University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

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

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

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

Hit.
Let Kentish-Towne, or Pancridge come to us,
If either will: I will goe home againe.

Tub.
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.

Hil.
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.

Enter Metaphor.
Tub.
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.

Hil.
Let mee alone, Ile use him in his kind.

Met.
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 fit 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?

Hil.
I am neither nick, nor in the nick: therefore
You lie Sir Metaphor.

Met.
Lye? how?

Hil.
Lye so Sir.

He strikes up his heeles.
Met.
I lye nor yet i' my throat.

Hil.
Thou ly'st o' the ground.
Do'st thou know me?

Met.
Yes, I did know you too late.

Hil.
What is my name then?

Met.
Basket.

Hil.
Basket? what?

Met.
Basket, the Great—

Hil.
The Great? what?

Met.
Lubber—
I should say Lover, of the Squire his Master.

Hil.
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.

Met.
Then Basket put thy smiter up, and heare;
I dare not tell the truth to a drawne sword.

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

Met.
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?

Hil.
No, not I;
Thy breeches yet are honest.

Met.
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.

Tub.
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?

Met.
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.

Tub.
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.

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

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

Met.
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 selfe:
Downe o' your knees, and pray that honest Miles
May breake his neck ere he get ore two stiles.