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 PORTER. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you |
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| take the court for Paris garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your |
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| gaping. |
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[Within: Good master porter, I belong to th' larder.]
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| PORTER. Belong to th' gallows, and be hang'd, ye rogue! Is |
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| this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, |
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| and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch |
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| your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look |
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| for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals? |
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| MAN. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible, |
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| Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons, |
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| To scatter 'em as 'tis to make 'em sleep |
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| On May-day morning; which will never be. |
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| We may as well push against Paul's as stir 'em. |
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| PORTER. How got they in, and be hang'd? |
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| MAN. Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in? |
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| As much as one sound cudgel of four foot— |
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| You see the poor remainder—could distribute, |
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| I made no spare, sir. |
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| PORTER. You did nothing, sir. |
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| MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, |
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| To mow 'em down before me; but if I spar'd any |
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| That had a head to hit, either young or old, |
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| He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, |
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| Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again; |
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| And that I would not for a cow, God save her! |
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[ Within: Do you hear, master porter?]
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| PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. |
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| Keep the door close, sirrah. |
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| MAN. What would you have me do? |
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| PORTER. What should you do, but knock 'em down by th' |
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| dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some |
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| strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the |
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| women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication |
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| is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening |
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| will beget a thousand: here will be father, godfather, |
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| and all together. |
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| MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow |
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| somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his |
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| face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now |
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| reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, |
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| they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three |
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| times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged |
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| against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us. |
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| There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that |
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| rail'd upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, |
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| for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the |
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| meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out 'Clubs!' |
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| when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw |
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| to her succour, which were the hope o' th' Strand, where |
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| she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place. |
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| At length they came to th' broomstaff to me; I defied 'em |
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| still; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, |
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| deliver'd such a show'r of pebbles that I was fain to draw |
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| mine honour in and let 'em win the work: the devil was |
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| amongst 'em, I think surely. |
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| PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse |
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| and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the |
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| tribulation of Tower-hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their |
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| dear |
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| brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em in Limbo |
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| Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; |
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| besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. |
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| CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! |
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| They grow still too; from all parts they are coming, |
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| As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, |
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| These lazy knaves? Y'have made a fine hand, fellows. |
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| There's a trim rabble let in: are all these |
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| Your faithful friends o' th' suburbs? We shall have |
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| Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, |
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| When they pass back from the christening. |
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| PORTER. An't please your honour, |
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| We are but men; and what so many may do, |
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| Not being torn a pieces, we have done. |
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| An army cannot rule 'em. |
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| CHAMBERLAIN. As I live, |
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| If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all |
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| By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads |
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| Clap round fines for neglect. Y'are lazy knaves; |
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| And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when |
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| Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound; |
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| Th' are come already from the christening. |
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| Go break among the press and find a way out |
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| To let the troops pass fairly, or I'll find |
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| A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. |
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| PORTER. Make way there for the Princess. |
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| MAN. You great fellow, |
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| Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache. |
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| PORTER. You i' th' camlet, get up o' th' rail; |
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| I'll peck you o'er the pales else. |
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| Exeunt |
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|
