Cran. For me? Enter the Guard. Must I go like a traitor then? And fee him fafe i' th' Tower. Cran. Stay, good my Lords, I have a little yet to fay. Look there, Lords; Sur. 'Tis no counterfeit. Suf. 'Tis his right ring, by heav'n. I told ye all, Nor. D' you think, my Lords, Cham. 'Tis now too certain. How much more is his life in value with him? Would I were fairly out on't. Crom. My mind gave me, Against this man, whofe honefty the devil And his difciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye; now have at ye! Enter King frowning on them, takes his feat. Gard. Dread Sov'reign, how much are we bound to heav'n In daily thanks, that gave us fuch a Prince; Not only good and wife, but most religious? One that in all obedience makes the Church The chief aim of his honour, and to ftrengthen That holy duty of our dear refpect, His His royal felf in judgment comes to hear Good man, fit down: now let me fee the proudeft King. No, Sir, it does not please me. I thought I had men of fome understanding Would try him to the utmoft, had ye means; Cham. My moft dread Sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excufe all. What was purpos'd Concerning his imprisonment, was rather, If there be faith in men, meant for his tryal, King. Well, well, my Lords, refpect him; Take Take him, and ufe him well; he's worthy of it. Am, for his love and fervice, fo to him. Be friends for fhame, my Lords. My Lord of Canterbury, Cran. The greatest Monarch now alive may glory King. Come, Come, my Lord, you'd fpare your spoons: Two noble partners with you: the old Dutchefs Gard. With a true heart And brother's love I do it. Cran. And let heav'n Witness how dear I hold this confirmation. King. Good man, thofe joyful tears fhew thy true heart; The common voice I fee is verify'd Of thee, which fays thus: do my Lord of Canterbury [Exeunt. SCENE Noife and tumult within: Enter Porter and his Man. Port. You'll leave your noife anon, ye rafcals; do you take the Court for Paris Garden? ye rude flaves, leave your gaping. Within. Good Mr. Porter, I belong to th' larder. Port. Belong to the gallows and be hang'd, ye rogue: is this a place to roar in? fetch me a dozen crab-tree ftaves, and ftrong ones; these are but switches to 'em: I'll fcratch your heads; you must be seeing chriftnings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rafcals? Man. Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible (Unless we fwept them from the door with cannons) To fcatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em fleep On May-day morning, which will never be : Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in? (You fee the poor remainder) could diftribute I made no fpare, Sir. Port. You did nothing, Sir. Man. I am not Sampfon, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand, to mow 'em down before me; but if I fpar'd any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or fhe, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to fee a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God fave her. Within. Do you hear, Mr. Porter? Port. I fhall be with you prefently, good Mr Puppy. Keep the door close, firrah, Man. What would you have me do? Port. Port. What should you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? is this Morefields to mufter in? or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great tool come to Court, the women fo befiege us? blefs me! what a fry of fornication is at the door! on my chriftian confcience, this one chriftning will beget a thousand; here will be father, god-father, and all together. Man. The fpoons will be the bigger, Sir. There is a fellow fomewhat near the door, he fhould be a brafier by his face, for o my confcience twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nofe; all that ftand about him are under the line, they need no other penance; that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there like a mortar piece to blow us up. There was a haberdasher's wife of fmall wit near him, that rail'd upon me 'till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling fuch a combuftion in the ftate. I mift the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cry'd out, Clubs! when I might fee fome forty truncheons draw to her fuccour, which were the forlorn hope of the Strand, where the was quarter'd. They fell on; I made good my place, at length they came to th' broom-staff with me, I defy'd 'em ftill; when fuddenly a file of boys behind 'em deliver'd fuch a shower of pibbles, loofe fhot, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the work; the devil was amongst 'em, I think furely. Port. Thefe are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation of Tower-bill or the limbs of Lime-boufe, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have fome of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; befides the running banquet of two bedels that is to come. |