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A Tale of a Tub.
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509

A
T  A  L  E
O F   A
T  U  B.
A   C O M E D Y.

Composed by Ben. Johnson.
—— Inficeto est inficetior rure.      Catul.

P R O L O G U E.

N
O State-affairs, nor any politick Club,
   Pretend we in our Tale, here, of a Tub:
But acts of Clowns and Constables, to day
   Stuff out the Scenes of our ridiculous Play.
A Coopers wit, or some such busie Spark,
   Illumining the high Constable, and his Clerk.
And all the Neighbour-hood, from old Records,
   Of antick Proverbs, drawn from Whitson-Lords.
And their Authorities, at Wakes and Ales,
   With Country precedents, and old Wives Tales;
We bring you now, to shew what different things
   The Cotes of Clowns, are from the Courts of Kings.



The



410510


The  P E R S O N S   that  A C T.

C H A M  H U G H,         Vicar of Pancrass, and Captain Thums.
S Q U I R E  T U B,         Of Totten-Court, or Squire Tripoly.
B A S K E T - H I L T S,         His Man, and Governor.
J U S T.  P R E A M B L E, Of Maribone, alias Bramble.
M I L E S  M E T A P H O R,         His Clerk.
Lady  T U B,         Of Totten, the Squire's Mother.
P O L - M A R T E N,         Her Huisher: Dido Wisp her Woman.
T O B I E  T U R F E,         High Constable of Kentish Town.
Da.  S I B I L  T U R F E,         His Wife.
Mrs.  A W D R E Y  T U R F E,         Their Daughter the Bride.
J O H N  C L A Y,         Of Kilborn Tile-maker, the appointed Bride Groom.
I N - A N D - I N  M E D L A Y,         Of Islington, Cooper and Headborough.
R A S I.  C L E N C H,         Of Hamsted, Farrier, and petty Constable.
T O - P A N,         Tinker, or Mettal-man of Belsise, Thirdborough.
D' O G E.  S C R I B E N,         Of Chalcot, the great writer.
B A L L  P u P P Y,         The high Constable's Man.
F A T H E R  R O S I N,         The Minstrel, and his two Boys.
J O N E,  J O Y C E,

M A D G E,  P A R N E L,        

G R I S E L,  K A T E, 		)
|
> Maids of the Bridal.
|
)
B L A C K  J A C K,         The Lady Tub's Butler.

Two G R O O M S.


The  S C E N E,
FINSBuRY-HuNDRED.


A   T A L E



511

A

T  A  L  E  of  a  T  U  B.


Act I.    Scene I.

Sir Hugh, Tub, Hilts.

Hug. 
N

OW o' my Faith, Old Bishop Valen-
          tine,
 You ha' brought us nipping weather:
          Februere
Doth cut and shear; your day, and Diocess
Are very cold. All your Parishioners;
As well your Layicks, as your Quiristers,
Had need to keep to their warm Feather-beds,
If they be sped of Loves: this is no season,
To seek 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? Tub.period should be omitted, part of Sir Hugh's dialogue I should call him too:
Sir Peter Tub was his Father, a Salt-petre-man;
Who left his Mother, Lady Tub of Totten-
Court, here, to revel, and keep open House in;
With the young Squire her Son, and's Governour Basket-
Hilts, both by Sword and Dagger: Domine,
Armiger Tub, Squire Tripoly, Expergiscere.
I dare not call alood, lest heshe should hear me:
And think I conjur'd up the Spirit, her Son,
In Priests-lack-Latine: O she is jealous
Of all Mankind for him.   Tub. Chanon, i'stis't you?
[At the VVindor.

   Hug. The Vicar of Pancrace, Squire Tub! wa' hoh!
   Tub. I come, I stoop unto the call; Sir Hugh!
[He comes down in his Night-Gown.

   Hug. He knows my lure is from his Love: fair Awdrey,
Th'high Constables Daughter of Kentish-Town, here, Mr.
Tobias Turfe.   Tub. What news of him?
   Hug. He has wak'd me
An hour 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 Clowns,
The Counsel of Finsbury, so they are y-styl'd,
Met at her Fathers; all the wise o' th' hundred;
Old BasiRasi Clench of Hamsted, petty Constable;
In-and-In Medlay, Cooper of Islington,
And Headborough; with loud To-Pan, the Tinker,
Or Metal-man of Belsise, the Third-borough:
And D'ogenes Scriben, the great Writer of Chalcot.
   Tub. And why all these?
   Hug. Sir, to conclude in Counsel,
A Husband, or a Make for Mrs. Awdrey;
Whom they have nam'd, and prick'd down, Clay of Kilborn,
A tough young fellow, and a Tile-maker.
   Tub. And what must he do?
   Hugh. Cover her, they say:
And keep her warm, 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 year) as they will have her married

[column break]

To day by any means; they have sent a Messenger
To Kilborn, post, for Clay; which when I knew,
I posted with the like to worshipful Tripoly,
The Squire of Totten: and my advise to cross it.
   Tub. What is't, Sir Hugh?
   Hugh. Where is your Governour Hilts?
Basquet must do it.   Tub. Basquet shall be call'd:
Hilts, can you see to rise?   Hil. Cham not blind, Sir,
With too much light.   Tub. Open your t'other Eye,
And view if it be day.   Hil. Che can spy that
At's little a hole as another, through a Milstone.
   Tub. He will ha' the last word, though he talk Bilke
            for't.
   Hugh. Bilke? what's that?
   Tub. Why, nothing, a word signifying
Nothing; and borrow'd here to express nothing.
   Hugh. A fine device!
   Tub. Yes, till we hear a finer.
What's your device now, Chanon Hugh?
   Hugh. In private.
Lend it your Ear; I will not trust the Air with it;
Or scarce my Shirt; my Cassock sha' not know it;
If I thought it did, I'll burn it.   Tub. That's the way,
You ha' thought to get a new one, Hugh: Is't worth it?
Let's hear it first.
[They whisper.
   Hugh. Then hearken, and receive it.
This 'tis, Sir, do you relish it?   Tub. If Hilts
Be close enough to carry it; there's all.
[Hilts enters, and walks by,

making himself ready,

   Hil. It i' no Sand? nor Butter-milk? If't be,
Ich'am no Zive, or Watring-pot, to draw
Knots i' your 'casions. If you trust me, zo:
If not, praform it your zelves. Cham no Man's Wife,
But resolute Hilts: you'll vind me i' the Buttry.
   Tub. A testy Clown: but a tender Clown, as wooll:
And melting as the Weather in a Thaw:
He'll weep you, like all April: But he'ull roar 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 year)
In January; as rigid as he is rustick.
   Hug. You know his Nature, and describe it well;
I'll leave him to your fashioning.
   Tub. Stay, Sir Hugh;
Take a good Angel with you, for your Guide:
And let this guard you homeward, as the blessing,
To our device.   Hug. I thank you Squires Worship,
Most humbly (for the next, for this I am sure of.)
[The Squire goes off.

O for a Quire of these Voices, now,
To chime in a Man's Pocket, and cry chink!
One doth not chirp: it makes no harmony.
Grave Justice Bramble, next must contribute;
His Charity must offer at this Wedding:
I'll bid more to the Bason, and the Bride-Ale;
Although but one can bear away the Bride.
I smile to think how like a Lottery
These Weddings are. Clay hath her in possession;
The Squire he hopes to circumvent the Tile-Kill:

And                    


512 A Tale of a Tub.                 

And now, if Justice Bramble do come off,
'Tis two to one but Tub may lose his bottom.

Act I.    Scene II.

Clench, Medlay, Scriben, Pan, Puppy.

Cle. 
W
HY, 'tis thirty year, e'en as this day now,
 Zin Valentine's day, of all days kursin'd, look
             you;
And the zame day o' the Month, as this Zin Valentine,
Or I am vowly deceiv'd.
   Med. That our High Constable,
Mr. Tobias Turfe, and his Dame were married.
I think you are right. But what was that Zin Valentine?
Did you ever know 'um, Good-man Clench?
   Cle. Zin Valentine,
He was a deadly Zin, and dwelt at High-gate,
As I have heard; but 'twas avore my time:
He 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 days.
   Scri. Did he not write his Name, Sim Valentine?
Vor I have met no Sin in Finsbury Books;
And yet I have writ 'em six or seven times over.
   Pan. O' you mun look for the Nine deadly Sims,
I' the Church-books, D'oge; not the high Constables;
Nor i' the Counties: Zure, that same Zin Valentine,
He was a stately Zin: an' he were a Zin,
And kept brave house.
   Cle. 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 Harry's time,
Of sorting all the young Couples; joyning 'em,
And putting 'em together; which is yet
Praform'd, as on his day —— Zin Valentine;
As being the Zin o' the Shire, or the whole County:
I am old Rivet still, and bear a Brain,
The Clench, the Varrier, and true Leach of Hamsted.
   Pan. You are a shrewd Antiquity, neighbour Clench!
And a great Guide to all the Parishes!
The very Bell-weather of the Hundred, here,
As I may zay. Mr. Tobias Turfe,
High Constable, would not miss you, for a Score on us,
When he doe'scourse of the great Charty to us.
   Pup. What's that, a Horse? Can 'scourse nought but
            a Horse?
I ne're read o' hun, and that in Smith-veld Charty:
I' the old Fabians Chronicles: nor I think
In any new. He may be a Giant there,
For ought I know.
   Scri. You should do well to study
Records, Fellow Ball, both Law and Poetry.
   Pup. Why, all's but writing, and reading, is it Scriben?
An't be any more, it's meer cheating zure.
Vlat cheating: all your Law, and Poets too.
   Pan. Mr. High Constable comes.
   Pup. I'll zay't avore 'hun.

Act I.    Scene III.

Turfe, Clench, Medlay, Scriben, Puppy, Pan.

Tur. 
W
Hat's that makes you all so merry, and loud,
            Sirs, ha?
I could ha' heard you to my privy walk.
   Cle. A Contervarsie 'twixt your two learn'd Men here:
Annibal Puppy says, that Law and Poetry
Are both flat cheating; All's but writing and reading,
He says, be't Verse or Prose.
   Tur. I think in conzience,
He do' zay true? Who is't do thwart 'un, ha?
   Med. Why, my Friend Scriben, and't please your
           Worship.

[column break]

   Tur. Who, D'oge? my D'ogenes? a great Writer, marry!
He'll vace me down, me my self sometimes,
That Verse goes upon Veet, as you and I do:
But I can gi' 'un the hearing; zit me down,
And laugh at 'un; and to my self conclude,
The greatest Clerks are not the wisest Men
Ever. Here they' re both! What, Sirs, disputing,
And holding Arguments of Verse and Prose?
And no green thing afore the Door, that shews,
Or speaks a Wedding?
   Scr. Those were Verses now,
Your Worship spake, and run upon vive veet.
   Tur. Feet, vrom my Mouth, D'oge? Leave your,
           'zurd uppinions:
And get me in some Boughs.
   Scr. Let 'em ha' Leaves first.
There's nothing green but Bays and Rosemary.
   Pup. And they're too good for strewings, your Maids
            say.
   Tur. 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 Ivy, to make vine the Posts:
Is't not Son Valentine's day? and Mrs. Awdrey,
Your young Dame to be married? I wonder Clay
Should be so tedious: He's to play Son Valentine!
And the Clown sluggard's not come fro' Kilborn yet?
   Med. Do you call your Son i' Law Clown, and't please
           your Worship?
   Tur. Yes, and vor worship too, my neighbour Medlay.
A Middlesex Clown, and one of Finsbury:
They were the first Colon's o' the Kingdom here:
The Primitory Colon's, my D'ogenes says.
VVhere's D'ogenes, my VVriter, now? VVhat were those
You told me, D'ogenes, were the first Colon's
O' the Countrey, that the Romans brought in here?
   Scr. The Colony. Sir, Colonus is an Inhabitant:
A Clown Original: as you'ld zay a Farmer, a Tiller o'
             th' Earth,
E're sin' the Romans planted their Colony first,
VVhich was in Meddlesex.
   Tur. VVhy so? I thank you heartily, good D'ogenes,
           you ha' zertified me.
I had rather be an ancient Colon, (as they zay) a Clown
            of Middlesex:
A good rich Farmer, or High Constable.
I'ld play hun 'gain a Knight, or a good Squire;
Or Gentleman of any other County
I' the Kingdom.
   Pan. Out-cept Kent, for there they landed
All Gentlemen, and came in with the Conquerour,
Mad Julius Cζsar, who built Dover-Castle:
My Ancestor To-Pan, beat the first Kettle-Drum
Avore 'hun, here vrom Dover on the March:
VVhich piece of Monumental Copper hangs
Up, scour'd, at Hammer-smith yet; for there they came
Over the Thames, at a low Water-mark;
Vore either London, I, or Kingston-Bridge ——
I doubt were kursin'd.
   Tur. Zee, who is here: John Clay!
Zon Valentine, and Bridegroom! ha' you zeen
Your Valentine-Bride yet, sin' you came? John Clay?

Act I.    Scene IV.

[To them.
               Clay.

Cla. 
N
O wusse. Che lighted, I, but now i' the yard:
 Puppy ha' scarce unswadled my legs yet.
   Tur. What? wispes o' your Wedding-day, zon?
            This is right
Originous Clay: and Clay o' Kilborn too!
I would ha' had Boots o' this day, zure, zon |John.'|' should be omitted

Cla.             


            A Tale of a Tub. 513

   Cla. 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 swaddel'd 'em over to zave Charges; I.
   Tur. And his new Shamois Doublet too with Points:
I like that yet: and his long Sawsedge-hose,
Like the Commander of Four smoaking Tile-kills,
Which he is Captain of: Captain of Kilborn:
Clay with his Hat turn'd up o' the leer side too:
As if he would leap my Daughter yet e'er night,
And spring a new Turfe to the old House.
Look, and the Wenches ha' not vound 'un out,
And do parzent un with a Van of Rosemary,
And Bays, to vill a Bow-pot, trim the Head
Of my best Vore-horse; we shall all ha' Bride-laces,
Or Points, I zee; my Daughter will be valiant,
And prove a very Mary Anbry i' the business.
   Cle. They zaid your Worship had sur'd her to Squire Tub
Of Totten-Court here; all the Hundred rings on't.
   Tur. A Tale of a Tub, Sir, a meer Tale of 'a' omitted Tub.
Lend it no Ear 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:
I'll deal with none o' those vine silken Tubs.
John Clay, and Cloth-breech for my Money and Daughter.
Here comes another old Boy too, vor his Colours
[Enter Father Rosin.

Will stroak down my Wives Udder of Purses, empty
Of all her Milk-money, this Winter Quarter:
Old Father Rosin, the chief Minstrel here:
Chief Minstrel too of Highgate: she has hir'd him
And all, his two Boys for a day and a half,
And now they come for Ribbanding, and Rosemary:
Give 'em enough Girls, gi' 'em enough, and take it
Out in his Tunes anon.   Cle. I'll ha' Tom Tiler,
For our John Clay's sake, and the Tile-kills, zure.
   Med. And I the jolly Joyner, for mine own sake.
   Pan. I'll ha'the joviall Tinker for To-Pan's sake.
   Tur. We'll all be jovy this day, vor son Valentine.
My sweet son John's sake.   Scri. There's another reading now:
My Mr. reads it Son, and not Sin Valentine.
   Pup. Nor Zim: And he is i'the right. He is high Constable.
And who should read above 'un, or avor 'hun?
   Tur. Son John shall bid us welcome all, this day:
We'll zerve under his colours: Lead the troop John,
And Puppy, see the Bells ring. Press all noises
Of Finsbury, in our name; D'ogenes Scriben
Shall draw a score of warrants vor the business.
Do's any wight perzent hir Majesties person,
This Hundred, 'bove the high Constable?   All. No, no.
   Tur. Use our Authority then, to the utmost on't.

Act I.    Scene V.

Hugh, Preamble, Metaphor.

Hugh. 
S
O, you are sure, Sir, to prevent 'hem all;
 And throw a block i' the Bride-grooms way,
   John Clay,
That he will hardly leap o'er.   Pre. I conceive you,
Sir Hugh; as if your Rhetorick would say,
Whereas the Father of her is a Turfe,
A very superficies of the earth;
He aims no higher, then to match in clay;
And there hath pitch'd his rest.
   Hug. Right Justice Bramble?
You ha' the winding wit, compassing all.
   Pre. Subtile Sir Hugh, you now are i' the wrong,
And err with the whole Neighbour-hood, I must tell you;
For you mistake my name. Justice Preamble
I write my self; which with the ignorant Clowns here,
(Because of my Profession of the Law,
And place o' the peace) is taken to be Bramble.
But all my warrants, Sir, do run Preamble:

[column break]

Richard Preamble.   Hugh. Sir I thank you for't.
That your good worship, would not let me run
Longer in error, but would take me up thus —
   Pre. You are my learned, and canonick neighbour:
I would not have you stray; but the incorrigible
Knot-headed beast, the Clowns, or Constables,
Still let them graze; eat Salads; chew the Cud:
All the town-musick will not move a log.
   Hug. The Beetle and wedges will where you will have 'hem.
   Pre. True, true, Sir Hugh, here comes Miles Metaphor,
My Clerk: He is the man shall carry it, Canon,
By my instructions.   Hug. He will do't ad unguem:
Miles Metaphore: He is a pretty fellow.
   Pre. I love not to keep shadowes, or half-wits,
To foil a business. Metaphore! you ha' seen
A King ride fort hin'forth in' state.   Met. Sir, that I have:
King Edward our late Leige, and soveraign Lord:
And have set down the pomp.   Pre. Therefore I ask'd you,
Ha' you observ'd the Messengers o' the Chamber;
What habits they were in?   Met. Yes, Minor Coats.
Unto the guard, a Dragon, and a grey-hound,
For the supporters of the Arms.   Pre. Well mark'd;
You know not any of 'em?   Met. Here's one dwells
In Maribone.   Pre. Ha' you acquaintance with him,
To borrow his coat an hour?   Hug. Or but his badge,
'Twill serve: A little thing he wears on his breast.
   Pre. His coat, I say, is of more authority:
Borrow his coat for an hour. I do love
To do all things compleatly, Canon Hugh;
Borrow his coat, Miles Metaphor, or nothing.
   Met. The Taberd of his office, I will call it,
Or the Coat-armour of his place: and so
Insinuate with him by that Trope ——.
   Pre. I know your powers of Rhetorick, Metaphor.
Fetch him off in a fine figure for his coat I say.
(Metaph. goes out.

   Hug. I'll take my leave, Sir, of your worship too:
Because I may expect the issue anon.
   Pre. Stay, my diviner Counsel, take your fee;
We that take fees, allow' hem to our Counsel;
And our prime learned Counsel, double fees:
There are a brace of Angels to support you
I' your Foot-walk this Frost, for fear of falling,
Or spraying of a point of Matrimony,
When you come at it.   Hug. I' your Worships service:
That the Exploit is done, and you possest
Of Mrs. Awdrey Turfe. ——   Pre. I like your Project.
[Preamble goes out.

   Hug. And I, of this effect of two to one;
It worketh i' my Pocket, 'gainst the Squire,
And his half bottom here, of half a Piece:
Which was not worth the stepping o'er the Stile for:
His Mother has quite ma rr'dmarr'd him: Lady Tub,
She's such a Vessel of Fζces: all dry'd Earth!
Terra damnata! not a drop of Salt!
Or Petre in her! All her Nitre is gone.

Act I.    Scene VI.

Lady Tub, Pol-Martin.

Lady. 
I
S the Nag ready Martin? call the Squire.
 This frosty morning we will take the Air,
About the Fields: for I do mean to be
Some-bodies Valentine, i' my Velvet Gown,
This morning, though it be but a Beggarman.
Why stand you still, and do not call my Son?
   Pol. Madam, if he had couched with the Lamb,
He had no doubt been stirring with the Lark:
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.

V v v                               Lad.                 


514 A Tale of a Tub.                 

   Lad. Will have him call'd? Wherefore did I, Sir, bid
           him
Be call'd, you Weazel, Vermine of an Huisher?
You will return your Wit to your first stile
Of Marten Polcat, by these stinking Tricks,
If you do use 'em: I shall no more call you
Pol-martin, by the Title of a Gentleman,
[Pol-martin
If you go on thus —— Pol. I am gone.
goes out.
   Lad. Be quick then,
I' your come off: and make amends you Stote!
Was ever such a Full-mart for an Huisher,
To a great worshipful Lady, as my self;
Who, when I heard his Name first, Martin Polcat,
A stinking Name, and not to be pronounc'd
[Without a Reverence.

In any Ladies presence: my very heart e'en earn'd, see-
            ing the Fellow
Young, pretty and handsome; being then, I say,
A Basket-Carrier, and a man condemn'd
To the Salt-peter Works; made it my Suit
To Mr. Peter Tub, that I might change it;
And call him as I do now, by Pol-martin,
To have it sound like a Gentleman in an Office,
And made him mine own Fore-man, daily Waiter,
And he to serve me thus! Ingratitude!
Beyond the Courseness yet of any Clownage,
[He returns.
Shew'n to a Lady! what now, is he stirring?
   Pol. Stirring betimes out of his Bed, and ready.             
   Lad. And comes he then?
   Pol. No, Madam, he is gone.
   Lad. Gone? whither? ask the Porter: Where's he
            gone?
   Pol. I met the Porter, and have ask'd him for him;
He says, he let him forth an hour a-go.
   Lad. An hour ago! what business could he have
So early? Where is his Man, grave Basket Hilts?
His Guide and Governour?
   Pol. Gone with his Master.
   Lad. Is he gone too? O that same surly Knave,
Is his right hand; and leads my Son amiss.
He has carried him to some drinking Match, or other:
Pol-martin, I will call you so again:
I' am Friends with you now. Go, get your Horse, and
           ride
To all the Towns about here, where his haunts are;
And cross the Fields to meet, and bring me word:
He cannot be gone far, being a foot.
Be curious to inquire him: and bid Wispe,
My Woman, come, and wait on me. The love
We Mothers bear our Sons, we ha' bought with pain,
Makes us oft view them, with too careful Eyes,
And over-look 'em with a jealous fear,
Out-fitting Mothers.

Act I.    Scene VII.

Lady Tub, Wispe.

Lad. 
H
Ow now, Wispe? Ha' you
 A Valentine yet? I'm taking th' air to chuse one.
   Wis. Fate send your Ladyship a fit one then.
   Lad. VVhat kind of one is that?
   Wis. A proper Man,
To please your Ladyship.   Lad. Out o' that Vanity,
That takes the foolish Eye: Any poor creature,
VVhose want may need my alms, or courtesie,
I rather wish; so Bishop Valentine
Left us Example to do Deeds of Charity;
To feed the hungry, cloath the naked, visit
The weak and sick; to entertain the poor,
And give the dead a Christian Funeral:
These were the works of Piety he did practise,
And bade us imitate; not look for Lovers,
Or handsome Images to please our Senses.

[column break]

I pray thee, Wispe, deal freely with me now:
VVe are alone, and may be merry a little:
Tho' art none o' the Court-Glories, nor the VVonders
For VVit or Beauty i' the City: tell me,
VVhat Man would satisfie thy present Fancy?
Had thy ambition leave to chuse a Valentine,
VVithin the Queens Dominion, so a Subject.
   Wis. Yo' ha' gi' me a large scope, Madam, I confess,
And I will deal with your Ladyship 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,
VVith the Perfumers: I would have him such,
As not another VVoman, but should spite me:
Three City-Ladies should run mad for him:
And Country-Madams infinite.
   Lad. You'ld spare me,
And let me hold my Wits?
   VVis. I should with you ——
For the young Squire, my Master's 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 Puss of any Quality,
But lick her lips, for a snatch in the Terme time.
   Lad. Come,
Let's walk: we'll hear the rest as we go on:
You are this Morning in a good Vein, Dido:
Would I could be as merry. My Son's absence
Troubles me not a little: though I seek
These ways to put it off; which will not help:
Care that is entred once into the Breast,
Will have the whole possession, ere it rest.


Act II.    Scene I.

Turfe, Clay, Medlay, Clench, To-Pan, Scriben, Puppy.

Tur. 
Z
On Clay, cheer up, the better leg avore:
 This is a veat is once done, and no more.
   Cle. And then 'tis done vor ever, as they say.
   Med. Right! vor a Man ha' his hour, and a Dog his
           day.
   Tur. True, Neighbour Medlay, yo' are still In-and-In.
   Med. I would be Mr. Constable, if ch' could win.
   Pan. I zay, John Clay, keep still on his old gate:
Wedding and hanging both go at a rate.
   Tur. Well said, To-Pan: you ha' still the hap to hit
The Nail o' the head at a close: I think there never
Marriage was manag'd with a more avisement,
Than was this Marriage, though I say't, that should not;
Especially 'gain' mine own Flesh and Blood,
My wedded Wife. Indeed my Wife would ha' had
All the young Batchelors and Maids, forsooth,
O' the zix Parishes hereabout: But I
Cry'd none, sweet Sybil: none of that gear, I:
It would lick zalt, I told her, by her leave.
No, three or vour our wise, choice honest neighbours:
Upstantial persons: Men that ha' born Office:
And mine own Family would be enough
To eat our Dinner. What? Dear Meat's a Thief:
I know it by the Butchers, and the Market-volk;
Hum drum I cry. No half-Ox in a Pye:
A man that's bid to Bride-Ale, if he ha' Cake,
And Drink enough, he need not vear his stake.
   Cle. 'Tis right: he has spoke as true as a Gun: be-
           lieve it.
   Tur. Come, Sybil, come: Did not I tell you o' this?
This Pride, and muster of women would mar all?
Six women to one Daughter and a Mother!
The Queen (God save her) ha' no more her self.
   D. Tur. Why, if you keep so many, Mr. Turfe,
Why should not all present our Service to her?
Tur.             


            A Tale of a Tub. 515

   Tur. Your Service? Good! I think you'll write to
            her shortly,
Your very loving and obedient Mother.
   Tur.redundant speech prefix should be omitted, Turfe's dialogue continues Come, send your Maids off, I will have 'em sent
Home again, Wife: I love no Trains o' Kent,
Or Christendom, as they say.   Sc. We will not back,
And leave our Dame.   Med. Why should her Worship
            lack
Her Tale of Maids, more than you do of Men?
   Tur. VVhat, mutining, Madge?   Jo. Zend back your
            C'lons agen.
And we will vollow.   All. Else we'll guard our Dame.
   Tur. I ha' zet the Nest of VVasps all on a flame.
   D. Tur. Come, you are such another, Mr. Turfe:
A Clod you should be call'd, of a High Constable:
To let no Musick go afore your Child
To Church, to chear her Heart up this cold Morning.
   Tur. You are for Father Rosin, and his Consort
Of fidling Boys, the great Feates, and the less:
Because you have entertain'd 'em all from Highgate.
To shew your Pomp, you'ld ha' your Daughter and Maids
Dance o'er the Fields like Fairies,'Faies' in 1640 folio per Peter Whalley to Church, this Frost?
I'll ha' no Rondels, I, i' the Queens Paths;
Let 'un scrape the Gut at home, where they ha' fill'd it
At After-noon.
   D. Turfe. I'll ha' 'em play at Dinner.
   Ite.Most likely 'Cle.' per Peter Whalley She is i' th' right, Sir; vor your Wedding-Dinner
Is starv'd without the Musick.   Med. If the Pies
Come not in piping hot, you ha' lost that Proverb.
   Tur. I yield to truth: Wife, are you sussified?
   Pan. A right good Man! when he knows right, he
            loves it.
   Scri. And he will know't, and shew't too by his place
Of being High Constable, if no where else.

Act II.    Scene II.

[To them.
            Hilts bearded, booted and spurr'd.

Hil. 
W
Ell over-taken, Gentlemen! I pray you,
 Which is the Queens High Constable a-
            mong you?
   Pup. The tallest Man: who should be else, do you
            think?
   Hil. It is no matter what I think, young Clown:
Your answer savours of the Cart.
   Pup. How? Cart?
And Clown? Do you know whose Team you speak to?
   Hi. No: nor I care not: VVhose Jade may you be?
   Pup. Jade? Cart? and Clown? O for a lash of
            VVhip-cord!
Three-knotted Cord!
   Hil. Do you mutter? Sir, snorle this way,
That I may hear, and answer what you say,
VVith my School-dagger, 'bout your Costard, Sir.
Look to't, young Growse: I'll lay it on, and sure;
Take't off who's wull.
   Cle. Nay, 'pray you Gentleman ——
   Hil. Go to: I will not bate him an ace on't.
VVhat? Rowle-powle? Maple-face? All Fellows?
   Pup. Do you hear, Friend? I would wish you vor
            your good,
Tie up your brended Bitch there, your Dun rusty
Pannier-hilt Poinard: and not vex the Youth
VVith shewing the Teeth of it. VVe now are going
To Church, in way of Matrimony, some on us.
Th'a'rung all in a' ready. If it had not,
All the Horn-Beasts are grazing i' this Close,
Should not ha' pull'd me hence, till this Ash-plant
Had rung Noon o' your Pate, Mr. Broom-beard.
   Hil. That would I fain zee, quoth the blind George
Of Holloway: Come, Sir.
   Awd. O their naked weapons!
   Pan. For the Passion of Man, hold Gentleman, and Puppy.

[column break]

   Cla. Murder, O Murder!
   Awd. O my Father and Mother!
   D. Tur. Husband, what do you mean? Son Clay, for
            God's sake ——
   Tur. I charge you in the Queens Name, keep the peace.
   Hil. Tell me o' no Queen, or Keysar: I must have
A Leg, or a Hanch of him, e're I go.
   Med. But, Zir,
You must obey the Queens High Officers.
   Hil. VVhy must I, Goodman Must?
   Med. You must, an' your wull.
   Tur. Gentleman, I'm here for Fault, High Con-
            stable ——
   Hil. Are you zo? what then?
   Tur. I pray you, Sir, put up
Your Weapons; do, at my Request: For him,
On my Authority, he shall lie by the heels,
Verbatim continente, an' I live.
   D. Tur. Out on him for a Knave: what a dead fright
He has put me into: Come, Awdrey, do not shake.
   Awd. But is not Puppy hurt? nor the t' other man?
   Cla. No Bun; but had not I cry'd Murder, I wuss —
   Pup. Sweet Goodman Clench, I pray you revise my
            Master,
I may not zit i' the Stocks, till the Wedding be past,
Dame, Mrs. Awdrey: I shall break the Bride-Cake else.
   Cle. Zomething must be to save Authority, Puppy.
   D. Tur. Husband ——   Cle. And Gossip ——
   Awd. Father ——   Tur. 'Treat me not.
It is i' vain. If he lie not by the heels,
I'll lie there for 'un. I'll teach the Hine,
To carry a Tongue in his Head to his Superiours.
   Hil. This 's a wise Constable! where keeps he School?
   Cle. In Kentish-Town; a very survere man.
   Hil. But as survere as he is, let me, Sir, tell him,
He sha' not lay his Man by the heels for this.
This was my Quarrel: And by his Office leave,
If't carry 'un for this, it shall carry double;
Vor he shall carry me too.
   Tur. Breath of Man!
He is my Chattel, mine own hired Goods:
An' if you do abet 'un in this matter,
I'll clap you both by the heels, ankle to ankle.
   Hilt. You'll clap a Dog of Wax as soon, old Blurt?
Come, spare not me, Sir; I am no Man's Wife:
I care not, I, Sir, not three skips of a Louse for you,
And you were Ten tall Constables, not I.
   Tur. Nay, pray you, Sir, be not angry; but content:
My Man shall make you what amends you'll ask 'un.
   Hil. Let 'hun mend his Manners then, and know his
            Betters:
It's all I ask 'un: and 'twill be his own,
And's Master's too, another day. Che vore 'hun.
   Med. As right as a Club still. Zure this angry man
Speaks very near the mark, when he is pleas'd.
   Pup. I thank you, Sir; an' I meet you at Kentish-Town,
I ha' the Courtesie o' Hundred for you.
   Hil. Gramercy, good High Constables Hine. But
            hear you?
Mass Constable, I have other manner o' matter,
To bring you about, than this. And so it is,
I do belong to one o' the Queens Captains;
A Gent'man o' the Field, one Captain Thum's,
I know not whether you know 'un, or no: It may be
You do, and't may be you do not again.
   Tur. No, I assure you on my Constable-ship,
I do not know 'un.   Hil. Nor I neither, i' faith.
It skills not much; my Captain, and my self,
Having occasion to come riding by, here,
This morning, at the corner of Saint John's Wood,
Some mile o' this Town, were set upon
By a sort of Countrey Fellows; that not only
Beat us, but robb'd us most sufficiently;
And bound us to our behaviour, hand and foot;
V v v 2                               And           


516 A Tale of a Tub.                 

And so they left us. Now, Don Constable,
I am to charge you in her Majesties Name,
As you will answer it at your apperil,
That forthwith you raise Hue and Cry i' the Hundred,
For all such persons as you can despect,
By the length and breadth o' your Office: vor I tell you,
The loss is of some value; therefore look to't.
   Tur. 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 Tiburn,
If I do know what course to take; or how
To turn my self; just at this time too, now,
My Daughter is to be married: I'll but go
To Pancridge-Church, hard by, and return instantly,
And all my Neighbourhood shall go about it.
   Hil. Tut, Pancridge, me no Pancridge; if you let it
Slip, you will answer it, and your Cap be of Wool;
Therefore take heed, you'll feel the smart else, Constable.
   Tur. Nay, good Sir, stay. Neighbours! what think
            you o' this?
   D. Tur. Faith, Man ——
'Tur.' omitted Odd, precious 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 fellows were they?
   Hil. Thieve's kind, I ha' told you.
   Tur. I mean, what kind of Men?
   Hil. Men of our make.
   Tur. Nay, but with patience, Sir; we that are Officers
Must 'quire the special marks, and all the tokens
Of the despected parties; or perhaps else
Be ne'er the near of our purpose in 'prehending 'em.
Can you tell, what 'parrel any of them wore?
   Hil. Troth no: there were so many o' un, all like
So one another: Now I remember me,
There was one busie Fellow was their Leader;
A blunt squat swad, but lower than your self,
He' had on a Leather Doublet, with long points,
And a pair of pinn'd-up breeches, like Pudding bags:
With yellow stockings, and his Hat turn'd up
With a Silver Claspe on his leer side.   D. Tur. By these
Marks it should be John Clay, now bless the man!
   Tur. Peace, and be nought: I think the Woman be
            phrensick.
   Hil. John Clay? what's he, good Mistris?
   Awd. He that shall be
My Husband ——   Hil. How! your Husband, pretty one?
   Awd. Yes, I shall anon be married: That's he.
   Tur. Passion o' me, undone!
   Pup. Bless Master's Son!
   Hil. O you are well 'prehended: know you me, Sir?
   Clay. No's my Record: I never zaw you avore.
   Hil. You did not? where were your Eyes then? out
           at washing?
   Tur. What should a man zay? who should he trust
In these days? Hark you, John Clay, if you have
Done any such thing, tell troth, and shame the Devil.
   Cle. Vaith do: my Gossip Turfe zays well to you, John.
   Med. Speak, man, but do not convess, nor be avraid.
   Pan. A man is a man, and a beast's a beast, look to't.
   D. Tur. I' the name of men or beasts! what do you do?
Hare the poor fellow out on his five Wits,
And seven Senses? Do not weep, John Clay.
I swear the poor wretch is as guilty from it,
As the Child was, was born this very morning.
   Cla. No, as I am a kyrsin Soul, would I were hang'd,
If ever I — alas, I! would I were out
Of my life, so I would I were, and in again —
   Pup. Nay, Mrs. Awdrey will say nay to that.
No, In-and-out? an' you were out o' your life,
How should she do for a Husband? who should fall
Aboard o' her then, Ball? He's a Puppy?
No; Hannibal has no breeding: well! I say little;
But hitherto all goes well, pray it prove no better.

[column break]

   Awd. Come, Father; I would we were married: I
           am a cold.
   Hil. Well, Mr. Constable, this your fine Groom here,
Bridegroom, or what Groom else, soe'er he be,
I charge him with the Felony; and charge you
To carry him back forthwith to Paddington,
Unto my Captain, who stays my return there:
I am to go to the next Justice of Peace,
To get a Warrant to raise Hue and Cry,
And bring him and his Fellows all afore 'un.
Fare you well, Sir, and look to 'un, I charge you,
As yo'll answer it. Take heed, the business,
If you defer, may prejudicial you
More than you think for; zay I told you so.
[Hilts goes out.

   Tur. Here's a Bride-ale indeed? Ah zon John, zon Clay!
I little thought you would ha' prov'd a piece
Of such false Metal.
   Cla. Father, will you believe me?
Would I might never stir i' my new shooes,
If ever I would do so voul a Fact.
   Tur. Well, Neighbours, I do charge you to assist me
With 'un to Paddington. Be he a true man, so:
The better for 'un. I will do mine Office,
An' he were my own begotten a thousand times.
   D. Tur. Why, do you hear man? Husband? Mr. Turfe?
What shall my Daughter do? Puppy, stay here.
[She follows her Husband and Neighbour's.

   Awd. Mother, I'll go with you, and with my Father.

Act II.    Scene III.

Puppy, Awdrey, Hilts.

P
Up. Nay, stay, sweet Mrs. Awdrey: here are none
 But one Friend (as they zay) desires to speak
A word or two, cold with you: How do you veel
Your self this frosty morning?
   Awd. What ha' you
To do to ask, I pray you? I am a cold.
   Pup. It seems you are hot, good Mrs. Awdrey.
   Awd. You lye; I am as cold as Ice is: Feel else.
   Pup. Nay, you ha' cool'd my Courage: I am past it,
I ha' done feeling with you.
   Awd. Done with me?
I do defie you. So I do, to say
You ha' done with me: you are a sawcy Puppy.
   Pup. O you mistake! I meant not as you mean.
   Awd. Meant you not Knavery?   Puppy. No, not I.
Clay meant you all the Knavery, it seems,
Who rather than he would be married to you,
Chose to be wedded to the Gallows first.
   Awd. I thought he was a dissembler; he would prove
A slippery Merchant i' the Frost. He might
Have married one first, and have been hang'd after,
If he had had a mind to't. But you men,
Fie on you.   Pup. Mrs. Awdrey, can you vind
I' your heart to fancy Puppy? me poor Ball?
   Awd. You are dispos'd to jeer one, Mr. Hannibal.
[Enter Hilts.
Pity o' me! the angry man with the beard!
   Hil. Put on thy Hat, I look for no despect.
Where's thy Master?   Pup. Marry, he is gone
With the Picture of Despair, to Paddington.
   Hil. Pr'y thee run after 'un, and tell 'un he shall
Find out my Captain lodg'd at the Red Lyon
In Paddington; that's the Inn. Let 'un ask
Vor Captain Thum's; And take that for thy pains:
He may seek long enough else. Hie thee again.
   Pup. Yes, Sir, you'll look to Mrs. Bride the while?
   Hil. That I will: prethee haste.
   Awd. What, Puppy? Puppy?
   Hil. Sweet Mrs. Bride, he'll come again presently.
Here was no subtle device to get a Wench.
This Chanon has a brave pate of his own!
A  


            A Tale of a Tub. 517

A shaven pate! and a right monger, y' vaith!
This was his plot! I follow Captain Thum's?
We robb'd in Saint John's Wood? I' my t'other Hose!
I laugh to think what a fine Fool's finger they have
O' this wise Constable, in pricking out
This Captain Thum's to his Neighbours: you shall see
The Tile-man too set fire on his own Kill,
And leap into it, to save himself from hanging.
You talk of a Bride-ale, here was a Bride-ale broke
I' the nick. Well: I must yet dispatch this Bride,
To mine own master, the young Squire, and then
My task is done. Gen'woman! I have in sort
Done you some wrong, but now I'll do you what right
I can: It's true, you are a proper Woman;
But to be cast away on such a Clown-pipe
As Clay; me thinks your Friends are not so wise
As Nature might have made 'em; VVell, go too:
There's be tterbetter Fortune coming toward you,
An' you do not deject it. Take a vool's
Counsel, and do not stand i' your own light.
It may prove better than you think for: Look you.
   Awd. Alas, Sir, what is't you would ha' me do?
I'ld fain do all for the best, if I knew how.
   Hil. Forsake not a good turn when 'tis offered you;
Fair Mistris Awdrey, that's your Name, I take it.
   Awd. No Mistris, Sir, my Name is Awdrey.
   Hil. VVell, so it is, there is a bold young Squire,
The Blood of Totten, Tub, and Tripoly ——
   Awd. Squire Tub, you mean? I know him: he knows
            me too.
   Hil. He is in love with you: and more, he's mad for
            you.
   Awd. I, so he told me: in his VVits, I think.
But he's too fine for me; and has a Lady
Tub to his Mother. Here he comes himself!

Act II.    Scene IV.

Tub, Hilts, Awdrey.

Tub. 
O
 you are a trusty Governour!
   Hil. What ails you?
You do not know when yo' are well, I think:
You'ld ha' the Calf with the white Face, Sir, would you?
I have her for you here; what would you more?
   Tub. Quietness, Hilts, and hear no more of it.
   Hil. No more of it, quoth you? I do 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.
   Tub. What's he?   Hil. 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 turns be serv'd, the Devil a bit
You care for a man after, e're a Lard of you.
Like will to like, y-faith, quoth the scabb'd Squire
To th' mangy Knight, when both met in a Dish
Of butter'd Vish. One bad, there's ne'er a good;
And not a Barrel better Herring among you.
   Tub. Nay, Hilts! I pray thee grow not fram-pull now.
Turn not the bad Cow after thy good Soap.
Our plot hath hitherto tane good effect:
And should it now be troubled, or stopp'd up,
'Twould prove the utter ruine of my hopes.
I pray thee haste to Pancridge, to the Chanon:
And gi' him notice of our good success;
Will him that all things be in readiness.
Fair Awdrey, and my self, will cross the Fields,
The nearest path. Good Hilts, make thou some haste,
And meet us on the way. Come, gentle Awdrey.
   Hil. Vaith, would I had a few more geances on't:
An' you say the word, send me to Jericho.
Out-cept a man were a Post-horse, I ha' not known
The like on't; yet, an' he had kind words,

[column break]

'Twould never irke 'un. But a man may break
His heart out i' these days, and get a flap
With a Fox-tail, when he has done. And there is all.
   Tub. Nay, say not so Hilts: hold thee; there are
          Crowns ——
My love bestows on thee, for thy reward,
If Gold will please thee, all my Land shall drop
In bounty thus, to recompence thy merit.
   Hil. Tut, keep your Land, and your Gold too, Sir: I
Seek neither — nother of 'un. Learn to get
More: you will know to spend that zum you have
Early enough: you are assur'd of me.
I love you too toosecond 'too' should be omitted well, to live o' the spoil:
For your own sake, were there were no worse than I.
All is not Gold that glisters; I'll to Pancridge.
   Tub. See how his love doth melt him into Tears!
An honest faithful Servant is a Jewel.
Now th' adventrous Squire hath time and leisure
To ask his Awdrey how she do's, and hear
A grateful answer from her. She not speaks:
Hath the proud Tyran, Frost, usurp'd the Seat
Of former Beauty in my Loves fair Cheek;
Staining the Roseate tincture of her Blood,
With the dull dye of blue congealing cold?
No, sure the weather dares not so presume
To hurt an Object of her brightness. Yet,
The more I view her, she but looks so, so.
Ha? gi' me leave to search this mystery!
O now I have it: Bride, I know your grief;
The last Nights cold hath bred in you such horror
Of the assigned Bridegroom's constitution,
The Killburn Clay-pit; that Frost-bitten marle;
That lump in Courage: melting Cake of Ice;
That the conceit thereof hath almost kill'd thee.
But I must do thee good, wench, and refresh thee.
   Awd. You are a merry man, Squire Tub of Totten!
I have heard much o' your words, but not o' your deeds.
   Tub. Thou sayest true, sweet; I' ha' been too slack in
          deeds.
   Awd. Yet I was never so straight lac'd to you, Squire.
   Tub. Why, did you ever love me, gentle Awdrey?
   Awd. Love you? I cannot tell: I must hate no body,
My Father says.
   Tub. Yes, Clay and Kilbourne, Awdrey,
You must hate them.
   Awd. It shall be for your sake then.
   Tub. And for my sake shall yield you that Gratuity.
[He offers to kiss her.

   Awd. Soft and fair, Squire, there go two words to a
[She puts him back.
         bargain.
   Tub. What are those, Awdrey?
   Awd. Nay, I cannot tell.
My Mother zaid, zure, if you married me,
You'ld make me a Lady the first week: and put me
In, I know not what, the very day.
   Tub. What was it?
Speak, gentle Awdrey, thou shalt have it yet.
   Awd. 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 look
Another way upon 'em, and be proud.
   Tub. 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 she can cure.
Fain would I work my self from this conceit;
But, being flesh, I cannot. I must love her,
The naked truth is: and I will go on,
Were it for nothing, but to cross my Rivals.
Come, Awdrey: I am now resolv'd to ha' thee.


Act           


518 A Tale of a Tub.                 

Act II.    Scene V.

Preamble, Metaphore, Tub, Awdrey.

Pre. 
N
Ay, do it quickly, Miles; Why shak'st thou,
         Man?
Speak but his Name: I'll second thee my self.
   Met. What is his Name?
   Pre. Squire Tripoly, or Tub.
Any thing ———
   Met. Squire Tub, I do arrest you
I' the Queens Majesties Name, and all the Councils.
   Tub. Arrest me, Varlet?
   Pre. Keep the Peace, I charge you.
   Tub. Are you there, Justice Bramble? Where's your
          Warrant?
   Pre. The Warrant is directed here to me,
From the whole Table; wherefore I would pray you
Be patient, Squire, and make good the Peace.
   Tub. Well, at your pleasure, Justice. I am wrong'd:
Sirrah, what are you, have arrested me?
   Pre. He is a Purs'yvant at Arms, Squire Tub.
   Met. I am a Purs'yvant; see, by my Coat else.
   Tub. Well, Purs'yvant, go with me: I'll give you Bail.
   Pre. Sir, he may take no Bail. It is a Warrant,
In special from the Council, and commands
Your personal 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,
Than as your Friend and Neighbour. Let my Person
Be sever'd from my Office in the Fact,
And I am clear. Here, Purs'yvant, receive him
Into your Hands; and use him like a Gentleman.
   Tub. I thank you, Sir: But whither must I go now?
   Pre. Nay, that must not be told you, till you come
Unto the place assign'd by his Instructions.
I'll be the Maidens Convoy to her Father,
For this time, Squire.
   Tub. I thank you, Mr. Bramble.
I doubt, or fear, you will make her the Ballance
To weigh your Justice in. Pray ye do 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.
   Pre. I'll see to her.
   Tub. I see my wooing will not thrive. Arrested!
As I had set my rest up, for a Wife?
And being so fair for it, as I was —— Well, Fortune,
Thou art a blind Bawd, and a Beggar too,
To cross me thus; and let my only Rival
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 Council.
My Heart is not so light as't was i' the morning.

Act II.    Scene VI.

Hilts, Tub, Metaphore.

Hil. 
Y
Ou mean to make a Hoiden, or a Hare
 O' me, t' hunt Counter thus, and make these
            doubles:
And you mean no such thing as you send about?
Where's your Sweet-heart now, I marle?
   Tub. Oh, Hilts!
   Hil. I know you of old! ne'er halt afore a Criple.
Will you have a Cawdle? where's your Grief, Sir? Speak?
   Met. Do you hear, Friend? Do you serve this Gen-
            tleman?
   Hil. How then, Sir? what if I do? Peradventure yea:
Peradventure nay; what's that to you, Sir? Say?
   Met. Nay, pray you, Sir, I meant no harm in truth:

[column break]

But this good Gentleman is arrested.   Hil. How?
Say me that again.   Tub. Nay, Basket, never storm;
I am arrested here, upon command
From the Queens Council; and I must obey.
   Met. You say, Sir, very true, you must obey.
An honest Gentleman, in faith!
   Hil. He must?
   Tub. But that which most tormenteth me, is this,
That Justice Bramble hath got hence, my Awdrey.
   Hil. How? how? stand by a little, Sirrah, you,
With the Badge o' your Breast. Let's know, Sir, what
           you are?
   Met. I am, Sir, (pray you do not look so terribly)
A Purs'yvant.
   Hil. A Purs'yvant? Your Name, Sir?
   Met. My Name, Sir ——
   Hil. What is't? speak?   Met. Miles Metaphor;
And Justice Preamble's Clerk.
   Tub. What says he?   Hil. Pray you,
Let us alone. You are a Purs'yvant?
   Met. No, faith, Sir, would I might never stir from you,
I' is made a Purs'yvant against my Will.
   Hil. Ha! and who made you one? tell true, or my
           Will
Shall make you nothing instantly.   Met. Put up
Your frightful Blade; and your dead-doing look,
And I shall tell you all.
   Hil. Speak then the truth,
And the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
   Met. My Master, Justice Bramble, hearing your Master,
The Squire Tub, was coming on this way,
With Mrs. Awdrey, the High Constable's Daughter;
Made me a Purs'yvant: and gave me Warrant
To arrest him, so that he might get the Lady,
With whom he is gone to Pancridge, to the Vicar,
Not to her Fathers. This was the Device,
Which I beseech you, do not tell my Master.
   Tub. O wonderful! well Basket, let him rise:
And for my free Escape, forge some Excuse.
I'll post to Paddington, t' acquaint old Turfe,
With the whole business, and so stop the Marriage.
   Hil. Well, bless thee: I do wish thee Grace to keep
Thy Masters Secrets, better, or be hang'd.
   Met. I thank you for your gentle admonition.
Pray you, let me call you God-father hereafter.
And as your God-son Metaphore, I promise,
To keep my Masters Privities, seal'd up
I' the Vallies o' my trust, lock'd close for ever,
Or let me be truss'd up at Tiburne shortly.
   Hil. Thine own Wish, save, or choak thee: Come
         away.


Act III.    Scene I.

Turfe, Clench, Medlay, To-Pan, Scriben, Clay.

Tur. 
P
Assion of me, was ever man thus cross'd?
 All things run Arsie-Versie; up-side down.
High Constable! Now by our Lady o'Walsingham,
I had rather be mark'd out Tom Scavinger,
And with a Shovel make clean the High-ways,
Than 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 do:
How we shall bear us in this Huy and Cry.
We cannot find the Captain; no such man
Lodg'd at the Lion, nor came thither hurt.
The morning we ha' spent in privy search;
And by that means the Bride-Ale is deferr'd;
The Bride, she's left alone in Puppy's charge;
The Bridegroom goes under a pair of Sureties;
And held of all as a respected person.
How                


            A Tale of a Tub. 519

How should we bustle forward? Gi' some counsel,
How to bestir our stumps i' these cross ways.
   Cle. Faith, Gossip Turfe, you have, you say, Remission,
To comprehend all such as are despected:
Now would I make another privy search
Through this Town, and then you have zearch'd Two
          Towns.
   Med. Masters, take heed, let's not vind too many:
One's enough to stay the Hang-man's stomach.
There is John 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 Neigbbour'sNeighbour's Child among you:
And he (you zee) is taken on Conspition,
And two or three (they zay) what call you 'em?
Zuch as the Justices of Coram nobis
Grant —— (I forget their Names, you ha' many on 'em,
Mr. High Constable, they come to you.)
I ha' it at my tongues end —— Conny-boroughs,
To bring him straight avore the Zessions house.
   Tur. O, you mean Warrens, Neighbour, do you not?
   Med. I, I, thick same! you know 'un well enough.
   Tur. Too well, too well; wou'd I had never known
          'em.
We good Vree-holders cannot live in quiet,
But every hour new purcepts, Hues and Crys,
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 robb'd on; I, and pay his hurts,
If I should vollow it, all the good cheer
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 eat, 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 clear vrom it,
Pluck up a good heart, we'll do well enough.
If not, confess a truths name. But in faith,
I durst be sworn upon all holy Books
John Clay would ne'er commit a Robbery
On his own head.
   Cla. No: Truth is my rightful Judge:
I have kept my hands, here hence, fro' evil speaking,
Lying and slandering; and my tongue from stealing,
He do not live this day, can say, John Clay,
I ha' zeen thee, but in the way of honesty.
   Pan. Faith, Neighbour Medlay, I durst be his Bur-
          rough,
He would not look a true man in the vace.
   Cla. I take the Town to concord, where I dwell,
All Kilburn be my witness, if I were not
Begot in bashfulness, brought up in shamefac'dness:
Let 'un bring a Dog, but to my vace, that can
Zay, I ha' beat 'un, and without a vault:
Or but a Cat, will swear upon a Book,
I have as much as zet a vier her tail;
And I'll give him, or her a Crown for 'mends.
But to give out, and zay, I have robb'd a Captain!
Receive me at the latter day, if I
E're thought of any such matter; or could mind it ——
   Med. No, John, you are come of too good Personage;
I think my Gossip Clench, and Mr. Turfe,
Both think, you would ra'tempt no such voul matter.
   Tur. But how unhappily it comes to pass!
Just on the Wedding-day! I cry me mercy:
I had almost forgot the Hue 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 Goodness,
I had forgot my Daughter, all this while;

[column break]

The idle Knave hath brought no news from her.
Here comes the sneaking Puppy; What's the news?
My heart! my heart! I fear all is not well,
Some things mishap'd, that he is come without her.

Act III.    Scene II.

[To them.
                  Puppy, D. Turfe.

Pup. 
O
H, where's my Master? my Master? my Ma-
       ster?
   D. Tur. Thy Master? what would'st with thy Ma-
            ster, man?
There's thy Master.
   Tur. What's the matter, Puppy?
   Pup. Oh Master! oh Dame! oh Dame? oh Master!
   D. Tur. What say'st thou to thy Master, or thy Dame?
   Pup. Oh. John Clay! John Clay! John Clay!
   Tur. What of John Clay?
   Med. Luck grant he bring not news, he shall be hang'd.
   Cle. The world forfend, I hope it is not so well.
   Cla. Oh Lord! oh me! what shall I do? poor John!
   Pup. Oh John Clay! John Clay! John Clay!
   Cla. Alas,
That ever I was born! I will not stay by't,
For all the Tiles in Kilburne.
   D. Tur. What of Clay?
Speak, Puppy; what of him?
   Pup. He hath lost, he hath lost.
   Tur. For luck sake, speak, Puppy; what hath he lost?
   Pup. O, Awdrey, Awdrey, Awdrey!
   D. Tur. What of my Daughter Awdrey?
   Pup. I tell you, Awdrey —— do you understand me?
Awdrey, sweet Master! Awdrey, my dear Dame ——
   Tur. Where is she? what's become of her, I pray thee?
   Pup. Oh, the Serving-man! the Serving-man! the
            Serving-man!
   Tur. What talk'st thou of the Serving-man? where's
            Awdrey?
   Pup. Gone with the Serving-man, gone with the Ser-
            ving-man.
   D. Tur. Good Puppy, whither is she gone with him?
   Pup. I cannot tell: he bad me bring you word,
The Captain lay at the Lion, and before
I came again, Awdrey was gone with the Serving-man;
I tell you, Awdrey's run away with the Serving-man.
   Tur. 'Od 'socks! my woman, what shall we do now?
   D. Tur. Now, so you help not, man, I know not, I.
   Tur. This was your pomp of maids: I told you on't.
Six 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.
   Med. What of John Clay, Ball Puppy?
   Pup. He hath lost ———
   Med. His life for velony?
   Pup. No, his wife by villainy.
   Tur. Now, Villains both! oh that same Hue and Cry!
Oh Neighbours! oh that cursed Serving-man!
O maids! O wife! But John Clay, where's he?
[Clay's first mist.

How! fled for vear, zay ye? will he slip us now?
We that are Sureties, must require 'un out.
How shall we do to find the Serving-man?
Cocks bodikins! we must not lose John Clay:
Awdrey, my daughter Awdrey too! let us zend
To all the Towns, and zeek her; but alas,
The Hue and Cry, that must be look'd unto.



Act           


520 A Tale of a Tub.                 

Act III.    Scene III.

[To them.
                  Tub.

Tub. 
W
Hat, in a passion, Turfe?
   Tur. I, good Squire Tub.
Were never honest Varmers thus perplext?
   Tub. Turfe, I am privy to thy deep 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 means to marry her at Pancridge-Church.
And there is Canon Hugh, to meet them ready:
Which to prevent, you must not trust delay;
But winged speed must cross their sly intent:
Then hie thee, Turfe, haste to forbid the Banes.
   Tur. Hath Justice Bramble got my daughter Awdrey?
A little while shall he enjoy her, zure.
But O, the Hue and Cry! that hinders me:
I must pursue that, or neglect my Journey:
I'll e'en leave all, and with the patient Ass,
The over-laden Ass, throw off my burden,
And cast mine Office; pluck in my large Ears
Betimes, lest some dis-judge 'em to be Horns:
I'll leave to beat it on the broken hoof,
And ease my pasterns. I'll no more High Constables.
   Tub. I cannot chuse but smile, to see thee troubled
With such a bald, half-hatched circumstance!
The Captain was not robb'd, as is reported;
That Trick the Justice craftily deviz'd,
To break the marriage with the Tile-man, Clay.
The Hue and Cry was meerly counterfeit:
The rather may you judge it to be such,
Because the Bridegroom was describ'd to be
One of the Thieves, first in the Velony.
Which, how far 'tis from him, your selves may guess:
'Twas Justice Bramble's vetch, to get the wench.
   Tur. And is this true, Squire Tub?
   Tub. Believe me, Turfe,
As I am a Squire: or less, a Gentleman.
   Tur. I take my Office back, and my Authority,
Upon your Worship's words. Neighbours, I am
High Constable again: where's my zon Clay?
He shall be zon yet, wife, your meat by leisure:
Draw back the Spits.
   D. Tur. That's done already, Man.
   Tur. I'll break this Marriage off: and afterward,
She shall be given to her first betroth'd.
Look to the meat, wife: look well to the roast.
   Tub. I'll follow him aloof, to see the event.
   Pup. Dame, Mistriss, though I do not turn the Spit,
I hope yet the Pig's Head.
   D. Tur. Come up, Jack-sauce:
It shall be serv'd in to you.
   Pup. No, no Service;
But a Reward for Service.
   D. Tur. I still took you
For an unmannerly Puppy: Will you come,
And vetch more Wood to the Vier, Mr. Ball?
   Pup. I Wood to the Vier: I shall piss it out first:
You think to make me e'en your Ox or Ass,
Or any thing. Though I cannot right my self
On you, I'll sure revenge me on your meat.

Act III.    Scene IV.

La. Tub, Pol-Martin, Wispe, Puppy.

Pol. 
M
Adam, to Kentish-Town, we are got at length;
 But by the way we cannot meet the Squire:
Not by Inquiry can we hear of him.

[column break]

Here is Turfe's House, the Father of the Maid.
   Lad. Pol-Martin, see, the streets are strew'd with herbs,
And here hath been a Wedding, Wispe, it seems!
Pray Heaven this Bridal be not for my Son!
Good Martin, knock: knock quickly: Ask for Turfe.
My thoughts misgive me, I am in such a doubt ——
   Pol. Who keeps the House here?
   Pup. Why, the Door and Walls
Do keep the House.
   Pol. I ask then, who's within?
   Pup. Not you that are without.
   Pol. Look forth, and speak
Into the street here. Come before my Lady.
   Pup. Before my Lady? Lord have mercy upon me:
If I do come before her, she will see
The handsom'st Man in all the Town, pardee!
Now stand I vore her, what zaith velvet she?
   Lad. Sirrah, whose Man are you?
   Pup. Madam, my Masters.
   Lad. And who's thy Master?
   Pup. What you tread on, Madam.
   Lad. I tread on an old Turfe.
   Pup. That Turfe's my Master.
   Lad. A merry fellow! what's thy Name?
   Pup. Ball Puppy
They call me at home: abroad, Hannibal Puppy.
   Lad. Come hither, I must kiss thee, Valentine Puppy.
Wispe! ha' you got you a Valentine?
   Wis. None, Madam:
He's the first stranger that I saw.   Lad. To me
He is so, and such. Let's share him equally.
   Pup. Help, help, good Dame. A Rescue, and in time.
Instead of Bills, with Colstaves come; instead of Spears,
            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.

Act III.    Scene V.

[To them.
                 D. Turfe, Maids.

D. Turf. 
H
Ow now? what noise is this with you, Ball
        Puppy?
   Pup. Oh Dame! and fellows o' the Kitchin! arm,
Arm, 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 King's High-way,
To steal me from my self, and cut me in halfs,
To make one Valentine to serve 'em both;
This for my right-side, that my left-hand loves.
   D. Tur. So saucy, Puppy? to use no more reverence
Unto my Lady, and her Velvet Gown?
   Lad. 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, half-Valentine.
   Pup. I thank you, right-side: could my left as much,
'Twould make me a Man of Mark: young Hannibal!
   Lad. Dido, shall make that good; or I will for her.
Here Dido Wispe, there's for your Hannibal:
He is your Countrey-man, as well as Valentine.
   VVis. Here, Mr. Hannibal: my Ladies Bounty
For her poor Woman, VVispe.
   Pup. Brave Carthage Queen!
And such was Dido: I will ever be
Champion to her, who Juno is to thee.
   D. Tur. Your Ladyship is very welcome here.
Please you, good Madam, to go near the House.
   Lad. Turfe's Wife, I come thus far to seek thy Husband,
Having some business to impart unto him.
Is              


            A Tale of a Tub. 521

Is he at home?   D. Tur. O no, and't shall please you:
He is posted hence to Pancridge, with a witness.
Young Justice Bramble has kept level coyl
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 stopp'd.
   Pol. Madam, these tidings are not much amiss!
For if the Justice have the Maid in keep,
You need not fear the marriage of your Son.
   Lad. That somewhat easeth my suspicious breast.
Tell me, Turfe's Wife, when was my Son with Awdrey?
How long is't, since you saw him at your House?
   Pup. Dame, let me take this Rump out of your Mouth.
   D. Tur. What mean you by that, Sir?
   Pup. Rump and Tale'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 Rump.
   D. Tur. A well-bred Youth! and vull of Favour you
           are.
   Pup. What might they zay, when I were gone, if I
Not weigh'd my words? This Puppy is a Vool!
Great Hannibal's an Ass; he had no breeding:
No Lady gay, you shall not zay,
That your Val. Puppy, was so unlucky,
In speech to fail, as t' name a Tail,
Be as be may be, 'vore a fair Lady.
   Lad. Leave jesting; tell us, when you saw our Son.
   Pup. Marry, it is two hours ago.
   Lad. Sin' you saw him?
   Pnp.Pup. You might have seen him too, if you had
           look'd up.
For it shin'd as brighrbright as day.
   Lad. 'I' omitted Mean my Son.
   Pup,comma should be replaced with a period Your Sun, and our Sun, are they not all one?
   Lad. Fool, thou mistak'st; I ask'd thee, for my Son!
   Pup. I had thought there had been no more Suns
            than one.
I know not what you Ladies have, or may have.
   Pol. Did'st thou ne'er hear my Lady had a Son?
   Pup. She may have twenty; but for a Son, unless
She mean precisely, Squire Tub, her Zon,
He was here now, and brought my Master word,
That Justice Bramble had got Mrs. Awdrey.
But whither he be gone, here's none can tell.
   Lad. Martin, I wonder at this strange discourse:
The Fool it seems tells true; my Son, the Squire,
Was doubtless here this morning. For the match,
I'll smother what I think, and staying here,
Attend the Sequel of this strange beginning.
Turfe's Wife, my people, and I will trouble thee,
Until we hear some tidings of thy Husband.
The rather, for my party Valentine.

Act III.    Scene VI.

Turfe, Awdrey, Clench, Medlay, Pan, Scriben.

Tur. 
W
Ell, 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 King's Daughter, I will ride;
Above Prince Arthur.
   Cle. Or our Shore-ditch Duke.
   Med. Or Pancridge Earl.
   Pan. Or Bevis, or Sir Guy,
Who were High Constables both.
   Cle. One of Southampton ——
   Med. The t'other of VVarwick-Castle.
   Tur. You shall work it
Into a Story for me, neighbour Medlay,
Over my Chimney.
   Scri. I can give you, Sir,
A Roman Story of a Petty-Constable,

[column break]

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 business,
'Gainst Justice Appius, a Decemvir in Rome,
And Justice of Assize.
   Tur. That, that good D'ogenes!
A Learned Man is a Chronicle!
   Scri. I can tell you
A thousand, of great Pompey, Cζsar, Trajan,
All the High Constables there.
   Tur. That was their place:
They were no more.
   Scr. Dictator, and High Constable,
Were both the same.
   Med. High Constable was more, though!
He laid Dick Tator by the heels.
   Pan. Dick Toter!
H' was one o' the Waights o' the City: I ha' read o' 'un:
He was a fellow would be drunk, debauch'd ———
And he did zet 'un i' the Stocks indeed:
His name Vadian, and a cunning Toter.
   Awd. 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 been wed to Clay;
Then Squire Tub he seiz'd me on the way,
And thought to ha' had me; but he mist his aim:
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.
   Tur. I, Girl, there's ne'er a Justice on 'em all,
Shall teach the Constable to guard his own:
Let's back to Kentish-town, and there make merry;
These news will be glad tidings to my Wife:
Thou shalt have Clay, my wench. That word shall stand.
He's found by this time, sure, or else he's drown'd:
The Wedding-dinner will be spoil'd: make haste.
   Awd. Husbands, they say, grow thick; but thin are
           sown.
I care not who it be, so I have one.
   Tur. I? zay you zo? Perhaps you shall ha' none, for
           that.
   Awd. Now out on me! what shall I do then?
   Med. Sleep, Mistris Awdrey, dream on proper Men.

Act III.    Scene VII.

Hugh, Preamble, Metaphore.

Hugh. 
O
 Bone Deus! have you seen the like?
 Here was Hodge, hold thine Ear fair, whilst
              I strike.
Body o' me, how came this gear about?
   Pre. I know not, Chanon, but it falls out cross.
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 Ears of Turfe.
O Priest, had but thy slow delivery
Been nimble, and thy lazy Latine Tongue,
But run the Forms o'er, with that swift dispatch,
As had been requisite, all had been well!
   Hug. What should have been, that never lov'd the Frier;
But thus you see th' old Adage verified,
Multa cadunt inter —— you can guess the rest.
Many things fall between the Cup and Lip:
And though they touch, you are not sure to drink.
You lack'd good fortune, we 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 Ox, &c.
Good Counsels lightly never come too late.
   Pre. You, Sir, will run your Counsels out of breath.
   Hug. Spur a free Horse, he'll run himself to death.
X x x                         Sancti                    


522 A Tale of a Tub.                 

Sancti Evangelistζ! Here comes Miles!
   Pre. What news, man, with our new-made Purs'yvant?
   Met. A Pursuyvant? would I were, or more pursie,
And had more store of money; or less pursie,
And had more store of breath: you call me Purs'yvant!
But I could never vaunt of any Purse
I had, sin' yo' were my God-fathers and God-mothers,
And ga' me that nick-name.
   Pre. What now's the matter?
   Met. Nay, 'tis no matter. I ha' been simply beaten.
   Hug. What is become o' the Squire, and thy Prisoner?
   Met. The lines of Blood, run streaming from my Head,
Can speak what Rule the Squire hath kept with me.
   Pre. I pray thee, Miles, relate the manner, how?
   Met. Be't known unto you, by these Presents, then,
That I, Miles Metaphor, your Worship's Clerk,
Have e'en been beaten, to an Allegory,
By multitude of hands. Had they been but
Some five or six, I had whip'd 'em all, like Tops
In Lent, and hurl'd 'em into Hoblers-hole;
Or the next Ditch: I had crack'd all their Costards,
As nimbly as a Squirrel will crack Nuts:
And flourished like to Hercules, the Porter,
Among the Pages. But, when they came on
Like Bees about a Hive, Crows about Carrion,
Flies about Sweet-meats; nay, like Water-men
About a Fare: then was poor Metaphor,
Glad to give up the Honour of the Day,
To quit his charge to them, and run away
To save his life, only to tell this news.
   Hug. How indirectly all things have fall'n out!
I cannot chuse but wonder what they were,
Rescued your Rival from the keep of Miles:
But most of all I cannot well digest,
The manner how our purpose came to Turfe.
   Pre. Miles, I will see that all thy Hurts be drest.
As for the Squires Escape, it matters not:
We have by this means disappointed him;
And that was all the main 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 Marriage with this Clay:
Do that, and I'll reward thee jovially.
   Hug. Well said, Magister Justice. If I fit you not
With such a new, and well-laid Stratagem,
As never yet your Ears did hear a finer.period should be replaced with a comma
Call me, with Lily, Bos, Fur, Sus atq; Sacerdos.
   Pre. I hear, there's comfort in thy words yet, Chanon.
I'll trust thy Regulars, and say no more.
   Met. I'll follow too. And if the dapper Priest
Be but as cunning, point in his device,
As I was in my lye: My Master Preamble
Will stalk, as led by the Nose with these new Promises,
And fatted with Supposes of fine Hopes.

Act III.    Scene VIII.

Turfe, D. Turfe, Lady Tub, Pol-Martin, Awdrey, Puppy.

Tur. 
W
Ell, Madam, I may thank the Squire your Son:
 For, but for him, I had been over-reacht.
   D. Tur. Now Heavens Blessing light upon his Heart:
We are beholden to him, indeed, Madam.
   Lad. But can you not resolve me where he is?
Nor about what his Purposes were bent?
   Tur. Madam, they no whit were concerning me:
And therefore was I less inquisitive.
   Lad. Fair Maid, in faith, speak truth, and not dissemble:
Do's he not often come, and visit you?
   Awd. His Worship, now and then, please you, takes
           pains
To see my Father and Mother: But, for me,

[column break]

I know my self too mean for his high thoughts
To stoop at, more than asking a light question,
To make him merry, or to pass his time.
   Lad. A Sober Maid! call for my Woman, Martin.
   Pol. The Maids, and her half-Valentine, have ply'd her
With courtsie of the Bride-Cake, and the Bowle,
As she is laid a while.   Lad. O, let her rest!
We will cross o'er to Canterbury, in the interim;
And so make home. Farewel, good Turf, and thy Wife.
I wish your Daughter Joy.
   Tur. Thanks to your Ladiship:
Where is John Clay now? have you seen him yet?
   D. Tur. No, he has hid himself out of the way,
For fear o' the Hue and Cry.
   Tur. What, walks that Shadow
Avore 'un still? Puppy, go seek 'un out,
Search all the corners that he haunts unto,
And call 'un forth. We'll once more to the Church,
And try our vortunes. Luck, Son Valentine:
Where are the Wise Men all of Finsbury?
   Pup. Where WiseMen'Wise Men' should be; at the Ale, and Bride-
            Cake.
I would this Couple had their Destiny,
Or to be hang'd, or married out o' the way:
[Enter the Neighbours to Turfe.

Man cannot get the mount'nance of an Egg-shell,
To stay his Stomach. Vaith, vor mine own part,
I have zup'd up so much Broth, as would have cover'd
A Leg o' Beef, o'er Head and Ears, i' the Porridge-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 Stomach, and long,
Till by some honest Midwife-piece of Beef,
I be deliver'd of it: I must go now,
And hunt out for this Kilbourn Calf, John Clay:
Whom where to find, I know not, nor which way.

Act III.    Scene IX.

[To them.
                  Chanon Hugh, like Captain Thumbs.

Hug. 
T
Hus as a Beggar in a King's disguise,
 Or an old Cross, well sided with a May-pole,
Comes Chanon Hugh, accoutred, as you see,
Disguis'd, Soldado like: Mark his Device:
The Chanon, is that Captain Thum's, was robb'd:
These bloody Scars upon my Face, are Wounds:
This Scarff upon mine Arm, shews my late Hurts:
And thus am I to gull the Constable.
Now have among you, for a Man at Arms:
Friends, by your leave; which of you is one Turfe?
   Tur. Sir, I am Turfe, if you would speak with me.
   Hug. With thee, Turfe, if thou beest High Constable.
   Tur. I am both Turfe, Sir, and High Constable.
   Hug. Then, Turfe, or Scurfe, High, or Low Constable:
Know, I was once a Captain at Saint Quintins,
And passing cross the ways over the Countrey,
This Morning, betwixt this and Hamsted-heath,
Was by a Crew of Clowns robb'd, bobb'd, and hurt.
No sooner had I got my Wounds bound up,
But with much pain, 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 Toby Turfe;
Who have let fall (they say) the Hue and Cry:
And you shall answer it afore the Justice.
   Tur. Heaven and Hell, Dogs, Devils, what is this?
Neighbours, was ever Constable thus cross'd?
What shall we do?
   Med. Faith, all go hang our selves:
I know no other way to scape the Law.
   Pup. News, news, O news ——
   Tur. What, hast thou found out Clay?
   Pup. No, Sir, the news is, that I cannot find him.