University of Virginia Library


Enter the Porter at the end of supper.
Master and Mistris with all your guests,
God save you, heerin the matter rests;
Christmas is now at the point to bee past,
'Tis giving vp the ghost & this is the last;
And shall it passe thus without life or cheere?
This hath not beene seene this many a yeere.
If youl have any sporte, then say the woord,
Heere come youths of the parish that will it affoord,
They are heere hard by comminge alonge,
Crowning their wassaile bowle with a songe:
They have some other sport too out of dowbt,
Let mee alone, & I will finde it out.
I am your porter & your vassaile,
Shall I lett in the boyes with their wassaile?


Say: they are at doore, to sing they beginne,
Goe to then, Ile goe & lett them in!

Enter the wassaile, two of them bearinge the bowle, & singinge the songe, & all of them bearing the burden.
The Songe.
Gentills all
Both great & small,
Sitt close in the hall
And make some roome,
For amongst you heere
At the end of your cheere
With our countrey beare
Wee ar bold to come.
Heers then a full carowse,
Let it goe about the house,
While wee doe carrye it thus
'Tis noe great labour.
Heave it vpp merilye,
Let care & anger flye,
A pinne for povertye;
Drinke to your neighbour.
Those that are wise,
Doe knowe that with spice
God Bacchus his iuyce
Is wholsome & good.
It comforts age,
It refresheth the sage,
It rebateth rage,
And cheereth the bloud.
Heeres then a full, &c.


Take it with quicknes,
Tis phisicke for sicknes,
It driveth the thicknes
Of care from the harte;
The vaynes that are empty
It filleth with plenty,
Not one amongst twenty
But it easeth of smarte.
Heers then a full, &c.
Are you sadd,
For fortune badd,
And would bee gladd
As ever you were,
If that a quaffe
Doe not make you laffe,
Then with a staffe
Drive mee out of dore.
Heers then a full, &c.
To tell you his merritts,
Good thoughts it inherites,
It raiseth the spirritts
And quickens the witt;
It peoples the veyns,
It scoureth the reynes,
It purgeth the braines
And maks all things fitte.
Heers then a full, &c.
It makes a man bold,
It keepes out the cold;
Hee hath all things twice told
Vnto his comforte,


Hee stands in the middle,
The world, hey dery diddle,
Goes round without a fiddle
To make them sporte.
Heers then a full carowse, &c.


Why well said, my ladds of mettall, this is somwhat
yett, 'tis trimlye done; but what sporte, what merriment,
all dead, no vertue extant?


Pray, sir, gett our good Mistris to bestowe
something on us, & wee ar gone.


Talke of that tempore venturo; there's no goinge
to any other houses now, your bowle is at the bottome,
& that which is left is for mee.


Nay, good Master Porter.


Come, come, daunce vs a morrice, or els goe sell
fishe; I warrant youle make as good a night of it heere
as if you had beene at all the houses in the towne.


Nay, pray letts goe, wee can doe nothinge.


Noe! What was that I tooke you all a gabling
tother day in mother Bunches backside by the well there,
when Tom at Hobses ranne vnder the hovell with a kettle
on's head?


Why, you would not have a play, would you?


Oh, by all meanes, 'tis your onely fine course.
About it, ladds, a the stampe, I warrante you a reward
sufficient; I tell you, my little windsuckers, had not a
certaine melancholye ingendred with a nippinge dolour
overshadowed the sunne shine of my mirthe, I had beene
I pre, sequor, one of your consorte. But wheres gooddy
Hubbardes sonne—I saw him in his mothers holliday
cloaths eennow?


Doe you heere, Master Porter, wee have pittifull


nailes in our shooes; you were best lay something on
the grounde, els wee shall make abhominable scarrs in
the face on't.


Rem tenes; well, weele thinke on't.


It is a most condolent tragedye wee shall move.


Dictum puta; satis est quod suffocat.


In faith, I tickle them for a good voice.


Sufficiente quantitate, a woord is enough to the


You have noe butterd beare in the house, have


No, no, trudge, some of the guests are one the
point to bee gone.


Have you ere a gentlewomans picture in the
house, or noe?




If you have, doe but hange it yonder, & twill
make mee act in conye.


Well then, away about your geere.


Enter Prologue.
Wee are noe vagabones, wee ar no arrant
Rogues that doe runne with plaies about the country.
Our play is good, & I dare farther warrant
It will make you more sport then catt in plum tree.
Wee are no saucye common playenge skipiackes,
But towne borne lads, the kings owne lovely subiects.
This is the night, night latest of the twelve,
Now give vs leave for to bee blith & frolicke,


To morrow wee must fall to digg & delve;
Weele bee but short, long sittinge breeds the collicke.
Then wee beginne, & lett none hope to hisse vs,
The play wee play is Ovid's owne Narcissus.