University of Virginia Library

Scene VI.

Hilts. Tub. Metaphor.
Hil.
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?

Tub.
Oh Hilts!

Hil.
I know you of old! nere halt afore a Criple.
Will you have a Cawdle? where's your griefe, Sir? speake?

Met.
Doe you heare friend? Doe you serve this Gentleman?

Hil.
How then, Sir? what if I doe? peradventure yea:
Peraventure nay, what's that to you Sir? Say.

Met.
Nay, pray you Sir, I meant no harme in truth:
But this good Gentleman is arrested.

Hil.
How?
Say me that againe.

Tub.
Nay Basket, never storme;
I am arrested here, upon command
From the Queenes Councell; 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 goe hence my Awdrey.

Hil.
How? how? stand by a little, sirrah, you
With the badge o' your brest. Let's know Sir what you are?

Met.
I am Sir (pray you doe not looke so terribly)
A Purs'yvant.

Hil.
A Purs'yvant? your name Sir?

Met.
My name Sir—

Hil.
What is't? speake?

Met.
Miles Metaphor;
And Justice Preambles Clarke.

Tub.
What sayes he?

Hil.
Pray you,
Let us alone. You are a Purs'yvant?

Met.
No faith, Sir, would I might never stirre 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 frightfull Blade; and your dead-doing looke,
And I shall tell you all.

Hil.
Speake then the truth,
And the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Met.
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.

Tub.
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.

Hil.
Well, blesse thee: I doe with thee grace, to keepe
Thy Masters secrets, better, or be hang'd.

Met.
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.

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