispect,

By the length and bredth, o' your office: vor I tell you,

The losse is of some valew, therefore looke to't.

As Fortune mend me, now, or any office

Of a thousand pound, if I know what to zay,

Would I were dead, or vaire hang'd up at Tiburne;

If I doe know what course to take; or how

To turne my selfe; just at this time too, now,

My Daughter is to be married: Ile but goe

To Pancridge Church, hard by, and returne instantly,

And all my Neighbour-hood shall goe about it.

Tut, Pancridge me no Pancridge, if you let it

Slip, you will answer it, and your Cap be of wooll;

Therefore take heed, you'll feele the smart else, Constable.

Nay, good Sir stay. Neighbours! what thinke you o' this?

Faith, Man—. Odd pretious woman, hold your tongue;

And mind your pigs o' the spit at home; you must

Have Ore in every thing. Pray you Sir, what kind

Of fellowes were they?

Theev's kind, I ha' told you.

I meane, what kind of men?

Men of our make.

Nay, but with patience, Sir, we that are Officers

Must 'quire the speciall markes, and all the tokens

Of the despected parties, or perhaps—else,

Be nere the nere of our purpose in 'prehending 'hem.

Can you tell, what 'parrell any of them wore?

Troth no: there were so many o' hun, all like

So one another: Now I remember me,

There was one busie fellow, was their Leader;

A blunt squat swad, but lower then your selfe,

He' had on a Lether Doublet, with long points.

And a paire of pin'd-up breech's, like pudding bags:

With yellow stockings, and his hat turn'd up

With a silver Claspe, on his leere side.

By these

Markes it should be Iohn Clay, now blesse the man!

Peace, and be nought: I thinke the woman be phrensick.

Iohn Clay? what's he, good Mistris?

He that shall be

My husband—

How! your husband, pretty one?

Yes, I shall anone be married: That's he.

Passion o' me, undone!

Blesse Masters sonne!

O you are well 'prehended: know you me Sir?

No's my record: I never zaw you avore.

You did not? where were your eyes then? out at washing?

What should a man zay? who should he trust

In these dayes? Harke you Iohn Clay, if you have

Done any such thing, tell troth, and shame the Divell.

Vaith doe: my Gossip Turfe zaies well to you Iohn.

Speake man, but doe not convesse, nor be avraid.

A man is a man, and a beast's a beast, looke to't.

I' the name of men, or beasts! what doe you doe?

Hare the poore fellow out on his five wits,

And seven senses? Doe not weepe Iohn Clay.

I sweare the poore wretch is as guilty from it,

As the Child was, was borne this very morning.

No, as I am a kyrsin soule, would I were hang'd

If ever I--alasse I! would I were out

Of my life, so I would I were, and in againe—

Nay, Mrs. Awdrey will say nay to that.

No, In-and-out? an' you were out o' your life,

How should she doe for a husband? who should fall

Aboord o' her then, Ball? He's a Puppy?

No; Hanniball has no breeding: well! I say little;

But hitherto all goes well, pray it prove no better.

Come Father; I would wee were married: I am a cold.

Well, Mr. Constable, this your fine Groome here,

Bride-groome, or what Groome else, soere he be,

I charge him with the felonie; and charge you

To carry him back forthwith to Paddington,

Vnto my Captaine, who staies my returne there:

I am to goe to the next Justice of peace,

To get a warrant to raise Huy and Cry,

And bring him, and his fellowes all afore 'hun.

Fare you well Sir, and looke to 'hun I charge you,

As yo'll answer it. Take heed; the busines

If you deferre, may prejudiciall you

More then you thinke-for, zay I told you so.

Here's a Bride-ale indeed! Ah zonne Iohn, zonne Clay!

I little thought you would ha' prov'd a peece

Of such false mettall.

Father, will you beleeve me?

Would I might never stirre i' my new shoes,

If ever I would doe so voule a fact.

Well Neighbours, I doe charge you to assist me

With 'hun to Paddington. Be he a true man, so:

The better for 'hun. I will doe mine office,

An' he were my owne begotten a thousand times.

Why, doe you heare man? Husband? Mr. Turfe!

What shall my Daughter doe?Puppy, stay here.

Mother, Ile goe with you, and with my Father.

Nay, stay sweet Mrs. Awdrey: here are none

But one friend (as they zay) desires to speake

A word, or two, cold with you: How doe you veele

Your selfe this frosty morning?

What ha' you

To doe to aske, I pray you? I am a cold.

It seemes you are hot, good Mrs. Awdrey.

You lie; I am as cold as Ice is: Feele else.

Nay, you ha' coold my courage: I am past it,

I ha' done feeling with you.

Done with me?

I doe defie you. So I doe, to say

You ha' done with me: you are a sawcy Puppy.

O you mistake! I meant not as you meane.

Meant you not knavery, Puppy? No: not I.

Clay meant you all the knavery, it seemes,

Who rather, then he would be married to you,

Chose to be wedded to the Gallowes first.

I thought he was a dissembler; he would prove

A slippery Merchant i' the frost. Hee might

Have married one first, and have beene hang'd after,

If hee had had a mind to't. But you men,

Fie on you.

Mrs. Awdrey, can you vind,

I your heart to fancie Puppy? me poore Ball?

You are dispos'd to jeere one, Mr. Hanniball.

Pitty o' me! the angry man with the beard!

Put on thy hat, I looke for no despect.

Where's thy Master?

Marry, he is gone

With the picture of despaire, to Paddington.

Pr'y thee run after 'hun, and tell 'hun he shall

Find out my Captaine, lodg'd at the red-Lyon

In Paddington; that's the Inne. Let 'un aske

Vor Captaine Thum's; And take that for thy paines:

He may seeke long enough else. Hie thee againe.

Yes, Sir you'll looke to Mrs. Bride the while?

That I will: prethee haste.

What Puppy? Puppy?

Sweet Mrs. Bride, Hee'll come againe presently.

Here was no subtile device to get a wench.

This Chanon has a brave pate of his owne!

A shaven pate! And a right monger, y' vaith!

This was his plot! I follow Captaine Thum's?

Wee rob'd in Saint Iohn's wood? I' my tother hose!

I laugh, to thinke what a fine fooles finger they have

O this wise Constable, in pricking out

This Captaine Thum's to his neighbours: you shall see

The Tile-man too set fire on his owne Kill,

And leap into it, to save himselfe from hanging.

You talke of a Bride-ale, here was a Bride-ale broke,

I'the nick. Well: I must yet dispatch this Bride,

To mine owne master, the young Squire, and then

My taske is done. Gen'woman! I 'have in sort

Done you some wrong, but now Ile doe you what right

I can: It's true, you are a proper woman;

But to be cast away on such a Clowne-pipe

As Clay; me thinkes, your friends are not so wise

As nature might have made 'hem; well, goe too:

There's better fortune comming toward you,

An' you doe not deject it. Take a voole's

Counsell, and doe not stand i' your owne light.

It may prove better then you thinke for: Looke you.

Alas Sir, what is't you would ha' me doe?

I'ld faine doe all for the best, if I knew how.

Forsake not a good turne, when 'tis offered you;

Faire Mistris Awdrey, that's your name, I take it.

No Mistris, Sir, my name is Awdrey.

Well, so it is, there is a bold young Squire,

The blood of Totten, Tub, and Tripoly—.

Squire Tub, you meane? I know him: he knowes me too.

He is in love with you: and more, he's mad for you.

I, so he told me: in his wits, I thinke.

But hee's too fine for me; and has a Lady

Tub to his Mother. Here he comes himselfe!

O you are a trusty Governour!

What ailes you?

You doe not know when yo'are well, I thinke:

You'ld ha' the Calfe with the white face, Sir, would you?

I have her for you here; what would you more?

Quietnes, Hilts, and heare no more of it.

No more of it, quoth you? I doe not care,

If some on us had not heard so much of 't,

I tell you true; A man must carry, and vetch,

Like Bungy's dog for you.

What's he?

A Spaniel.

And scarce be spit i' the mouth for't. A good Dog

Deserves, Sir, a good bone, of a free Master:

But, an' your turnes be serv'd, the divell a bit

You care for a man after, ere a Lard of you.

Like will to like, y-faith, quoth the scab'd Squire

To th' mangy Knight, when both met in a dish

Of butter'd vish. One bad, there's nere a good;

And not a barrell better Hering among you.

Nay Hilts! I pray thee grow not fram-pull now.

Turne not the bad Cow, after thy good soape.

Our plot hath hitherto tane good effect:

And should it now be troubled, or stop'd up,

'T would prove the utter ruine of my hopes.

I pray thee haste to Pancridge, to the Chanon:

And gi' him notice of our good successe;

Will him that all things be in readinesse.

Faire Awdrey, and my selfe, will crosse the fields,

The nearest path. Good Hilts, make thou some haste,

And meet us on the way. Come gentle Awdrey.

Vaith, would I had a few more geances on't:

An' you say the word, send me to Iericho.

Out-cept a man were a Post-horse, I ha' not knowne

The like on't; yet, an' he had kind words,

'T would never irke 'hun. But a man may breake

His heart out i' these dayes, and get a flap

With a fox-taile, when he has done. And there is all.

Nay, say not so Hilts: hold thee; there are Crownes—

My love bestowes on thee, for thy reward.

If Gold will please thee, all my land shall drop

In bounty thus, to recompence thy merit.

Tut, keepe your land, and your gold too Sir: I

Seeke neither—nother of 'hun. Learne to get

More: you will know to spend that zum you have

Early enough: you are assur'd of me.

I love you too too well, to live o' the spoyle:

For your owne sake, were there were no worse then I.

All is not Gold that glisters: Ile to Pancridge.

See, how his love doth melt him into Teares!

An honest faithfull servant is a Jewell.

Now th' adventurous Squire hath time, and leisure,

To aske his Awdrey how she do's, and heare

A gratefull answer from her. Shee not speakes:

Hath the proud Tiran, Frost, usurp'd the seate

Of former beauty in my Loves faire cheek;

Staining the roseat tincture of her blood,

With the dull die of blew-congealing cold?

No, sure the weather dares not so presume

To hurt an object of her brightnesse. Yet,

The more I view her, shee but lookes so, so.

Ha? gi' me leave to search this mysterie!

O now I have it: Bride, I know your griefe;

The last nights cold, hath bred in you such horror

Of the assigned Bride-groomes constitution,

The Kilborne Clay-pit; that frost-bitten marle;

That lumpe in courage: melting cake of Ice;

That the conceit thereof hath almost kill'd thee.

But I must doe thee good wench, and refresh thee.

You are a merry man, Squire Tub, of Totten!

I have heard much o' your words, but not o' your deeds.

Thou sayest true, sweet; I' ha' beene too slack in deeds.

Yet, I was never so straight-lac'd to you, Squire.

Why, did you ever love me, gentle Awdrey?

Love you? I cannot tell: I must hate no body,

My Father sayes.

Yes, Clay, and Kilburne; Awdrey,

You must hate them.

It shall be for your sake then.

And for my sake, shall yield you that gratuitie.

Soft, and faire, Squire, there goe two word's to a bargaine.

What are those Awdrey?

Nay, I cannot tell.

My Mother said, zure, if you married me,

You'ld make me a Lady the first weeke: and put me

In, I know not what, the very day.

What was it?

Speake gentle Awdrey, thou shalt have it yet.

A velvet dressing for my head, it is,

They say will make one brave: I will not know

Besse Moale, nor Margery Turne-up: I will looke

Another way upon 'hem, and be proud.

Troth I could wish my wench a better wit;

But what she wanteth there, her face supplies.

There is a pointed lustre in her eye

Hath shot quite through me, and hath hit my heart:

And thence it is, I first receiv'd the wound,

That ranckles now, which only shee can cure.

Faine would I worke my selfe, from this conceit;

But, being flesh, I cannot. I must love her,

The naked truth is: and I will goe on,

Were it for nothing, but to crosse my Rivall's.

Come Awdrey: I am now resolv'd to ha' thee.

Nay, doe it quickly, Miles; why shak'st thou man?

Speake but his name: Ile second thee my selfe.

What is his name?

Squire Tripoly or Tub.

Any thing—

Squire Tub, I doe arrest you

I' the Queenes Majesties name, and all the Councels.

Arrest me, Varlet?

Keepe the peace I charge you.

Are you there, Justice Bramble? where's your warrant?

The warrant is directed here to me,

From the whole table; wherefore I would pray you

Be patient Squire, and make good the peace.

Well, at your pleasure, Iustice. I am wrong'd:

Sirrah, what are you have arrested me?

He is a Pursy'vant at Armes, Squire Tub.

I am a Purs'yvant, see, by my Coat else.

Well Purs'yvant, goe with me: Ile give you baile.

Sir he may take no baile. It is a warrant,

In speciall from the Councell, and commands

Your personall appearance. Sir, your weapon

I must require: And then deliver you

A Prisoner to this officer, Squire Tub.

I pray you to conceive of me no other,

Then as your friend, and neighbour. Let my person

Be sever'd from my office in the fact,

And I am cleare. Here Purs'yvant, receive him

Into your hands; And use him like a Gentleman.

I thanke you Sir: But whither must I goe now?

Nay, that must not be told you, till you come

Vnto the place assign'd by his instructions.

Ile be the Maidens Convoy to her father,

For this time, Squire.

I thanke you Mr. Bramble.

I doubt, or feare, you will make her the ballance

To weigh your Justice in. Pray yee doe me right,

And lead not her, at least out of the way.

Justice is blind, and having a blind Guide,

She may be apt to slip aside.

Ile see to her.

I see my wooing will not thrive. Arrested!

As I had set my rest up, for a wife?

And being so faire for it, as I was. Well, fortune,

Thou art a blind Bawd, and a Beggar too,

To crosse me thus; and let my onely Rivall,

To get her from me. That's the spight of spights:

But most I muse at, is, that I, being none

O' th' Court, am sent for thither by the Councell!

My heart is not so light, as't was i' the morning.

You meane to make a Hoiden, or a Hare

O me, t' hunt Counter thus, and makes these doubles:

And you meane no such thing, as you send about?

Where's your sweet-heart now, I marle?

Oh Hilts!

I know you of old! nere halt afore a Criple.

Will you have a Cawdle? where's your griefe, Sir, speake.

Doe you heare friend? Doe you serve this Gentleman?

How then, Sir? what if I doe? peradventure yea:

Peraventure nay, what's that to you Sir? Say.

Nay, pray you Sir, I meant no harme in truth:

But this good Gentleman is arrested.

How?

Say me that againe.

Nay Basket, never storme;

I am arrested here, upon command

From the Queenes Councell; and I must obey.

You say Sir very true, you must obey!

An honest Gentleman, in faith!

He must?

But that which most tormenteth me, is this,

That Justice Bramble hath got hence my Awdrey.

How? how? stand by a little, sirrah, you

With the badge o' your brest. Let's know Sir what you are?

I am Sir (pray you doe not looke so terribly)

A Purs'yvant.

A Purs'yvant? your name Sir?

My name Sir—

What is't? speake?

Miles Metaphor;

And Justice Preambles Clarke.

What sayes he?

Pray you,

Let us alone. You are a Purs'yvant?

No faith, Sir, would I might never stirre from you,

I' is made a Purs'yvant against my will.

Ha! and who made you one? tell true, or my will

Shall make you nothing, instantly.

Put up

Your frightfull Blade; and your dead-doing looke,

And I shall tell you all.

Speake then the truth,

And the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

My Master, Justice Bramble, hearing your Master,

The Squire Tub, was comming on this way,

With Mrs. Awdrey, the high Constables Daughter;

Made me a Purs'yvant: and gave me warrant

To arrest him, so that hee might get the Lady,

With whom he is gone to Pancridge, to the Vicar,

Not to her Fathers. This was the device,

Which I beseek you, doe not tell my Master.

O wonderfull! well Basket, let him rise:

And for my free escape, forge some excuse.

Ile post to Paddington, t' acquaint old Turfe,

With the whole busines, and so stop the mariage.

Well, blesse thee: I doe wish thee grace, to keepe

Thy Masters secrets, better, or be hang'd.

I thanke you, for your gentle admonition.

Pray you, let me call you God-father hereafter.

And as your God-sonne Metaphore I promise,

To keepe my Masters privities, seald up

I' the vallies o' my trust, lock'd close for ever,

Or let me be truss'd up at Tiburne shortly.

Thine owne wish, save, or choake thee; Come away.

PAssion of me, was ever man thus cross'd?

All things run Arsie-Varsie; upside downe.

High Constable! Now by our Lady o' Walsingham.

I had rather be mark'd out Tom Scavinger:

And with a shovell make cleane the high wayes,

Then have this office of a Constable,

And a high Constable! The higher charge

It brings more trouble, more vexation with it.

Neighbours, good neighbours, 'vize me what to doe:

How wee shall beare us in this Huy and Cry.

We cannot find the Captaine; no such man

Lodg'd at the Lion, nor came thither hurt.

The morning wee ha' spent in privie search;

And by that meanes the Bride-ale is differr'd;

The Bride, shee's left alone in Puppie's charge;

The Bride-groome goes under a paire of sureties;

And held of all as a respected person.

How should we bussle forward? Gi' some counsell,

How to bestirre our stumps i' these crosse wayes.

Faith Gossip Turfe, you have, you say, Remission,

To comprehend all such, as are dispected:

Now, would I make another privie search

Through this Towne, and then you have zearch'd two towns.

Masters, take heed, let's not vind too many:

One's enough to stay the Hang-mans stomack.

There is Iohn Clay, who is yvound already;

A proper man: A Tile-man by his trade:

A man as one would zay, moulded in clay:

As spruce as any neighbours child among you:

And he (you zee) is taken on conspition,

And two, or three (they zay) what call you 'hem?

Zuch as the Justices of Coram nobis

Grant— (I forget their names, you ha' many on 'hem,

Mr. High Constable they come to you.)

I ha' it at my tongues end—Cunni-borroughes,

To bring him straight avore the zessions house.

O you meane warrens, neighbour, doe you not?

I, I, thick same! you know 'un well enough.

Too well, too well; wou'd I had never knowne 'hem.

Wee good Vree-holders cannot live in quiet,

But every houre new purcepts, Huy's and Cry's,

Put us to requisitions night and day:

What shud a man zay, shud we leave the zearch?

I am in danger, to reburse as much

As he was rob'd on; I, and pay his hurts,

If I should vollow it, all the good cheare

That was provided; for the wedding dinner

Is spoil'd, and lost. Oh there are two vat pigs,

A zindging by the vier: Now by Saint Tomy,

Too good to eate, but on a wedding day;

And then, a Goose will bid you all, Come cut me.

Zun Clay, zun Clay (for I must call thee so)

Be of good comfort; take my Muckinder;

And dry thine eyes. If thou beest true, and honest;

And if thou find'st thy conscience cleare vrom it,

Pluck up a good heart, wee'll doe well enough.

If not, confesse a truths name. But in faith

I durst be sworne upon all holy bookes,

Iohn Clay would nere commit a Robberie

On his owne head.

No; Truth is my rightfull Judge:

I have kept my hands, here hence, fro' evill speaking,

Lying, and slandering; and my tongue from stealing.

He doe not live this day can say, Iohn Clay

I ha' zeene thee, but in the way of honesty.

Faith neighbour Medlay, I durst be his burrough,

He would not looke a true man in the vace.

I take the towne to concord, where I dwell,

All Kilburne be my witnesse; If I were not

Begot in bashfulnesse, brought up in shamefac'tnesse:

Let 'un bring a dog, but to my vace, that can

Zay, I ha' beat 'hun, and without a vault;

Or but a cat, will sweare upon a booke,

I have as much as zet a vier her taile;

And Ile give him, or her a crowne for 'mends.

But to give out, and zay, I have rob'd a Captaine!

Receive me at the latter day, if I

Ere thought of any such matter; or could mind it—.

No Iohn, you are come of too good personage;

I thinke my Gossip Clench, and Mr. Turfe

Both thinke, you would ra'tempt no such voule matter.

But how unhappily it comes to passe!

Just on the wedding day! I cry me mercy:

I had almost forgot the Huy and Cry:

Good neighbour Pan, you are the Third-burrow,

And D'ogenes Scriben, you my learned Writer,

Make out a new purcept—Lord, for thy goodnesse,

I had forgot my Daughter, all this while;

The idle knave hath brought no newes from her.

Here comes the sneaking Puppy; What's the newes?

My heart! my heart! I feare all is not well,

Some things mishap'd, that he is come without her.

Oh, where's my Master? my Master? my Master?

Thy Master? what would'st with thy Master, man?

There's thy Mr.

What's the matter Puppy?

Oh Master! oh Dame! oh Dame! oh Master!

What sai'st thou to thy Master, or thy Dame?

Oh Iohn Clay! Iohn Clay! Iohn Clay!

What of Iohn Clay?

Luck grant he bring not newes he shall be hang'd.

The world forfend, I hope, it is not so well.

Oh Lord! oh me! what shall I doe? poore Iohn!

Oh Iohn Clay! Iohn Clay! Iohn Clay!

Alas,

That ever I was borne! I will not stay by't,

For all the Tiles in Kilburne.

What of Clay?

Speake Puppy, what of him?

He hath lost, he hath lost.

For luck sake speake, Puppy, what hath he lost?

Oh Awdrey, Awdrey, Awdrey!

What of my daughter

Awdrey?

I tell you Awdrey—doe you understand me?

Awdrey, sweet Master! Awdrey, my deare Dame—

Where is she? what's become of her, I pray thee?

Oh the serving-man! the serving-man! the serving-man!

What talk'st thou of the serving-man? where's Awdrey?

Gone with the serving-man, gone with the serving-man.

Good Puppy, whither is she gone with him?

I cannot tell, he bad me bring you word,

The Captaine lay at the Lion, and before

I came againe, Awdrey was gone with the serving-man;

I tell you, Awdrey's run away with the serving-man.

'Od 'socks! my woman, what shall we doe now?

Now, so you helpe not, man, I know not, I.

This was your pompe of Maids: I told you on't.

Sixe Maids to vollow you, and not leave one

To wait upo' your Daughter: I zaid, Pride

Would be paid one day, her old vi'pence, wife.

What of Iohn Clay, Ball Puppy?

He hath lost—

His life for velonie?

No, his wife by villanie.

Now, villaines both! oh that same Huy and Cry!

Oh neighbours! oh that cursed serving-man!

O maids! O wife! But Iohn Clay, where's he?

How! fled for veare, zay yee? will he slip us now?

Wee that are sureties, must require 'hun out.

How shall wee doe to find the serving-man?

Cocks bodikins! wee must not lose Iohn Clay:

Awdrey, my daughter Awdrey too! let us zend

To all the townes, and zeeke her; but alas,

The Huy and Cry, that must be look'd unto.

What, in a passion Turfe?

I good Squire Tub.

Were never honest Varmers thus perplext.

Turfe, I am privie to thy deepe unrest:

The ground of which, springs from an idle plot,

Cast by a Suitor, to your daughter Awdrey—

And thus much, Turfe, let me advertise you;

Your daughter Awdrey, met I on the way,

With Justice Bramble in her company:

Who meanes to marry her at Pancridge Church.

And there is Chanon Hugh, to meet them ready:

Which to prevent, you must not trust delay;

But winged speed must crosse their slie intent:

Then hie thee, Turfe, haste to forbid the Banes.

Hath Justice Bramble got my daughter Awdrey?

A little while, shall he enjoy her, zure.

But O the Huy and Cry! that hinders me:

I must prusue that, or neglect my journey:

Ile ene leave all: and with the patient Asse,

The over-laden Asse, throw off my burden,

And cast mine office; pluck in my large eares

Betimes, lest some dis-judge 'hem to be hornes:

I'll leave to beat it on the broken hoofe,

And ease my pasternes. Ile no more High Constables.

I cannot choose, but smile, to see thee troubled

With such a bald, halfe-hatched circumstance!

The Captaine was not rob'd, as is reported;

That trick the Justice craftily deviz'd,

To breake the mariage with the Tile-man Clay.

The Huy, and Cry, was meerely counterfeit:

The rather may you judge it to be such,

Because the Bride-groome, was describ'd to be

One of the theeves, first i' the velonie.

Which, how farre 'tis from him, your selves may guesse:

'T was Justice Bramble's vetch, to get the wench.

And is this true Squire Tub?

Beleeve me Turfe,

As I am a Squire: or lesse, a Gentleman.

I take my office back: and my authority,

Vpon your worships words. Neighbours, I am

High Constable againe: where's my zonne Clay?

He shall be zonne, yet, wife, your meat by leasure:

Draw back the spits.

That's done already man.

Ile breake this mariage off: and afterward,

She shall be given to her first betroth'd.

Looke to the meate, wife: looke well to the rost.

Ile follow him aloofe, to see the event.

Dame, Mistris, though I doe not turne the spit;

I hope yet the Pigs-head.

Come up, Jack-sauce:

It shall be serv'd in to you.

No, no service,

But a reward for service.

I still tooke you

For an unmannerly Puppy: will you come,

And vetch more wood to the vier, Mr. Ball?

I wood to the vier? I shall pisse it out first:

You thinke to make me ene your oxe, or asse;

Or any thing. Though I cannot right my selfe

On you; Ile sure revenge me on your meat.

Madam, to Kentish Towne, wee are got at length;

But, by the way wee cannot meet the Squire:

Nor by inquiry can we heare of him.

Here is Turfe's house, the father of the Maid.

Pol-Marten, see, the streets are strew'd with herbes,

And here hath beene a wedding, Wispe, it seemes!

Pray heaven, this Bridall be not for my sonne!

Good Marten, knock: knock quickly: Aske for Turfe.

My thoughts misgive me, I am in such a doubt—

Who keepes the house here?

Why the doore, and wals

Doe keepe the house.

I aske then, who's within?

Not you that are without.

Looke forth, and speake

Into the street, here. Come before my Lady.

Before my Lady? Lord have mercy upon me:

If I doe come before her, shee will see

The hand-som'st man in all the Towne, pardee!

Now stand I vore her, what zaith velvet she?

Sirrah, whose man are you?

Madam, my Masters.

And who's thy Master?

What you tread on, Madam.

I tread on an old Turfe.

That Turfe's my Master.

A merry fellow! what's thy name?

Ball Puppy

They call me at home: abroad, Hanniball Puppy.

Come hither, I must kisse thee, Valentine Puppy.

Wispe! ha' you got you a Valentine?

None, Madam;

He's the first stranger that I saw.

To me

Hee is so, and such. Let's share him equally.

Helpe, helpe good Dame. A reskue, and in time.

In stead of Bils, with Colstaves come; in stead of Speares, with Spits;

Your slices serve for slicing swords, to save me, and my wits:

A Lady, and her woman here, their Huisher eke by side,

(But he stands mute) have plotted how your Puppy to divide.

How now? what noise is this with you, Ball Puppy?

Oh Dame! And fellowes o'the Kitchin! Arme,

Arme, for my safety; if you love your Ball:

Here is a strange thing, call'd a Lady, a Mad-dame:

And a device of hers, yclept her woman;

Have plotted on me, in the Kings high-way,

To steale me from my selfe, and cut me in halfes,

To make one Valentine to serve 'hem both;

This for my right-side, that my left-hand love.

So sawcy, Puppy? to use no more reverence

Vnto my Lady, and her velvet Gowne?

Turfe's wife, rebuke him not: Your man doth please me

With his conceit. Hold: there are ten old nobles,

To make thee merrier yet, halfe-Valentine.

I thanke you right-side: could my left as much,

'Twould make me a man of marke: young Hanniball!

Dido, shall make that good; or I will for her.

Here Dido Wispe, there's for your Hanniball:

He is your Countrey-man, as well as Valentine.

Here Mr. Hanniball: my Ladies bounty

For her poore woman, Wispe.

Brave Carthage Queene!

And such was Dido: I will ever be

Champion to her, who Iuno is to thee.

Your Ladiship is very welcome here.

Please you, good Madam, to goe nere the house.

Turfe's wife, I come thus farre to seeke thy husband,

Having some busines to impart unto him.

Is he at home?

O no, and't shall please you:

He is posted hence to Pancridge with a witnesse.

Young Justice Bramble has kept levell coyle

Here in our Quarters, stole away our Daughter,

And Mr. Turfe's run after, as he can,

To stop the marriage, if it will be stop'd.

Madam, these tydings are not much amisse!

For if the Justice have the Maid in keepe,

You need not feare the mariage of your sonne.

That somewhat easeth my suspitious brest.

Tell me, Turfe's wife, when was my sonne with Awdrey?

How long is't, since you saw him at your house?

Dame, let me take this rump out of your mouth.

What meane you by that Sir?

Rumpe, and taile's all one.

But I would use a reverence for my Lady:

I would not zay surreverence, the tale

Out o' your mouth, but rather take the rumpe.

A well bred youth! and vull of favour you are:

What might they zay, when I were gone, if I

Not weigh'd my wordz? This Puppy is a voole!

Great Hanniball's an Asse; he had no breeding:

No Lady gay, you shall not zay,

That your Val. Puppy, was so unlucky,

In speech to faile, as t'name a taile,

Be as be may be, 'vore a faire Lady.

Leave jesting, tell us, when you saw our sonne.

Marry, it is two houres agoe.

Sin' you saw him?

You might have seene him too, if you had look'd up.

For it shind, as bright as day.

Meane my sonne.

Your sunne, and our sunne are they not all one?

Foole, thou mistak'st; I ask'd thee, for my sonne!

I had thought there had beene no more sunnes, then one.

I know not what you Ladies have, or may have.

Did'st thou nere heare, my Lady had a sonne?

She may have twenty; but for a soune, unlesse

She meane precisely, Squire Tub, her zonne,

He was here now; and brought my Mr. word

That Justice Bramble had got Mrs. Awdrey

But whither he be gone, here's none can tell.

Marten, I wonder at this strange discourse:

The foole it seemes tels true; my sonne the Squire

Was doubtlesse here this morning. For the match,

Ile smother what I thinke, and staying here,

Attend the sequell of this strange beginning,

Turfe's wife; my people, and I will trouble thee:

Vntill we heare some tidings of thy husband.

The rather, for my partie Valentine.

Well, I have carried it, and will triumph

Over this Justice, as becomes a Constable;

And a high Constable: next our Saint George,

Who rescued the Kings Daughter, I will ride;

Above Prince Arthur.

Or our Shore-ditch Duke.

Or Pancridge Earle.

Or Bevis, or Sir Guy.

Who were high Constables both.

One of Southhampton—.

The tother of Warwick-Castle.

You shall worke it

Into a storie for me, neighbour Medlay,

Over my Chimney.

I can give you Sir,

A Roman storie of a petty-Constable,

That had a Daughter, that was call'd Virginia,

Like Mrs. Awdrey, and as young as she;

And how her Father bare him in the busines,

'Gainst Justice Appius, a Decemvir in Rome,

And Justice of Assise.

That, that good D'ogenes!

A learned man is a Chronikell!

I can tell you

A thousand, of great Pompei', Cæsar, Trajan,

All the high Constables there.

That was their place:

They were no more.

Dictator, and high Constable

Were both the same.

High Constable was more, tho'!

He laid Dick: Tator by the heeles.

Dick: Toter!

H' was one o' the Waights o' the Citie: I ha' read o' hun:

He was a fellow would be drunke, debauch'd—

And he did zet un i' the stocks indeed:

His name Vadian, and a cunning Toter.

Was ever silly Maid thus posted off?

That should have had three husbands in one day;

Yet (by bad fortune) am possest of none?

I went to Church to have beene wed to Clay;

Then Squire Tub he seiz'd me on the way,

And thought to ha' had me: but he mist his aime;

And Justice Bramble (nearest of the three)

Was well nigh married to me; when by chance,

In rush'd my Father, and broke off that dance.

I, Girle, there's nere a Justice on 'hem all,

Shall teach the Constable to guard his owne:

Let's back to Kentish-Towne, and there make merry;

These newes will be glad tidings to my wife:

Thou shalt have Clay, my wench. That word shall stand.

Hee's found by this time, sure, or else hee's drown'd:

The wedding dinner will be spoil'd: make haste.

Husbands, they say, grow thick; but thin are sowne,

I care not who it be, so I have one.

I? zay you zo? Perhaps you shall ha' none, for that.

Now out on me! what shall I doe then?

Sleepe Mistris Awdrey, dreame on proper men.

O bone Deus! have you seene the like?

Here was, Hodge hold thine eare, faire, whilst I strike.

Body o' me, how came this geare about?

I know not, Chanon, but it fals out crosse.

Nor can I make conjecture by the circumstance

Of these events; it was impossible,

Being so close, and politickly carried,

To come so quickly to the eares of Turfe.

O Priest, had but thy slow delivery

Beene nimble, and thy lazie Latine tongue,

But run the formes ore, with that swift dispatch,

As had beene requisite, all had beene well!

What should have beene, that never lov'd the Friar;

But thus you see th' old Adage verified,

Multa cadunt inter—you can ghesse the rest.

Many things fall betweene the cup, and lip:

And though they touch, you are not sure to drinke.

You lack'd good fortune, wee had done our parts:

Give a man fortune, throw him i' the Sea.

The properer man, the worse luck: Stay a time;

Tempus edax—In time the stately Oxe, &c.

Good counsels lightly never come too late.

You Sir will run your counsels out of breath.

Spurre a free horse, hee'll run himselfe to death.

Sancti Evangeliste! Here comes Miles!

What newes man, with our new made Purs'yvant?

A Pursuyvant? would I were, or more pursie,

And had more store of money; or lesse pursie,

And had more store of breath: you call me Pursyvant!

But, I could never vant of any purse

I had, sin' yo' were my God-fathers, and God-mothers,

And ga' me that nick-name.

What, now's the matter?

Nay, 'tis no matter. I ha' beene simply beaten.

What is become o' the Squire, and thy Prisoner?

The lines of blood, ran streaming from my head,

Can speake what rule the Squire hath kept with me.

I pray thee Miles relate the manner, how?

Be't knowne unto you, by these presents, then,

That I Miles Metaphore, your worships Clarke:

Have ene beene beaten, to an Allegory,

By multitude of hands. Had they beene but

Some five or sixe, I' had whip'd 'hem all, like tops

In Lent, and hurl'd 'hem into Hoblers-hole;

Or the next ditch: I had crack'd all their costards,

As nimbly as a Squirrell will crack nuts:

And flourished like to Hercules, the Porter

Among the Pages. But, when they came on

Like Bees about a Hive, Crowes about carrion,

Flies about sweet meats; nay, like water-men

About a Fare: then was poore Metaphore

Glad to give up the honour of the day,

To quit his charge to them, and run away

To save his life, onely to tell this newes.

How indirectly all things have falne out!

I cannot choose but wonder what they were

Reskued your rivall from the keepe of Miles:

But most of all I cannot well digest,

The manner how our purpose came to Turfe.

Miles, I will see that all thy hurts be drest.

As for the Squires escape, it matters not:

Wee have by this meanes disappointed him;

And that was all the maine I aimed at.

But Chanon Hugh, now muster up thy wits,

And call thy thoughts into the Consistory.

Search all the secret corners of thy cap,

To find another queint devised drift,

To disappoint her mariage with this Clay;

Doe that, and Ile reward thee jovially.

Well said Magister Justice. If I fit you not

With such a new, and well-laid stratagem,

As never yet your eares did heare a finer,

Call me, with Lilly, Bos, Fur, Sus, atq; Sacerdos.

I heare, there's comfort in thy words yet, Chanon.

Ile trust thy regulars, and say no more.

Ile follow too. And if the dapper Priest

Be but as cunning, point in his devise,

As I was in my lie: my Master Preamble

Will stalke, as led by the nose with these new promises,

And fatted with supposes of fine hopes.

Well Madam, I may thanke the Squire your sonne:

For, but for him, I had beene over-reach'd.

Now heavens blessing light upon his heart:

Wee are beholden to him, indeed Madam.

But can you not resolve me where he is?

Nor about what his purposes were bent?

Madam, they no whit were concerning me:

And therefore was I lesse inquisitive.

Faire maid, in faith, speake truth, and not dissemble:

Do's hee not often come, and visit you?

His worship now, and then, please you, takes paines

To see my Father, and Mother: But for me,

I know my selfe too meane for his high thoughts

To stoop at, more then asking a light question,

To make him merry, or to passe his time.

A sober Maid! call for my woman Marten.

The maids, and her halfe-Valentine have pli'd her

With court'sie of the Bride-Cake, and the Bowle,

As she is laid awhile.

O let her rest!

We will crosse ore to Canterbury, in the interim;

And so make home. Fare well good Turfe, and thy wife.

I wish your daughter joy.

Thankes to your Ladiship,

Where is Iohn Clay now? have you seene him yet?

No, he has hid himselfe out of the way,

For feare o' the Huy and Cry.

What, walkes that shadow

Avore 'un still?Puppy goe seeke 'un out,

Search all the corners that he haunts unto,

And call 'un forth. Wee'll once more to the Church,

And try our vortunes. Luck, sonne Valentine:

Where are the wise-men all of Finzbury?

Where wise-men should be; at the Ale, and Bride-cake.

I would this couple had their destinie,

Or to be hang'd, or married out o' the way:

Man cannot get the mount'nance of an Egge-shell,

To stay his stomack. Vaith, vor mine owne part,

I have zup'd up so much broth, as would have cover'd

A legge o'Beefe, ore head and eares, i' the porredge pot:

And yet I cannot sussifie wild nature.

Would they were once dispatch'd, we might to dinner.

I am with child of a huge stomack, and long;

Till by some honest Midwife-peice of Beefe,

I be deliver'd of it: I must goe now,

And hunt out for this Kilburne Calfe, Iohn Clay:

Whom where to find, I know not, nor which way.

Thus as a begger in a Kings disguise,

Or an old Crosse well sided with a May-pole.

Comes Chanon Hugh, accoutred as you see

Disguis'd Soldado like: marke his devise:

The Chanon, is that Captaine Thum's, was rob'd:

These bloody scars upon my face are wounds;

This scarfe upon mine aime shewes my late hurts:

And thus am I to gull the Constable.

Now have among you, for a man at armes:

Friends by your leave, which of you is one Turfe?

Sir, I am Turfe, if you would speake with me.

With thee Turfe, if thou beest High Constable.

I am both Turfe, Sir, and High Constable.

Then Turfe, or Scurfe, high, or low Constable:

Know, I was once a Captaine at Saint Quintins,

And passing crosse the wayes over the countrey,

This morning betwixt this and Hamsted-Heath,

Was by a crue of Clownes rob'd, bob'd, and hurt.

No sooner had I got my wounds bound up,

But with much paine, I went to the next Justice,

One Mr. Bramble here, at Maribone:

And here a warrant is, which he hath directed

For you one Turfe; if your name be Tobie Turfe;

Who have let fall (they say) the Huy, and Cry:

And you shall answer it afore the Justice.

Heaven, and Hell, Dogges, Divels, what is this?

Neighbours, was ever Constable thus cross'd?

What shall we doe ?

Faith, all goe hang our selves:

I know no other way to scape the Law.

Newes, newes, O newes—

What, hast thou found out Clay?

No Sir, the newes is that I cannot find him.

Why doe you dally, you dam'd russet coat,

You Peasant, nay you Clowne, you Constable;

See that you bring forth the suspected partie,

Or by mine honour (which I won in field)

Ile make you pay for it, afore the Justice.

Fie, fie, O wife, I'am now in a fine pickle.

He that was most suspected is not found;

And which now makes me thinke, he did the deed,

He thus absents him, and dares not be seene.

Captaine, my innocence will plead for me.

Wife, I must goe, needs, whom the Divell drives:

Pray for me wife, and daughter; pray for me.

Ile lead the way: Thus is the match put off,

And if my plot succeed, as I have laid it,

My Captaine-ship shall cost him many a crowne.

So, wee have brought our egges to a faire Market.

Out on that villaine Clay: would he doe a robbery?

Ile nere trust smooth-fac'd Tile-man for his sake.

Mother, the still Sow eates up all the draffe.

Thus is my Master, Toby Turfe, the patterne

Of all the painefull a'ventures, now in print.

I never could hope better of this match:

This Bride-ale: For the night before to day,

(Which is within mans memory, I take it)

At the report of it, an Oxe did speake;

Who dy'd soone after: A Cow lost her Calfe:

The Belwether was flead for't: A fat Hog

Was sing'd, and wash'd, and shaven all over; to

Looke ugly 'gainst this day: The Ducks they quak'd;

The Hens too cackled: at the noise whereof,

A Drake was seene to dance a headlesse round:

The Goose was cut i' the head, to heare it too:

Brave Chant-it-cleare, his noble heart was done;

His combe was cut: And two or three o' his wives,

Or fairest Concubines, had their necks broke,

Ere they would zee this day: To marke the verven

Heart of a beast, the very Pig, the Pig,

This very mornin, as hee was a rosting

Cry'd out his eyes, and made a show as hee would

Ha' bit in two the spit, as he would say;

There shall no rost-meat be this dismall day.

And zure, I thinke, If I had not got his tongue

Betweene my teeth, and eate it, he had spoke it.

Well, I will in, and cry too; never leave

Crying, untill our maids may drive a Buck

With my salt teares at the next washing day.

KEepe out those fellowes; Ile ha' none come in,

But the High Constable, the man of peace,

And the Queenes Captaine, the brave man of warre.

Now neighbour Turfe, the cause why you are call'd,

Before me by my warrant, but unspecified,

Is this; and pray you marke it thoroughly!

Here is a Gentleman, and as it seemes,

Both of good birth, faire speech, and peaceable,

Who was this morning rob'd here in the wood:

You for your part a man of good report,

Of credit, landed, and of faire demeanes,

And by authority, high Constable;

Are not withstanding touch'd in this complaint,

Of being carelesse in the Huy and Cry.

I cannot choose but grieve a Soldiers losse:

And I am sory too for your neglect,

Being my neighbour; this is all I object.

This is not all; I can alledge far more,

And almost urge him for an accessorie.

Good Mr. Justice gi' me leave to speake,

For I am Plaintife. Let not neighbour-hood

Make him secure, or stand on priviledge.

Sir, I dare use no partiality:

Object then what you please, so it be truth.

This more: and which is more, then he can answer,

Beside his letting fall the Huy, and Cry

He doth protect the man, charg'd with the felonie,

And keepes him hid I heare, within his house,

Because he is affied unto his Daughter.

I doe defie 'hun, so shall shee doe too.

I pray your worships favour, le' me have hearing.

I doe convesse, 'twas told me such a velonie,

And't not disgriev'd me a little when 'twas told me,

Vor I was going to Church, to marry Awdrey:

And who should marry her, but this very Clay,

Who was charg'd to be the chiefe theife o' hun all.

Now I (the halter stick me, if I tell,

Your worships any leazins did fore-thinke 'un

The truest man, till he waz run away.

I thought, I had had 'un as zure as in a zaw-pit,

Or i' mine Oven. Nay, i' the Towne-pound.

I was za sure o' hun: I'ld ha' gi'n my life for 'un,

Till he did start. But now, I zee 'un guilty,

Az var as I can looke at 'un. Would you ha' more?

Yes, I will have Sir what the Law will give me.

You gave your word to see him safe, forth comming;

I challenge that: But, that is forfeited;

Beside, your carelesnesse in the pursuit,

Argues your slacknesse, and neglect of dutie,

Which ought be punish'd with severity.

He speakes but reason Turfe. Bring forth the man,

And you are quit: But otherwise, your word

Binds you to make amends for all his losse,

And thinke your selfe befriended, if he take it

Without a farder suit, or going to law.

Come to a composition with him, Turfe:

The Law is costly, and will draw on charge.

Yes, I doe know, I vurst mun vee a Returney,

And then make legges to my great man o' Law,

To be o' my counsell, and take trouble-vees,

And yet zay nothing vor me, but devise

All district meanes, to ransackle me o' my money.

A Pest'lence prick the throats o' hun. I doe know hun

As well az I waz i' their bellies, and brought up there.

What would you ha' me doe? what would you aske of me?

I aske the restitution of my money;

And will not bate one penny o' the summe:

Foure score, and five pound. I aske, besides,

Amendment for my hurts; my paine, and suffering

Are losse enough for me, Sir, to sit downe with;

Ile put it to your worship; what you award me,

Ile take; and gi' him a generall release.

And what say you now, neighbour Turfe?

I put it

Ene to your worships bitterment, hab, nab.

I shall have a chance o' the dice for't, I hope, let 'hem ene run: And—

Faith then Ile pray you, 'cause he is my neighbour,

To take a hundred pound, and give him day.

Saint Valentines day, I will, this very day,

Before Sunne set: my bond is forfeit else.

Where will you ha' it paid?

Faith, I am a stranger

Here i' the countrey: Know you Chanon Hugh,

The Vicar of Pancrace?

Yes, wee who not him?

Ile make him my Attorney to receive it,

And give you a discharge.

Whom shall I send for't?

Why, if you please, send Metaphore my Clarke.

And Turfe, I much commend thy willingnesse;

It's argument of thy integrity.

But, my integrity shall be my zelfe still:

Good Mr. Metaphore, give my wife this key;

And doe but whisper it into her hand:

(She knowes it well inow) bid her, by that

Deliver you the two zeal'd bags o' silver,

That lie i' the corner o' the cup-bord, stands

At my bed-side, they' are viftie pound a peece;

And bring 'hem to your Master.

If I prove not

As just a Carrier as my friend Tom Long was,

Then call me his curtall, change my name of Miles,

To Guile's, Wile's, Pile's, Bile's, or the foulest name

You can devise, to crambe with, for ale.

Come hither Miles, bring by that token, too,

Faire Awdrey; say her father sent for her:

Say Clay is found, and waits at Pancrace Church,

Where I attend to marry them in haste.

For (by this meanes) Miles I may say't to thee,

Thy Master must to Awdrey married be.

But not a word but mum: goe get thee gone;

Be warie of thy charge, and keepe it close.

O super-dainty Chanon! Vicar in cóney,

Make no delay, Miles, but away.

And bring the wench, and money.

Now Sir, I see you meant but honestly;

And, but that busines cals me hence away,

I would not leave you, till the sunne were lower.

But Mr. Justice, one word, Sir, with you.

By the same token, is your Mistris sent for

By Metaphore your Clarke, as from her Father.

Who when she comes, Ile marry her to you,

Vnwitting to this Turfe, who shall attend

Me at the parsonage. This was my plot:

Which I must now make good; turne Chanon, againe,

In my square cap. I humbly take my leave.

Adieu, good Captaine. Trust me, neighbour Turfe,

He seemes to be a sober Gentleman:

But this distresse hath somewhat stir'd his patience.

And men, you know, in such extremities,

Apt not themselves to points of courtesie;

I'am glad you ha' made this end.

You stood my friend:

I thanke your Justice-worship; pray you be

Prezent anone, at tendring o' the money,

And zee me have a discharge: Vor I ha' no craft

I' your Law quiblins.

Ile secure you, neighbour.

Indeed, there is a woundy luck in names, Sirs,

And a maine mysterie, an' a man knew where

To vind it. My God-sires name, Ile tell you,

Was In-and-In Shittle, and a Weaver he was,

And it did fit his craft: for so his Shittle

Went in, and in, still: this way, and then that way.

And he nam'd me, In-and In Medlay: which serves

A Joyners craft, bycause that wee doe lay

Things in and in, in our worke. But, I am truly

Architectonicus professor, rather:

That is (as one would zay) an Architect.

As I am a Varrier, and a Visicarie:

Horse-smith of Hamsted, and the whole Towne Leach—.

Yes, you ha' done woundy cures, Gossip Clench.

An' I can zee the stale once, through a Vrine-hole,

Ile give a shrew'd ghesse, be it man, or beast.

I cur'd an Ale-wife once, that had the staggers

Worse then five horses, without rowelling.

My God-phere was a Rabian, or a Iew,

(You can tell D'oge!) They call'd un Doctor Rasi.

One Rasis was a great Arabick Doctor.

Hee was King Harry's Doctor, and my God-phere.

Mine was a merry Greeke, To-Pan, of Twyford:

A joviall Tinker, and a stopper of holes;

Who left me mettall-man of Belsise, his heire.

But what was yours D'oge?

Vaith, I cannot tell

If mine were kyrsind, or no. But, zure hee had

A kyrsin name, that he left me, Diogenes.

A mighty learned man, but pest'lence poore.

Vor, h' had no house, save an old Tub, to dwell in,

(I vind that in records) and still he turn'd it

I' the winds teeth, as't blew on his back-side,

And there they would lie rowting one at other,

A weeke, sometimes.

Thence came A Tale of a Tub;

And the virst Tale of a Tub, old D'ogenes Tub.

That was avore Sir Peter Tub, or his Lady.

I, or the Squire their sonne, Tripoli Tub.

The Squire is a fine Gentleman!

He is more:

A Gentleman and a halfe; almost a Knight;

Within zixe inches: That's his true measure.

Zure, you can gage 'hun.

To a streake, or lesse:

I know his d'ameters, and circumference:

A Knight is sixe diameters; and a Squire

Is vive, and zome what more: I know't by compasse,

And skale of man. I have upo' my rule here,

The just perportions of a Knight, a Squire;

With a tame Justice, or an Officer, rampant,

Vpo' the bench, from the high Constable

Downe to the Head-borough, or Tithing-man;

Or meanest Minister o' the peace, God save 'un.

Why, you can tell us by the Squire, Neighbour,

Whence he is call'd a Constable, and whaffore.

No, that's a booke-case: Scriben can doe that.

That's writing and reading, and records.

Two words,

Cyning and Staple, make a Constable:

As wee'd say, A hold, or stay for the King.

All Constables are truly Iohn's for the King,

What ere their names are; be they Tony, or Roger.

And all are sworne, as vingars o' one hand,

To hold together 'gainst the breach o' the peace;

The High Constable is the Thumbe, as one would zay,

The hold-fast o' the rest.

Pray luck he speed

Well i' the busines, betweene Captaine Thums,

And him.

Ile warrant 'un for a groat:

I have his measures here in Rithmetique.

How he should beare un selfe in all the lines

Of's place, and office: Let's zeeke 'un out.

Hilts, how do'st thou like o' this our good dayes worke?

As good ene nere a whit, as nere the better.

Shall we to Pancridge, or to Kentish-Towne, Hilts?

Let Kentish-Towne, or Pancridge come to us,

If either will: I will goe home againe.

Faith Basket, our successe hath beene but bad,

And nothing prospers, that wee undertake;

For we can neither meet with Clay, nor Awdrey,

The Chanon Hugh, nor Turfe the Constable:

We are like men that wander in strange woods,

And loose our selves in search of them wee seeke.

This was because wee rose on the wrong side:

But as I am now here, just in the mid-way,

Ile zet my sword on the pommell, and that line

The point valles too, wee'll take: whether it be

To Kentish-Towne, the Church, or home againe.

Stay, stay thy hand: here's Justice Brambles Clarke,

The unlucky Hare hath crost us all this day.

Ile stand aside whilst thou pump'st out of him

His busines, Hilts; and how hee's now employed.

Let mee alone, Ile use him in his kind.

Oh for a Pad-horse, Pack-horse, or a Post-horse,

To beare me on his neck, his back, or his croupe!

I am as weary with running, as a Mil-horse

That hath led the Mill once, twice, thrice about,

After the breath hath beene out of his body.

I could get up upon a pannier, a pannell,

Or, to say truth, a very Pack-sadle,

Till all my honey were turn'd into gall;

And I could sit in the seat no longer,

Oh the legs of a lackey now, or a foot-man,

Who is the Surbater of a Clarke currant,

And the confounder of his treslesse dormant.

But who have we here, just in the nick?

I am neither nick, nor in the nick: therefore

You lie Sir Metaphor.

Lye? how?

Lye so Sir.

I lyenot yet i' my throat.

Thou ly'st o' the ground.

Do'st thou know me?

Yes, I did know you too late.

What is my name then?

Basket.

Basket? what?

Basket, the Great—

The Great? what?

Lubber—

I should say Lover, of the Squire his Master.

Great is my patience, to forbeare thee thus,

Thou Scrape-hill, Skoundrell, and thou skum of man;

Vncivill, orenge-tawny-coated Clarke:

Thou cam'st but halfe a thing into the world,

And wast made up of patches, parings, shreds:

Thou, that when last thou wert put out of service,

Travaild'st to Hamsted Heath, on an Ash-we'nsday,

Where thou didst stand sixe weekes the Iack of Lent,

For boyes to hoorle, three throwes a penny, at thee,

To make thee a purse: Seest thou this, bold bright blade?

This sword shall shred thee as small unto the grave,

As minc'd meat for a pie. Ile set thee in earth

All save thy head, and thy right arme at liberty,

To keepe thy hat off, while I question thee,

What? why? and whether thou wert going now

With a face, ready to breake out with busines?

And tell me truly, lest I dash't in peeces.

Then Basket put thy smiter up, and heare;

I dare not tell the truth to a drawne sword.

'Tis sheath'd, stand up, speake without feare, or wit.

I know not what they meane; but Constable Turfe

Sends here his key; for monies in his cubbard

Which he must pay the Captaine, that was rob'd

This morning. Smell you nothing?

No, not I;

Thy breeches yet are honest.

As my mouth.

Doe you not smell a rat? I tell you truth,

I thinke all's knavery: For the Chanon whisper'd

Me in the eare, when Turfe had gi'n me his key,

By the same token to bring Mrs. Awdrey,

As sent for thither; and to say Iohn Clay

Is found, which is indeed to get the wench

Forth for my Master, who is to be married,

When she comes there: The Chanon has his rules

Ready, and all there to dispatch the matter.

Now on my life, this is the Chanon's plot!

Miles, I have heard all thy discourse to Basket.

Wilt thou be true, and Ile reward thee well,

To make me happy, in my Mistris Awdrey?

Your worship shall dispose of Metaphore,

Through all his parts, ene from the sole o' the head,

To the crowne o' the foot, to manage of your service.

Then doe thy message to the Mistris Turfe,

Tell her thy token, bring the money hither,

And likewise take young Awdrey to thy charge:

Which done, here, Metaphore, wee will attend,

And intercept thee. And for thy reward,

You two shall share the money; I the Maid:

If any take offence, Ile make all good.

But shall I have halfe the money Sir, in faith?

I on my Squire-ship, shalt thou: and my land.

Then, if I make not, Sir, the cleanliest scuse

To get her hither, and be then as carefull

To keepe her for you, as't were for my felfe:

Downe o' your knees, and pray that honest Miles

May breake his neck ere he get ore two stiles.

Make haste then: we will wait here thy returne.

This luck unlook'd for, hath reviv'd my hopes,

Which were opprest with a darke melancholly.

In happy time, we linger'd on the way,

To meet these summons of a better sound,

Which are the essence of my soules content.

This heartlesse fellow; shame to serving-men;

Staine of all livories; what feare makes him doe!

How sordid, wretched, and unworthy things;

Betray his Masters secrets, ope the closet

Of his devises, force the foolish Justice,

Make way for your Love, plotting of his owne:

Like him that digs a trap, to catch another,

And falls into't himselfe!

So wou'd I have it.

And hope 'twill prove a jest to twit the Justice with.

But that this poore white-liver'd Rogue should do't?

And meerely out of feare?

And hope of money, Hilts.

A valiant man will nible at that bait.

Who, but a foole, will refuse money proffer'd?

And sent by so good chance. Pray heaven he speed.

If he come empty-headed, let him count

To goe back empty-headed; Ile not leave him

So much of braine in's pate, with pepper and vineger,

To be serv'd in for sawce, to a Calves head.

Thou serv'st him rightly, Hilts.

Ile seale az much

With my hand, as I dare say now with my tongue;

But if you get the Lasse from Dargison,

What will you doe with her?

Wee'll thinke o' that

When once wee have her in possession, Governour.

You see wee trust you, Mr. Metaphore,

With Mrs. Awdrey: pray you use her well,

As a Gentle-woman should be us'd. For my part,

I doe incline a little to the serving-man;

Wee have beene of a coat—I had one like yours:

Till it did play me such a sleevelesse errand,

As I had nothing where to put mine armes in,

And then I threw it off. Pray you goe before her,

Serving-man-like: and see that your nose drop not.

As for example; you shall see me: marke,

How I goe afore her. So doe you: sweet Miles,

She for her owne part, is a woman cares not

What man can doe unto her, in the way

Of honesty, and good manners. So farewell

Faire Mrs. Awdrey: Farewell Mr. Miles.

I ha' brought you thus farre, onward o' your way:

I must goe back now to make cleane the roomes,

Where my good Lady has beene. Pray you commend mee

To Bride-groome Clay; and bid him beare up stiffe.

Thanke you good Hanniball Puppy; I shall fit

The leg of your commands, with the straight buskins

Of dispatch presently.

Farewell fine Metaphore.

Come gentle Mistris, will you please to walke?

I love not to be led: I'd goe alone.

Let not the mouse of my good meaning, Lady,

Be snap'd up in the trap of your suspition,

To loose the taile there, either of her truth,

Or swallow'd by the Cat of misconstruction.

You are too finicall for me; speake plaine Sir.

Welcome againe my Awdrey: welcome Love:

You shall with me; in faith deny me not.

I cannot brook the second hazzard Mistris.

Forbeare Squire Tub, as mine owne mother sayes,

I am not for your mowing. Youle be flowne

Ere I be fledge.

Hast thou the money Miles?

Here are two bags, there's fiftie pound in each.

Nay Awdrey, I possesse you for this time:

Sirs; Take that coyne betweene you, and divide it.

My pretty sweeting give me now the leave

To challenge love, and marriage at your hands.

Now, out upon you, are you not asham'd?

What will my Lady say? In faith I thinke

She was at our house: And I thinke shee ask'd for you:

And I thinke she hit me i' th' teeth with you,

I thanke her Ladiship, and I thinke she meanes

Not to goe hence, till she has found you. How say you?

Was then my Lady Mother at your house?

Let's have a word aside.

Yes, twenty words.

'Tis strange, a motion, but I know not what,

Comes in my mind, to leave the way to Totten,

And turne to Kentish-Towne, againe my journey:

And see my sonne Pol-marten with his Awdrey:

Erewhile we left her at her fathers house:

And hath he thence remov'd her in such haste!

What shall I doe? shall I speake faire, or chide?

Madam, your worthy sonne, with dutious care,

Can governe his affections: Rather then

Breake off their conference some other way,

Pretending ignorance of what you know.

And this all, faire Awdrey: I am thine.

Mine you were once, though scarcely now your own.

'Slid my Lady! my Lady!

Is this my Lady bright?

Madam, you tooke me now a little tardie.

At prayers, I thinke you were: what, so devout

Of late, that you will shrive you to all Confessors

You meet by chance? Come, goe with me, good Squire,

And leave your linnen: I have now a busines,

And of importance, to impart unto you.

Madam, I pray you, spare me but an houre;

Please you to walke before, I follow you.

It must be now, my busines lies this way.

Will not an houre hence, Madam, excuse me?

Squire, these excuses argue more your guilt.

You have some new device now, to project,

Which the poore Tile-man scarce will thanke you for.

What? will you goe?

I ha' tane a charge upon me,

To see this Maid conducted to her Father,

Who, with the Chanon Hugh, staies her at Pancrace,

To see her married to the same Iohn Clay.

Tis very well; but Squire take you no care.

Ile send Pol-marten with her, for that office.

You shall along with me; it is decreed.

I have a little busines, with a friend Madam.

That friend shall stay for you, or you for him.

Pol-marten; Take the Maiden to your care;

Commend me to her Father.

I will follow you.

Tut, tell not me of following.

Ile but speake

A word.

No whispering: you forget your selfe,

And make your love too palpable: A Squire?

And thinke so meanely? fall upon a Cow-shard?

You know my mind. Come, Ile to Turfe's house,

And see for Dido, and our Valentine.

Pol-marten, looke to your charge; Ile looke to mine.

I smile to thinke after so many proffers

This Maid hath had, she now should fall to me:

That I should have her in my custody:

Twere but a mad trick to make the essay.

And jumpe a match with her immediately:

She's faire, and handsome: and shee's rich enough:

Both time, and place minister faire occasion:

Have at it then: Faire Lady, can you love?

No Sir, what's that?

A toy, which women use.

If't be a toy, it's good to play withall.

Wee will not stand discoursing o' the toy:

The way is short, please you to prov't Mistris?

If you doe meane to stand so long upon it;

I pray you let me give it a short cut, Sir.

It's thus, faire Maid: Are you dispos'd to marry?

You are dispos'd to aske.

Are you to grant?

Nay, now I see you are dispos'd indeed.

I see the wench wants but a little wit;

And that defect her wealth may well supply:

In plaine termes, tell me, Will you have me Awdrey?

In as plaine termes, I tell you who would ha' me.

Iohn Clay would ha' me, but he hath too hard hands;

I like not him: besides, hee is a thiefe.

And Justice Bramble, he would faine ha' catch'd me:

But the young Squire, hee, rather then his life,

Would ha' me yet; and make me a Lady, hee sayes,

And be my Knight; to doe me true Knights service,

Before his Lady Mother. Can you make me

A Lady, would I ha' you?

I can gi' you

A silken Gowne, and a rich Petticoat:

And a french Hood. All fooles love to be brave:

I find her humour, and I will pursue it.

And as I told thee, shee was intercepted

By the Squire here, my sonne: and this bold Ruffin

His man, who safely would have carried her

Vnto her Father; and the Chanon Hugh;

But for more care of the security,

My Huisher hath her now, in his grave charge.

Now on my faith, and holy-dom, we are

Beholden to your worship. She's a Girle,

A foolish Girle, and soone may tempted be:

But if this day passe well once ore her head,

Ile wish her trust to her selfe. For I have beene

A very mother to her, though I say it.

Madam, 'tis late, and Pancridge is i' your way:

I thinke your Ladiship forgets your selfe.

Your mind runs much on Pancridge. Well, young Squire,

The black Oxe never trod yet O your foot:

These idle Phant'sies will forsake you one day.

Come Mrs. Turfe, will you goe take a walke

Over the fields to Pancridge, to your husband?

Madam, I had beene there an houre agoe:

But that I waited on my man Ball Puppy.

What Ball I say? I thinke the idle slouch

Be falne asleepe i' the barne, he stayes so long.

Sattin, i' the name of velvet-Sattin, Dame!

The Divell! O the Divell is in the barne:

Helpe, helpe, a legion—Spirit legion,

Is in the barne! in every straw a Divell.

Why do'st thou bawle so Puppy? Speake, what ailes thee?

My name's Ball Puppy, I ha' seene the Divell

Among the straw: O for a Crosse! a Collop

Of Friar Bacon, or a conjuring stick

Of Doctor Faustus! Spirits are in the barne.

How! Spirits in the barne? Basket, goe see.

Sir, an' you were my Master ten times over,

And Squire to boot; I know, and you shall pardon me:

Send me 'mong Divels? I zee you love me not:

Hell be at their game: Ile not trouble them.

Goe see; I warrant thee there's no such matter.

An' they were Giants, 't were another matter.

But Divells! No, if I be torne in peeces,

What is your warrant worth? Ile see the Feind

Set fire o' the barne, ere I come there.

Now all Zaints blesse us, and if he be there,

He is an ugly spright, I warrant.

As ever

Held flesh-hooke, Dame, or handled fire-forke rather:

They have put me in a sweet pickle, Dame:

But that my Lady-Valentine smels of muske,

I should be a sham'd to presse into this presence.

Basket, I pray thee see what is the miracle!

Come, goe with me: Ile lead. Why stand'st thou man?

Cocks pretious Master, you are not mad indeed?

You will not goe to hell before your time?

Why art thou thus afraid?

No, not afraid:

But by your leave, Ile come no neare the barne.

Puppy! wilt thou goe with me?

How? goe with you?

Whither, into the Barne? To whom, the Divell?

Or to doe what there? to be torne 'mongst 'hum?

Stay for my Master, the High Constable,

Or In-and-In, the Head-borough; let them goe,

Into the Barne with warrant; seize the Feind;

And set him in the stocks for his ill rule:

'Tis not for me that am but flesh and blood,

To medle with 'un. Vor I cannot, nor I wu' not.

I pray thee Tripoly, looke, what is the matter?

That shall I Madam.

Heaven protect my Master.

I tremble every joynt till he be back.

Now, now, even now they are tearing him in peeces:

Now are they tossing of his legs, and armes,

Like Loggets at a Peare-tree: Ile to the hole,

Peepe in, and looke whether he lives or dies.

I would not be i' my Masters coat for thousands.

Then pluck it off, and turne thy selfe away.

O the Divell! the Divell! the Divell!

Where man? where?

Alas that ever wee were borne. So neere too?

The Squire hath him in his hand, and leads him

Out by the Collar.

O this is Iohn Clay.

Iohn Clay at Pancrace, is there to be married.

This was the spirit reveld i' the Barne.

The Divell hee was: was this he was crawling

Among the Wheat-straw? Had it beene the Barley,

I should ha' tane him for the Divell in drinke;

The Spirit of the Bride-ale: But poore Iohn,

Tame Iohn of Clay, that sticks about the bung-hole—

If this be all your Divell, I would take

In hand to conjure him: But hell take me

If ere I come in a right Divels walke,

If I can keepe me out on't.

Well meant Hilts.

But how came Clay thus hid here i' the straw,

When newes was brought, to you all hee was at Pancridge;

And you beleev'd it?

Justice Brambles man

Told me so, Madam: And by that same token,

And other things, he had away my Daughter,

And two seal'd bags of money.

Where's the Squire?

Is hee gone hence?

H' was here Madam, but now.

Is the Huy and Cry past by?

I, I, Iohn Clay.

And am I out of danger to be hang'd?

Hang'd Iohn? yes sure; unlesse, as with the Proverbe,

You meane to make the choice of your owne gallowes.

Nay, then all's well, hearing your newes Ball Pupy,

You ha' brought from Paddington, I ene stole home here,

And thought to hide me, in the Barne ere since.

O wonderfull! and newes was brought us here,

You were at Pancridge, ready to be married.