 | A Tale of a Tub |  |
Act IV.
Scene I.
Preamble. Hugh, Turfe. Metaphor.Pre.
Keepe out those fellowes; Ile ha' none come in,
But the High Constable, the man of peace,
And the Queenes Captaine, the brave man of warre.
Now neighbour Turfe, the cause why you are call'd,
Before me by my warrant, but unspecified,
Is this; and pray you marke it thoroughly!
Here is a Gentleman, and as it seemes,
Both of good birth, faire speech, and peaceable,
Who was this morning rob'd here in the wood:
You for your part a man of good report,
Of credit, landed, and of faire demeanes,
And by authority, high Constable;
Are not withstanding touch'd in this complaint,
Of being carelesse in the Huy and Cry.
I cannot choose but grieve a Soldiers losse:
And I am sory too for your neglect,
Being my neighbour; this is all I object.
Hug.
This is not all; I can alledge far more,
And almost urge him for an accessorie.
Good Mr Justice gi' me leave to speake,
For I am Plaintife. Let not neighbour-hood
Make him secure, or stand on priviledge.
Pre.
Sir, I dare use no partiality:
Object then what you please, so it be truth.
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This more: and which is more, then he can answer,
Beside his letting fall the Huy, and Cry
He doth protect the man, charg'd with the felonie,
And keepes him hid I heare, within his house,
Because he is affied unto his Daughter.
Tur.
I doe defie 'hun, so shall shee doe too.
I pray your worships favour, le' me have hearing.
I doe convesse, 'twas told me such a velonie,
And't not disgriev'd me a little when 'twas told me,
Vor I was going to Church, to marry Awdrey:
And who should marry her, but this very Clay,
Who was charg'd to be the chiefe theife o' hun all.
Now I (the halter stick me, if I tell,
Your worships any leazins did fore-thinke 'un
The truest man, till he waz run away.
I thought, I had had 'un as zure as in a zaw-pit,
Or i' mine Oven. Nay, i' the Towne-pound.
I was za sure o' hun: I'ld ha' gi'n my life for 'un,
Till he did start. But now, I zee 'un guilty,
Az var as I can looke at 'un. Would you ha' more?
Hug.
Yes, I will have Sir what the Law will give me.
You gave your word to see him safe, forth comming;
I challenge that: But, that is forfeited;
Beside, your carelesnesse in the pursuit,
Argues your slacknesse, and neglect of dutie,
Which ought be punish'd with severity.
Pre.
He speakes but reason Turfe. Bring forth the man,
And you are quit: But otherwise, your word
Binds you to make amends for all his losse,
And thinke your selfe befriended, if he take it
Without a farder suit, or going to law.
Come to a composition with him, Turfe:
The Law is costly, and will draw on charge.
Tur.
Yes, I doe know, I vurst mun vee a Returney,
And then make legges to my great man o' Law,
To be o' my counsell, and take trouble-vees,
And yet zay nothing vor me, but devise
All district meanes, to ransackle me o' my money.
A Pest'lence prick the throats o' hun. I doe know hun
As well az I waz i' their bellies, and brought up there.
What would you ha' me doe? what would you aske of me?
Hug.
I aske the restitution of my money;
And will not bate one penny o' the summe:
Foure score, and five pound. I aske, besides,
Amendment for my hurts; my paine, and suffering
Are losse enough for me, Sir, to sit downe with;
Ile put it to your worship; what you award me,
Ile take; and gi' him a generall release.
Pre.
And what say you now, neighbour Turfe?
Tur.
I put it
Ene to your worships bitterment, hab, nab.
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Pre.
Faith then Ile pray you, 'cause he is my neighbour,
To take a hundred pound, and give him day.
Hug.
Saint Valentines day, I will, this very day,
Before Sunne set: my bond is forfeit else.
Tur.
Where will you ha' it paid?
Hug.
Faith, I am a stranger
Here i' the countrey: Know you Chanon Hugh,
The Vicar of Pancrace?
Tur.
Yes, wee who not him?
Hug.
Ile make him my Attorney to receive it,
And give you a discharge.
Tur.
Whom shall I send for't?
Pre.
Why, if you please, send Metaphore my Clarke.
And Turfe, I much commend thy willingnesse;
It's argument of thy integrity.
Tur.
But my integrity shall be my zelfe still:
Good Mr. Metaphore, give my wife this key;
And doe but whisper it into her hand:
(She knowes it well inow) bid her, by that
Deliver you the two zeal'd bags o' silver,
That lie i' the corner o' the cup-bord, stands
At my bed-side, they' are viftie pound a peece;
And bring 'hem to your Master.
Met.
If I prove not
As just a Carrier as my friend Tom Long was,
Then call me his curtall, change my name of Miles,
To Guile's, Wile's, Pile's, Bile's, or the foulest name
You can devise, to crambe with, for ale.
Hug.
Come hither Miles, bring by that token, too,
Faire Awdrey; say her father sent for her:
Say Clay is found, and waits at Pancrace Church,
Where I attend to marry them in haste.
For (by this meanes) Miles I may say't to thee,
Thy Master must to Awdrey married be.
But not a word but mum: goe get thee gone;
Be warie of thy charge, and keepe it close.
Met.
O super-dainty Chanon! Vicar in coney,
Make no delay, Miles, but away.
And bring the wench, and money.
Hug.
Now Sir, I see you meant but honestly;
And, but that busines cals me hence away,
I would not leave you, till the sunne were lower.
But Mr. Justice, one word, Sir, with you.
By the same token, is your Mistris sent for
By Metaphore your Clarke, as from her Father.
Who when she comes, Ile marry her to you,
Vnwitting to this Turfe, who shall attend
Me at the parsonage. This was my plot:
Which I must now make good; turne Chanon, againe,
In my square cap. I humbly take my leave.
Pre.
Adieu, good Captaine. Trust me, neighbour Turfe,
He seemes to be a sober Gentleman:
But this distresse hath somewhat stir'd his patience.
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Apt not themselves to points of courtesie;
I'am glad you ha' made this end.
Tur.
You stood my friend:
I thanke your Justice-worship; pray you be
Prezent anone, at tendring o' the money,
And zee me have a discharge; Vot I ha' no craft
I' your Law quiblins.
Pre.
Ile secure you, neighbour.
The Scene interloping.
Medlay. Clench. Pan. Scriben.
Med.
Indeed, there is a woundy luck in names, Sirs,
And a maine mysterie, an' a man knew where.
To vind it. My God-sires name, Ile tell you,
Was In-and-In Shittle, and a Weaver he was,
And it did fit his craft: for so his Shittle
Went in, and in, still: this way, and then that way.
And he nam'd me, In-and In Medlay: which serves
A Joyners craft, bycause that wee doe lay
Things in and in, in our worke. But, I am truly
Architectonicus professor, rather:
That is (as one would zay) an Architect.
Cle.
As I am a Varrier, and a Visicarie:
Horse-smith of Hamsted, and the whole Towne Leach—.
Med.
Yes, you ha' done woundy cures, Gossip Clench.
Cle.
An' I can zee the stale once, through a Vrine-hole,
Ile give a shrew'd ghesse, be it man, or beast.
I cur'd an Ale-wife once, that had the staggers
Worse then five horses, without rowelling.
My God-phere was a Rabian, or a Iew,
(You can tell D'oge!) They call'd un Doctor Rasi.
Scr.
One Rasis was a great Arabick Doctor.
Cle.
Hee was King Harry's Doctor, and my God-phere.
Pan.
Mine was a merry Greeke, To-Pan, of Twyford:
A joviall Tinker, and a stopper of holes;
Who left me mettall-man of Belsise, his heire.
Med.
But what was yours D'oge?
Scr.
Vaith, I cannot tell
If mine were kyrsind, or no. But, zure hee had
A kyrsin name, that he left me, Diogenes.
A mighty learned man, but pest'lence poore.
Vor, h' had no house, save an old Tub, to dwell in,
(I vind that in records) and still he turn'd it
I' the winds teeth, as't blew on his back-side,
And there they would lie rowting one at other,
A weeke, sometimes.
Med.
Thence came A Tale of a Tub;
And the virst Tale of a Tub, old D'ogenes Tub.
Scr.
That was avore Sir Peter Tub, or his Lady.
Pan.
I, or the Squire their sonne, Tripoli Tub.
Cle.
The Squire is a fine Gentleman!
Med.
He is more:
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Within zixe inches: That's his true measure.
Cle.
Zure, you can gage 'hun.
Med.
To a streake, or lesse:
I know his d'ameters, and circumference:
A Knight is sixe diameters, and a Squire
Is vive, and zomewhat more: I know't by compasse,
And skale of man. I have upo' my rule here,
The just perportions of a Knight, a Squire;
With a tame Justice, or an Officer, rampant,
Vpo' the bench, from the high Constable
Downe to the Head-borough, or Tithing-man;
Or meanest Minister o' the peace, God save 'un.
Pan.
Why, you can tell us by the Squire, Neighbour,
Whence he is call'd a Constable, and whaffore.
Med.
No, that's a booke-case: Scriben can doe that.
That's writing and reading, and records.
Scr.
Two words,
Cyning and Staple, make a Constable:
As wee'd say, A hold, or stay for the King.
Cle.
All Constables are truly Iohn's for the King,
What ere their names are; be they Tony, or Roger.
Med.
And all are sworne, as vingars o' one hand,
To hold together 'gainst the breach o' the peace;
The High Constable is the Thumbe, as one would zay,
The hold-fast o' the rest.
Pan.
Pray luck he speed
Well i' the busines, betweene Captaine Thums,
And him.
Med.
Ile warrant 'un for a groat:
I have his measures here in Rithmetique.
How he should beare un selfe in all the lines
Of's place, and office: Let's zeeke 'un out.
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.
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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.
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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.
Scene III.
Tub. Hilts.Tub.
Make haste then: we will wait here thy returne.
This luck unlook'd for, hath reviv'd my hopes,
Which were opprest with a darke melancholly.
In happy time, we linger'd on the way,
To meet these summons of a better sound,
Which are the essence of my soules content.
Hil.
This heartlesse fellow; shame to serving-men;
Staine of all livories; what feare makes him doe!
How sordid, wretched, and unworthy things;
Betray his Masters secrets, ope the closet
Of his devises, force the foolish Justice,
Make way for your Love, plotting of his owne:
Like him that digs a trap, to catch another,
And falls into't himselfe!
Tub.
So wou'd I have it.
And hope 'twill prove a jest to twit the Justice with.
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But that this poore white-liver'd Rogue should do't?
And meerely out of feare?
Tub.
And hope of money, Hilts.
A valiant man will nible at that bait.
Hil.
Who, but a foole, will refuse money proffer'd?
Tub.
And sent by so good chance. Pray heaven he speed.
Hil.
If he come empty-headed, let him count
To goe back empty-headed; Ile not leave him
So much of braine in's pate, with pepper and vineger,
To be serv'd in for sawce, to a Calves head.
Tub.
Thou serv'st him rightly, Hilts.
Hil.
Ile seale az much
With my hand, as I dare say now with my tongue;
But if you get the Lasse from Dargison,
What will you doe with her?
Tub.
Wee'll thinke o' that
When once wee have her in possession, Governour.
Scene IV.
Puppy. Metaphore. Awdrey.Pup.
You see wee trust you, Mr. Metaphore,
With Mrs. Awdrey: pray you use her well,
As a Gentle-woman should be us'd. For my part,
I doe incline a little to the serving-man;
Wee have beene of a coat—I had one like yours:
Till it did play me such a sleevelesse errand,
As I had nothing where to put mine armes in,
And then I threw it off. Pray you goe before her,
Serving-man-like: and see that your nose drop not.
As for example; you shall see me: marke,
How I goe afore her. So doe you: sweet Miles,
She for her owne part, is a woman cares not
What man can doe unto her, in the way
Of honesty, and good manners. So farewell
Faire Mrs. Awdrey: Farewell Mr. Miles.
I ha' brought you thus farre, onward o' your way:
I must goe back now to make cleane the roomes,
Where my good Lady has beene. Pray you commend mee
To Bride-groome Clay; and bid him beare up stiffe.
Met.
Thanke you good Hanniball Puppy; I shall fit
The leg of your commands, with the straight buskins
Of dispatch presently.
Pup.
Farewell fine Metaphore.
Met.
Come gentle Mistris, will you please to walke?
Awd.
I love not to be led: I'd goe alone.
Met.
Let not the mouse of my good meaning, Lady,
Be snap'd up in the trap of your suspition,
To loose the taile there, either of her truth,
Or swallow'd by the Cat of misconstruction.
Awd.
You are too sinicall for me; speake plaine Sir.
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Scene V.
Tub. Awdrey. Hilts. Metaphore.To them.
Lady. Pol-marten.
Tub.
Welcome againe my Awdrey: welcome Love:
You shall with me; in faith deny me not.
I cannot brook the second hazzard Mistris.
Awd.
Forbeare Squire Tub, as mine owne mother sayes,
I am not for your mowing. Youle be flowne
Ere I be fledge.
Hil.
Hast thou the money Miles?
Met.
Here are two bags, there's fiftie pound in each.
Tub.
Nay Awdrey, I possesse you for this time:
Sirs; Take that coyne betweene you, and divide it.
My pretty sweeting give me now the leave
To challenge love, and marriage at your hands.
Awd.
Now, out upon you, are you not asham'd?
What will my Lady say? In faith I thinke
She was at our house: And I thinke shee ask'd for you:
And I thinke she hit me i'th' teeth with you,
I thanke her Ladiship, and I thinke she meanes
Not to goe hence, till she has found you. How say you?
Tub.
Was then my Lady Mother at your house?
Let's have a word aside.
Awd.
Yes, twenty words.
Lad.
'Tis strange, a motion, but I know not what,
Comes in my mind, to leave the way to Totten,
And turne to Kentish-Towne, againe my journey:
And see my sonne Pol-marten with his Awdrey:
Erewhile we left her at her fathers house:
And hath he thence remov'd her in such haste!
What shall I doe? shall I speake faire, or chide?
Pol.
Madam, your worthy sonne, with dutious care,
Can governe his affections: Rather then
Breake off their conference some other way,
Pretending ignorance of what you know.
Tub.
And this all, faire Awdrey: I am thine.
Lad.
Mine you were once, though scarcely now your own.
Hil.
'Slid my Lady! my Lady!
Met.
Is this my Lady bright?
Tub.
Madam, you tooke me now a little tardie.
Lad.
At prayers, I thinke you were: what, so devout
Of late, that you will shrive you to all Confessors
You meet by chance? Come, goe with me, good Squire,
And leave your linnen: I have now a busines,
And of importance, to impart unto you.
Tub.
Madam, I pray you, spare me but an houre;
Please you to walke before, I follow you.
Lad.
It must be now, my busines lies this way.
Tub.
Will not an houre hence, Madam, excuse me?
Lad.
Squire, these excuses argue more your guilt.
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Which the poore Tile-man scarce will thanke you for.
What? will you goe?
Tub.
I ha' tane a charge upon me,
To see this Maid conducted to her Father,
Who, with the Chanon Hugh, staies her at Pancrace,
To see her married to the same Iohn Clay.
Lad.
Tis very well; but Squire take you no care.
Ile send Pol-marten with her, for that office:
You shall along with me; it is decreed.
Tub.
I have a little busines, with a friend Madam.
Lad.
That friend shall stay for you, or you for him.
Pol-marten; Take the Maiden to your care;
Commend me to her Father.
Tub.
I will follow you.
Lad.
Tut, tell not me of following.
Tub.
Ile but speake
A word.
Lad.
No whispering: you forget your selfe,
And make your love too palpable: A Squire?
And thinke so meanely? fall upon a Cow-shard?
You know my mind. Come, Ile to Turfe's house,
And see for Dido, and our Valentine.
They all goe out but Pol-marten and Awdrey.
Pol-marten, looke to your charge; Ile looke to mine.
Pol.
I smile to thinke after so many proffers
This Maid hath had, she now should fall to me:
That I should have her in my custody:
Twere but a mad trick to make the essay,
And jumpe a match with her immediately:
She's faire, and handsome: and shee's rich enough:
Both time, and place minister faire occasion:
Have at it then: Faire Lady, can you love?
Awd.
No Sir, what's that?
Pol.
A toy, which women use.
Awd.
If't be a toy, it's good to play withall.
Pol.
Wee will not stand discoursing o' the toy:
The way is short, please you to prov't Mistris?
Awd.
If you doe meane to stand so long upon it;
I pray you let me give it a short cut, Sir.
Pol.
It's thus, faire Maid: Are you dispos'd to marry?
Awd.
You are dispos'd to aske.
Pol.
Are you to grant?
Awd.
Nay, now I see you are dispos'd indeed.
Pol.
I see the wench wants but a little wit;
And that defect her wealth may well supply:
In plaine termes, tell me, Will you have me Awdrey?
Awd.
In as plaine termes, I tell you who would ha' me.
Iohn Clay would ha' me, but he hath too hard hands;
I like not him: besides, hee is a thiefe.
And Justice Bramble, he would faine ha' catch'd me:
But the young Squire, hee, rather then his life,
Would ha' me yet; and make me a Lady, hee sayes,
And be my Knight; to doe me true Knights service,
Before his Lady Mother. Can you make me
A Lady, would I ha' you?
Pol.
I can gi' you
A silken Gowne, and a rich Petticoat:
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I find her humour, and I will pursue it.
Scene VI.
Lady. D. Turfe. Squire Tub. Hilts. Puppy. Clay.Lad.
And as I told thee, shee was intercepted
By the Squire here, my sonne: and this bold Ruffin
His man, who safely would have carried her
Vnto her Father; and the Chanon Hugh;
But for more care of the security,
My Huisher hath her now, in his grave charge.
D. Tur.
Now on my faith, and holy-dom, we are
Beholden to your worship. She's a Girle,
A foolish Girle, and soone may tempted be:
But if this day passe well once ore her head,
Ile wish her trust to her selfe. For I have beene
A very mother to her, though I say it.
Tub.
Madam, 'tis late, and Pancridge is i' your way:
I thinke your Ladiship forgets your selfe.
Lad.
Your mind runs much on Pancridge. Well, young Squire,
The black Oxe never trod yet O your foot:
These idle Phant'sies will forsake you one day.
Come Mrs. Turfe, will you goe take a walke
Over the fields to Pancridge, to your husband?
D. Tur.
Madam, I had beene there an houre agoe:
But that I waited on my man Ball Puppy.
What Ball I say? I thinke the idle slouch
Be falne asleepe i' the barne, he stayes so long.
Pup.
Sattin, i' the name of velvet Sattin, Dame!
The Divell! O the Divell is in the barne:
Helpe, helpe, a legion—Spirit legion,
Is in the barne! in every straw a Divell.
Tur.
Why do'st thou bawle so Puppy? Speake, what ailes thee?
Pup.
My name's Ball Puppy, I ha' seene the Divell
Among the straw: O for a Crosse! a Collop
Of Friar Bacon, or a conjuring stick
Of Doctor Faustus! Spirits are in the barne.
Tub.
How! Spirits in the barne? Basket, goe see.
Hil.
Sir, an' you were my Master ten times over,
And Squire to boot; I know, and you shall pardon me:
Send me 'mong Divels? I zee you love me not:
Hell be at their game: Ile not trouble them.
Tub.
Goe see; I warrant thee there's no such matter.
Hil.
An' they were Giants, 't were another matter.
But Divells! No, if I be torne in peeces,
What is your warrant worth? Ile see the Feind
Set fire o' the barne, ere I come there.
102
Now all Zaints blesse us, and if he be there,
He is an ugly spright, I warrant.
Pup.
As ever
Held flesh-hooke, Dame, or handled fire-forke rather:
They have put me in a sweet pickle, Dame:
But that my Lady-Valentine smels of muske,
I should be asham'd to presse into this presence.
Lad.
Basket, I pray thee see what is the miracle!
Tub.
Come, goe with me: Ile lead. Why stand'st thou man?
Hil.
Cocks pretious Master, you are not mad indeed?
You will not goe to hell before your time?
Tub.
Why art thou thus afraid?
Hil.
No, not afraid:
But by your leave, Ile come no neare the barne.
Tur.
Puppy! wilt thou goe with me?
Pup.
How? goe with you?
Whither, into the Barne? To whom, the Divell?
Or to doe what there? to be torne 'mongst 'hum?
Stay for my Master, the High Constable,
Or In-and-In, the Head-borough; let them goe,
Into the Barne with warrant; seize the Feind;
And set him in the stocks for his ill rule:
'Tis not for me that am but flesh and blood,
To medle with 'un. Vor I cannot, nor I wu' not.
Lad.
I pray thee Tripoly, looke, what is the matter?
Tub.
That shall I Madam.
Hil.
Heaven protect my Master.
I tremble every joynt till he be back.
Pup.
Now, now, even now they are tearing him in peeces:
Now are they tossing of his legs, and armes,
Like Loggets at a Peare-tree: Ile to the hole,
Peepe in, and looke whether he lives or dies.
Hil.
I would not be i' my Masters coat for thousands.
Pup.
Then pluck it off, and turne thy selfe away.
O the Divell! the Divell! the Divell!
Hil.
Where man? where?
D. Tur.
Alas that ever wee were borne. So neere too?
Pup.
The Squire hath him in his hand, and leads him
Out by the Collar.
D. Tur.
O this is Iohn Clay.
Lad.
Iohn Clay at Pancrace, is there to be married.
Tub.
This was the spirit reveld i' the Barne.
Pup.
The Divell hee was: was this he was crawling
Among the Wheat-straw? Had it beene the Barley,
I should ha' tane him for the Divell in drinke;
The Spirit of the Bride-ale: But poore Iohn,
Tame Iohn of Clay, that sticks about the bung-hole—
Hil.
If this be all your Divell, I would take
In hand to conjure him: But hell take me
If ere I come in a right Divels walke,
If I can keepe me out on't.
Tub.
Well meant Hilts.
Lad.
But how came Clay thus hid here i' the straw,
When newes was brought, to you all hee was at Pancridge;
And you beleev'd it?
D. Tur.
Justice Brambles man
Told me so, Madam: And by that same token,
And other things, he had away my Daughter,
103
Lad.
Where's the Squire?
Is hee gone hence?
Tub.
H' was here Madam, but now.
Clay.
Is the Huy and Cry past by?
Pup.
I, I, Iohn Clay.
Clay.
And am I out of danger to be hang'd?
Pup.
Hang'd Iohn? yes sure; unlesse, as with the Proverbe,
You meane to make the choice of your owne gallowes.
Cla.
Nay, then all's well, hearing your newes Ball Pupy,
You ha' brought from Paddington, I ene stole home here,
And thought to hide me, in the Barne ere since.
Pup.
O wonderfull! and newes was brought us here,
You were at Pancridge, ready to be married.
Cla.
No faith, I nere was furder then the Barne.
D. Tur.
Haste Puppy. Call forth Mistris Dido Wispe,
My Ladies Gentle-woman, to her Lady;
And call your selfe forth, and a couple of maids,
To waite upon me: we are all undone!
My Lady is undone! her fine young sonne,
The Squire is got away.
Lad.
Haste, haste, good Valentine.
D. Tur.
And you Iohn Clay; you are undone too! All!
My husband is undone, by a true key,
But a false token: And my selfe's undone,
By parting with my Daughter, who'll be married
To some body, that she should not, if wee haste not.
| A Tale of a Tub | |