University of Virginia Library

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.

Hug.
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.
I shall have a chance o' the dice for't, I hope, let 'hem ene run: And—

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.
And men, you know, in such extremities,
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:
A Gentleman and a halfe; almost a Knight;
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.