 | The Bride |  |
The fourth Scene.
To him the Blades, first one, then the rest and afterwards the Wenches.1 Bla.
Who sir?
Drawer brings in wine and Exit.
Kick.
Me have noting to say to you
1 Bla.
I had thought you had sent for me.
Kick.
You be no vench Monsieur.
1 Bla.
Would you have me to procure you one?
Kick.
Me give you de vine and you fetch a de vench.
1 Bla.
Do you take a Blade for a Pandare?
Kick.
You no quarrell vid me?
1 Bla.
Yes and pisse upon your back canopie, that shadowes
your halfe roasted kidneis if you dishonor a Blade with the least
suspition. Yet in a faire way I care not to exchange a glasse or
two.
Kick.
Vid all mine art. But pray' Monsieur be you no so hot
in de mout.
1 Bla.
Do you disparage my Tobaco? I assure you sir it is
right Spanish.
Kick.
Me can no endure de Spanish.
1 Bla.
Not your Blade? why your French temper will not
beare an edge to chop rotten lytter for morter.
Kick.
You speak not like a jentelman dat love not to be a al
mode.
1 Bla.
Poxe on your mode
Kick.
Dat be no good vard Monsieur.
1 Bla.
Doth it touch you sir? why 'tis your credit to be markt
by that French Herald for a gentleman of fashion.
Kick.
Me can be no more patiant. Me cut in two tree two-sand
peece for dishonor the French jentelman.
2 Bla.
Will you so sir? we are for you.
As he offers to draw, the Blades come in and binde him.
Kick.
Oh de base coward.
3 Bla.
We shall be valiant enough to overcome your mettal.
Kick.
Help help; de teeves rob me.
Picks his Pocket.
1 Bla.
No no Monsieur, you shal have a vench for your mony,
Kick.
De gran English pock on you all Vat you do vid me?
1 Bla.
Worke a cure (if we can) on the itch in your blood,
that hath infected many of our wenches, and made them dangerous
to us.
Kick.
Oh diable! que faite vous?
2 Bla.
He speakes ends out of a puppet play.
Kick.
Help help; de teeves kill me beate me.
1 Bla.
Peace Monsieur; you shall have a wench presently.
Wine, Musick, and whilst you in dalliance meet
Wee'l tread a measure with our nimble feet
Shall tempt you to be sportive, if desire
Want whetting and renew the active fire.
Come wenches. Monsieur ther's a she for you.
Your meat is paid for; if you lik't fall to.
Having taken away his money, sword and bels they sing and dance about him, whilst an ilfavour'd greasy wench offers sometimes to kisse him.
Kick.
Oh fye fee. De teef, rogue poison me vid de stinking
Maquarell.
1 Bla.
Lett's leave him now t'his patience, and go share.
And when you want a wench to coole you Monsieur,
You know wher's those can take your courage down sir.
Exeunt.
Kick.
Oh de villain, de Laroone! my sor an my money; and
de slut leave a varse stinck behind her den de Fransh Cook kishin
stuffe
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