University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

Turfe, Clay. Medlay. Clench. To-Pan. Scriben. Puppy.
Tur.
Zonne Clay, cheare 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 houre, 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, Iohn Clay, keepe still on his old gate:
Wedding, and hanging, both goe at a rate.

Tur.
Well said To-Pan: you ha' still the hap to hit
The naile o' the head at a close: I thinke there never
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.

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

Tur.
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.

D. Tur.
Why, if you keepe so many, Mr. Turfe,
Why, should not all present our service to her?

Tur.
Your service? good! I thinke you'll write to her shortly,
Your very loving and obedient Mother.

Tur.
Come, send your Maids off, I will have 'hem sent
Home againe wife: I love no traines o' Kent,
Or Christendome, as they say.

Sc.
We will not back,
And leave our Dame.

Mad.
Why should her worship lack
Her taile of Maids, more then you doe of men?

Tur.
What, mutinin Madge?

Io.
Zend back your C'lons agen.
And wee will vollow.

All.
Else wee'll guard our Dame.

Tur.
I ha' zet the nest of waspes 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 musicke goe afore your child,
To Church, to cheare her heart up this cold morning.

Tur.
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.

D. Turfe.
Ile ha' 'hem play at dinner.

Ite.
She is i'th' right, Sir; vor your wedding dinner
Is starv'd without the Musicke.

Med.
If the Pies
Come not in piping hot, you ha' lost that Proverbe.

Tur.
I yield to truth: wife are you sussified?

Pan.
A right good man! when he knowes 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.