 | The Bloody Brother ; or, Rollo |  |
SCENE II.
Enter the Guard, 3 or 4 Boys, then the Sheriff, Cook, Yeoman of the Cellar, Butler, Pantler to execution.1 Guard.
Come, bring in these fellows, on, away with 'em.
2 Guard.
Make room before there, room for the Prisoners.
1 Boy.
Let's run before, Boys, we shall have no places else.
2 Boy.
Are these the youths?
Cook.
These are the youths you look for,
And, pray my honest friends, be not so hasty,
There will be nothing done till we come, I assure you.
3 Boy.
Here's a wise hanging; are there no more?
Butl.
Do you hear, Sir? you may come in for your share
if you please.
Cook.
My friend, if you be unprovided of a hanging.
439
A reasonable penny-worth.
2 Boy.
Afore, afore, Boys, here's enough to make us sport.
Yeom.
'Pox take you,
Do you call this sport? are these your recreations?
Must we be hang'd to make you mirth?
Cook.
Do you hear?
You Custard Pate, we go to't for high Treason,
An honourable fault: thy foolish Father
Was hang'd for stealing Sheep.
Boys.
Away, away, Boys.
Cook.
Do you see how that sneaking Rogue looks now?
You, Chip, Pantler, you peaking Rogue, that provided us
these Necklaces; you poor Rogue, you costive Rogue, you.
Pant.
Pray, pray, fellows.
Cook.
'Pray for thy crusty soul? where's your reward now,
Goodman Manchet, for your fine discovery?
I do beseech you, Sir, where are your Dollers?
Draw with your fellows and be hang'd.
Yeom.
He must now;
For now he shall be hang'd first, that's his comfort,
A place too good for thee, thou meal-mouth'd Rascal.
Coo.
Hang handsomly for shame, come, leave your praying.
You peaking Knave, and dye like a good Courtier,
Dye honestly, and like a man; no preaching,
With I beseech you take example by me,
I liv'd a lewd man, good People. 'Pox on't,
Dye me as if thou hadst din'd, say Grace, and God be with you.
Guard.
Come, will you forward?
Cook.
Good Mr. Sheriff, your leave, this hasty work
Was ne'r done well; give us so much time as but to sing
Our own Ballads, for we'll trust no man,
Nor no tune but our own; 'twas done in Ale too,
And therefore cannot be refus'd in Justice.
Your penny-pot Poets are such pelting thieves,
They ever hang men twice; we have it here, Sir,
And so must every Merchant of our Voyage.
He'll make a sweet return else of his Credit.
Yeom.
One fit of our own mirth, and then we are for you.
Guard.
Make haste then, dispatch.
Yeom.
There's day enough, Sir.
Cook.
Come, Boys, sing chearfully, we shall ne'r sing younger.
We have chosen a loud tune too, because it should like well.
[Boys.]
The SONG.
[I.]
Come, Fortune's a Whore, I care not who tell her,Would offer to strangle a Page of the Celler,
That should by his Oath to any Mans thinking,
And place, have had a defence for his drinking;
But thus she does still, when she pleases to palter,
Instead of his Wages, she gives him a Halter.
Three merry Boys, and three merry Boys, and three merry Boys are we,
As ever did sing in a hempen string under the Gallow-tree.
As ever did sing in a hempen string under the Gallow-tree.
II.
But I that was so lusty,And ever kept my Bottles,
That neither they were musty,
And seldome less than Pottles;
For me to be thus stopt now,
With Hemp instead of Cork, Sir,
And from the Gallows lopt now,
Shews that there is a fork, Sir,
In death, and this the token,
Man may be two ways killed,
Or like the Bottle, broken,
Or like the Wine, be spilled.
Three merry Boys, &c.
III.
Oh yet but look on the Master Cook, the glory of the Kitchin,In sowing whose fate, at so lofty a rate, no Taylor e'r had stitching,
For though he makes the Man, the Cook yet makes the Dishes,
The which no Taylor can, wherein I have my wishes,
That I who at so many a Feast, have pleas'd so many tasters,
Should now my self come to be drest, a dish for you my Masters.
Three merry Boys, &c.
Cook.
There's a few Copies for you; now farewel friends:
And good Mr. Sheriff let me not be printed
With a brass Pot on my head.
But.
March fair, march fair, afore, good Captain Pantler.
Pant.
IV.
Oh man or beast, or you at least,That wear or brow or antler,
Prick up your ears, unto the tears
Of me poor Paul the Pantler,
That thus am clipt, because I chipt
The cursed Crust of Treason
With Loyal Knife; Oh doleful strife,
To hang thus without reason.
| The Bloody Brother ; or, Rollo | |