







 
   
     
       
         The benefice a comedy / by R.W. D.D., author of Iter Boreale, written in his younger days, now made publick for promoting innocent mirth.
         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         
           1689
        
      
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             The benefice a comedy / by R.W. D.D., author of Iter Boreale, written in his younger days, now made publick for promoting innocent mirth.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           67 p.
           
             Printed, to be sold by R. Janeway ...,
             London :
             1689.
          
           
             "To the reader" gives the author's name: Dr. R. Wild.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           THE
           BENEFICE
           .
           A
           COMEDY
           .
        
         
           By
           
             R.
             W.
          
           D.
           D.
           Author
           of
           ITER
           BOREALE
           .
           Written
           in
           his
           Younger
           Days
           :
           Now
           made
           Publick
           for
           promoting
           Innocent
           Mirth
           .
        
         
           
             —
             Ridentum
             dicere
             verum
          
           
             Quid
             vetat
             ?
          
        
         
           Licensed
           and
           Enter'd
           .
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           ,
           to
           be
           Sold
           by
           
             R.
             Ianeway
          
           ,
           in
           Queens-Head
           Court
           in
           Pater-Noster-Row
           .
           M.DC.LXXXIX
           .
        
      
       
         
         
         
           TO
           THE
           READER
           .
        
         
           'T
           Is
           now
           several
           Years
           since
           these
           Papers
           ,
           of
           the
           most
           Ingenious
           Dr.
           R.
           Wild's
           first
           fell
           into
           my
           Hands
           .
           Which
           (
           having
           been
           the
           occasion
           of
           so
           much
           Innocent
           Mirth
           and
           Diversion
           ,
           not
           only
           to
           my self
           ,
           but
           to
           all
           I
           ever
           communicated
           them
           to
           )
           I
           thought
           fit
           ,
           at
           length
           (
           lest
           I
           should
           seem
           either
           Envious
           or
           Injurious
           to
           others
           )
           not
           any
           longer
           to
           engross
           the
           Pleasure
           of
           them
           wholly
           to
           my self
           ;
           but
           to
           invite
           the
           Publick
           to
           share
           in
           this
           ,
           no
           contemptible
           Priviledg
           ,
           by
           the
           Publication
           hereof
           :
           Which
           ,
           without
           the
           least
           Diminution
           ,
           Addition
           ,
           or
           Alteration
           ,
           is
           here
           presented
           to
           thee
           in
           the
           Author
           's
           own
           Words
           .
        
         
           A
           further
           Recommendation
           being
           needless
           ,
           to
           what
           will
           so
           assuredly
           Recommend
           it self
           ,
           being
           Read
           ;
           I
           shall
           only
           add
           ,
           That
           if
           
             Pure
             Wit
             ,
             Harmless
             Jest
             ,
             True
             Mirth
             ,
          
           and
           
             Good
             Design
          
           are
           taking
           ,
           I
           need
           not
           doubt
           but
           what
           followeth
           here
           ,
           will
           highly
           Please
           ,
           and
           Oblige
           thee
           to
           the
           Publisher
           ,
        
         
           
             Farewel
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           Dramatis
           Personae
           .
        
         
           
             
               
                 INvention
                 .
              
               
                  
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Furor
                   Poeticus
                
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 Humorous
                 Poet.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Pedanto
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 School-Master
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Comaedia
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Girl
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ceres
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Goddess
                 of
                 Harvest
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marchurch
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Patron
                 of
                 a
                 Living
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ursley
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Kitchin
                 Wench
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mar-Pudding
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Cotquean
                 ;
                 Nephew
                 to
                 Marchurch
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Book-Worm
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Young
                 Divine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Sir
                   Homily
                
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 Old
                 Curat
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob-Nail
                 ,
              
               
                 Marchurch's
                 hind-Servant
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Phantastes
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 meer
                 Scholar
                 ,
                 newly
                 come
                 from
                 the
                 Vniversity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Goodman
                   Scuttle
                
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 New-English
                 Basket-Maker
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Two
                   Watchmen
                
                 .
              
               
                  
              
            
             
               
                 
                   A
                   School-Boy
                
                 .
              
               
                  
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Tinker
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Gypsie
                   his
                   Wife
                   .
                
              
               
                  
              
            
          
        
         
           Scena
           profi●gentis
           arbitrio
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           THE
           BENEFICE
           .
        
         
           
             ACT
             the
             First
             .
          
           
             Behind
             the
             Curtain
             a
             School-Master
             at
             study
             writing
             ,
             with
             many
             Books
             before
             him
             ;
             and
             a
             little
             Boy
             under
             him
             with
             his
             Grammar
             in
             one
             Hand
             ,
             and
             Bread
             and
             Butter
             in
             the
             other
             .
          
           
             [
             Enter
             Invention
             and
             
               Furor
               Poeticus
            
             .
             ]
          
           
             Invention
             
               comes
               in
               Studying
               .
               After
               a
               Pause
               ,
               he
               steps
               back
               and
               calls
            
             Furor
             Poeticus
             .
          
           
             
               Invention
               .
            
             
               
                 FVror
                 ,
                 Furor
                 .
                 So
                 —
                 Ho
                 —
                 Ho.
              
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               ,
               —
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
            
             
               Enter
               
                 Furor
                 ,
                 Panting
                 and
                 Blowing
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               Furor
               .
            
             
               Good
               Master
               Invention
               —
               Oh
               —
               You
               are
               too
               quick
               for
               me
               .
               You
               are
               in
               as
               much
               haste
               as
               a
               Schollar
               to
               get
               a
               Wife
               ,
               or
               an
               Heir
               to
               Sell
               his
               Land.
               
                 Hey
                 Presto
                 —
                 Whip
                 and
                 away
              
               ;
               your
               Brains
               are
               as
               nimble
               as
               if
               Projections
               and
               Monopolies
               were
               alive
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Come
               Furor
               ,
               you
               know
               I
               have
               a
               deal
               of
               Work
               to
               do
               ;
               since
               my
               name
               was
               Invention
               ,
               I
               never
               knew
               such
               a
               busie
               time
               .
               —
               Let
               me
               see
               my
               Table-Book
               ;
               What
               Business
               have
               I
               to
               dispatch
               ?
               
                 [
                 Pulls
                 out
                 his
                 Table-Book
                 .
                 ]
              
               Ho!
               Bodkin
               the
               Taylor
               ,
               I
               must
               invent
               for
               him
               new
               Fashion'd
               Breeches
               ,
               with
               a
               Tippet
               here
               behind
               to
               turn
               up
               ,
               that
               Gentlemen
               may
               go
               to
               Stool
               and
               not
               Untruss
               .
               Item
               ,
               I
               must
               invent
               a
               Plot
               ,
               how
               the
               Papists
               may
               escape
               the
               Purgatory
               of
               the
               Parliament
               .
            
          
           
             
               Furor
               .
            
             
               I
               have
               a
               Plot
               for
               that
               .
               Let
               them
               put
               their
               Heads
               through
               an
               Hempen
               Rosary
               ,
               and
               say
               three
               Ave
               Mary's
               with
               a
               Wry-mouth
               ;
               and
               I
               'll
               be
               their
               Bondslave
               they
               need
               not
               fear
               afterwards
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Memorandum
               ,
               I
               must
               invent
               a
               Plot
               how
               the
               Scots
               may
               get
               more
               Money
               ,
               when
               that
               they
               have
               is
               gone
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Pish
               —
               That
               's
               easie
               .
               Let
               them
               come
               for
               't
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Arm
               's
               for
               a
               Welch-Man
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Two
               Trees
               Rampant
               ,
               and
               another
               Crossant
               ,
               a
               Ladder
               Ascendant
               ,
               an
               Hangman
               Couchant
               ,
               the
               Rope
               Pendant
               ,
               and
               the
               Fields
               Sable
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               To
               help
               a
               Chamber-Maid
               to
               her
               Maiden-Head
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               If
               she
               be
               Handsome
               ,
               she
               shall
               have
               mine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Memorandum
               ,
               Parson
               
                 T.
                 M.
              
               must
               have
               a
               Sermon
               made
               against
               Christmas
               ,
               Pret.
               2
               s.
               4
               d.
               Hem.
               —
               Mr.
               &c.
               would
               learn
               to
               Preach
               after
               the
               New
               Cut.
               
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               And
               that
               's
               not
               the
               short
               Cut
               ,
               I
               'm
               sure
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Item
               ,
               I
               must
               find
               out
               a
               Cure
               for
               one
               that
               's
               sick
               of
               two
               Livings
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Let
               the
               Incumbent
               sweat
               three
               Weeks
               for
               Anger
               ;
               suck
               his
               Thumbs
               with
               Patience
               ;
               be
               soundly
               Cup'd
               twenty
               four
               Hours
               :
               After
               that
               ,
               take
               the
               Wax
               of
               an
               old
               Commission
               for
               a
               Divine
               to
               be
               a
               
                 Iustice
                 of
                 Peace
              
               ;
               and
               to
               it
               add
               a
               Quart
               of
               
               Abel's
               Wine
               ,
               a
               Pound
               of
               
               Brumfield's
               Soap
               that
               hath
               scaped
               a
               Scouring
               ,
               with
               an
               handful
               of
               
               Goring's
               Tobacco-roots
               ;
               mix
               them
               with
               the
               Oyl
               of
               Lambs
               Grease
               ,
               boyl
               them
               in
               a
               Corner'd-Cap
               from
               an
               Arch-Bishop
               to
               a
               Bishop
               ,
               from
               that
               to
               Dean
               ,
               from
               that
               to
               an
               Arch-Deacon
               ,
               from
               that
               to
               a
               Prebend
               ,
               and
               so
               to
               a
               Commissary
               (
               if
               you
               can
               Decoct
               them
               so
               low
               )
               then
               
               strain
               it
               through
               a
               Lawn-Sleeve
               ;
               let
               it
               cool
               :
               
                 Fiat
                 Emplaistrum
              
               .
               Lay
               this
               to
               one
               of
               his
               Temples
               ,
               and
               his
               Plurisy
               will
               leave
               him
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Item
               ,
               I
               must
               find
               out
               ,
               How
               many
               Religions
               there
               be
               in
               
                 London
                 .
                 —
                 Item
              
               ,
               Whether
               Strafford
               be
               dead
               with
               his
               Head
               off
               .
               —
               Item
               ,
               I
               must
               make
               Verses
               for
               a
               young
               Gentleman
               ,
               upon
               a
               Louse
               that
               was
               found
               in
               his
               Mistress's
               Head
               ,
               six
               Foot
               long
               ,
               upon
               the
               fifth
               of
               November
               last
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               —
               Avaunt
               Six-footed
               Monster
               ,
               if
               I
               catch
               thee
               ,
               My
               Pollux
               Onix
               quickly
               shall
               dispatch
               thee
               .
            
          
           
             [
             Invention
             looks
             about
             him
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Brother
               Furor
               ,
               where
               are
               we
               ?
               —
               What
               Place
               is
               this
               ?
               It
               should
               be
               a
               Conventicle
               ,
               with
               so
               many
               Heads
               and
               Faces
               in
               it
               ,
               and
               all
               together
               in
               a
               Barn
               too
               .
            
             
               
                 [
                 Boy
                 behind
                 the
                 Curtain
                 ]
              
               As
               in
               presenti
               perfectum
               format
               in
               avi
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Heark
               —
               Here
               's
               a
               School
               ,
               I
               think
               .
               
                 [
                 Furor
                 peeps
                 within
                 the
                 Curtain
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               and
               here
               's
               the
               old
               one
               in
               his
               Form
               ,
               as
               sad
               as
               if
               he
               had
               two
               Livings
               ,
               and
               had
               Sold
               one
               of
               them
               :
               He
               looks
               as
               Melancholy
               ,
               as
               if
               some
               Woman
               had
               Scratch'd
               him
               by
               the
               Face
               ,
               for
               whipping
               her
               Boy
               ;
               Or
               if
               he
               were
               studying
               to
               Decline
               .
               —
               Hist
               —
               Hist.
               —
               Come
               hither
               little
               Boy
               .
            
             
               [
               Enter
               Boy
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Now
               Gentlemen
               ,
               what
               's
               your
               Pleasure
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Prithee
               what
               's
               thy
               Master
               studying
               on
               ?
               He
               's
               so
               close
               at
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Why
               ,
               He
               's
               making
               a
               Play
               ,
               for
               an
               Exclusion
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               And
               hath
               he
               done
               it
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Done
               it
               !
               I
               think
               he
               hath
               gnawed
               three
               Quills
               to
               the
               Hilts
               for
               a
               Line
               or
               two
               .
               The
               Frost
               hath
               gotten
               into
               his
               Nose
               I
               think
               ;
               and
               till
               his
               Brains
               be
               thawed
               ,
               we
               shall
               not
               have
               a
               Drop
               more
               done
               in
               it
               .
               I
               think
               ,
               if
               the
               Clasps
               and
               Keepers
               of
               Hope
               ,
               did
               not
               hold
               up
               the
               Breeches
               of
               Discretion
               ,
               He
               'd
               do
               't
               in
               's
               Hose
               :
               And
               yet
               he
               hath
               all
               
               the
               Play
               Books
               in
               the
               Country
               to
               help
               him
               .
               Like
               the
               Cuckooe
               ,
               he
               sucks
               other
               's
               Eggs
               :
               Here
               he
               steals
               a
               Word
               ,
               and
               there
               he
               filches
               a
               Line
               ,
               as
               we
               Boys
               do
               for
               Theams
               .
               He
               hath
               studied
               himself
               out
               of
               his
               Wits
               about
               it
               ,
               and
               if
               it
               should
               not
               take
               ,
               (
               I
               hope
               it
               will
               not
               )
               I
               believe
               it
               will
               be
               his
               last
               .
               He
               'll
               run
               away
               for
               shame
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               And
               why
               do'st
               thou
               hope
               it
               will
               not
               take
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Why
               ?
               Because
               I
               have
               never
               a
               Part
               in
               it
               .
               —
               But
               he
               shall
               come
               short
               of
               a
               Christmas
               Dinner
               ,
               my
               Mother
               says
               .
               
                 Kissing
                 goes
                 by
                 Favour
              
               ,
               she
               says
               .
               —
               Pray
               ye
               Gentlemen
               step
               in
               to
               him
               ,
               while
               I
               run
               home
               to
               Breakfast
               .
               
                 Exit
                 Boy
                 .
              
            
          
           
             [
             Invention
             draws
             the
             Curtain
             aside
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               By
               your
               leave
               Sir
               ,
               —
               God
               bless
               your
               Learning
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Apollo
               bless
               thy
               Brains
               ,
               thy
               Brains
               so
               fickle
               ,
            
             
               And
               Souse
               them
               in
               pure
               Heliconian
               Pickle
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Marry
               ,
               and
               Soust
               Hog's
               Head
               is
               no
               ill
               Meat
               ,
               Furor
               .
            
          
           
             
               Pedanto
               .
            
             
               Gentlemen
               you
               are
               welcome
               .
               Ye
               take
               me
               at
               a
               hard
               Task
               here
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Why
               ?
               Prithee
               Pedanto
               what
               's
               thy
               Negotium
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               Why
               Gentlemen
               ,
               my
               Trade
               is
               to
               teach
               Wild-Geese
               how
               t●
               fly
               in
               the
               Figure
               of
               Criss-Cross-Row
               .
               —
               That
               is
               to
               say
               in
               English
               ,
               I
               am
               a
               School-master
               ;
               and
               here
               against
               Christmas
               ,
               I
               am
               blowing
               my
               Nose
               for
               a
               Dialogue
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               A
               Dialogue
               ?
               What
               's
               that
               ?
               It
               's
               neither
               Prologue
               ,
               nor
               Epilogue
               ,
               nor
               Tragedy
               ,
               nor
               Comedy
               ,
               nor
               Pastoral
               ,
               nor
               Satyr
               ,
               nor
               Masque
               ,
               nor
               Morrice-Dance
               .
               —
               What
               's
               a
               Dialogue
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               Why
               Gentlemen
               ,
               a
               Dialogue
               is
               a
               Poetical
               Pudding
               ,
               or
               the
               Muses
               Hodg-Podg
               ;
               a
               Discourse
               like
               that
               between
               Dr.
               Faustus
               and
               the
               Devil
               ,
               or
               two
               or
               three
               Men
               in
               a
               Pig-Market
               .
               —
               That
               's
               a
               Dialogue
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               May
               I
               be
               so
               bold
               as
               to
               peruse
               your
               Library
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               Yes
               Sir
               ,
               if
               you
               please
               ;
               see
               the
               Books
               I
               have
               borrowed
               for
               the
               Business
               .
            
          
           
             
             [
             Invention
             
               takes
               up
               the
               Books
               ,
               looks
               in
               them
               ,
               and
               speaks
               .
            
             ]
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Plautus
               .
            
             
               A
               subtile
               Diver
               into
               Man
               ,
               and
               yet
            
             
               The
               fate
               of
               Poets
               ,
               
                 Poverty
                 and
                 Wit
              
               ;
            
             
               Pimp
               Mercury
               ,
               and
               Cuckold-making
               Iove
               ,
            
             
               
               Amphitrion's
               Horns
               ,
               and
               Alcamena's
               Love
            
             
               Could
               not
               find
               out
               a
               better
               Quill
               ,
               nor
               we
            
             
               A
               better
               Father
               for
               our
               Poetry
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               And
               yet
               he
               came
               off
               in
               his
               last
               Act
               ,
               like
               a
               Costive
               Man
               from
               the
               Stool
               ,
               without
               wiping
               .
               His
               Splay-feet
               were
               too
               broad
               for
               Verse
               .
               He
               'd
               been
               a
               pretty
               Fellow
               ,
               but
               that
               they
               fed
               him
               with
               Mill-Corn
               and
               Pottage
               .
               —
               So
               take
               him
               Jaylor
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               
                 Ben.
                 Iohnson
              
               .
            
             
               Great
               Brick-bat
               Ben
               ,
               the
               Envy
               of
               thy
               Days
               !
            
             
               Thy
               only
               English
               Brow
               deserves
               the
               Bays
               .
            
             
               Others
               did
               wear
               the
               Ivy-Bush
               as
               Sign
               ,
            
             
               Not
               of
               their
               Wit
               ,
               but
               ,
               Lattice-face
               ,
               and
               Wine
               .
            
             
               But
               thy
               Industrious
               Brain
               (
               great
               Ben
               !
               )
               did
               seem
            
             
               To
               make
               the
               Lawrel
               ,
               which
               thou
               wore
               ,
               grow
               Green.
            
             
               Thine
               are
               the
               Tragicks
               and
               the
               Comick
               Lays
               ;
            
             
               And
               thou'
               rt
               th'Refiner
               of
               our
               Drossy
               Phrase
               ;
            
             
               And
               so
               thy
               Alchymy
               ,
               I
               dare
               be
               bold
               ,
            
             
               Hath
               turn'd
               our
               baser
               Mettal
               into
               Gold.
               
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Pritty
               !
               Pritty
               !
               —
               An
               ordinary
               Wit
               would
               make
               him
               Piss
               and
               Stink
               at
               th'Stake
               like
               an
               old
               Bear.
               —
               And
               then
               damnable
               tedious
               and
               costly
               too
               .
               —
               Every
               half
               quarter
               of
               an
               Hour
               a
               glass
               of
               Sack
               must
               be
               sent
               of
               an
               Errand
               into
               his
               Guts
               ,
               to
               tell
               his
               Brains
               they
               must
               come
               up
               quickly
               ,
               and
               help
               out
               with
               a
               Line
               .
               —
               So
               take
               him
               Jaylor
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Shakspear
               .
            
             
               His
               Quill
               as
               quick
               as
               Feather
               from
               the
               Bow
               !
            
             
               O
               who
               can
               such
               another
               Falstaff
               show
               ?
            
             
               And
               if
               thy
               Learning
               had
               been
               like
               thy
               Wit
               ,
            
             
               Ben
               would
               have
               blusht
               ,
               and
               Iohnson
               never
               writ
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Pish.
               —
               I
               never
               read
               any
               of
               him
               but
               in
               Tobacco-papers
               ,
               and
               the
               bottom
               of
               Pigeon-Pies
               .
               —
               But
               he
               had
               been
               a
               Curate
               to
               the
               Stage
               so
               long
               ,
               that
               he
               could
               not
               choose
               but
               get
               some
               ends
               and
               bottoms
               ;
               —
               I
               ,
               and
               they
               were
               his
               Fees
               too
               ;
               —
               
                 
                   —
                   But
                   for
                   the
                   fine
                   and
                   true
                   Dramatick
                   Law
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   was
                   a
                   Dunce
                   and
                   scribled
                   with
                   a
                   Straw
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               
                 Beaumont
                 and
                 Fletcher
              
               .
            
             
               The
               Muse's
               Twins
               ;
               and
               in
               our
               English
               Sphere
            
             
               Castor
               and
               Pollux
               ,
               so
               they
               did
               appear
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               thought
               ,
               when
               they
               were
               Born
               ,
               
               Appollo's
               Will
            
             
               Was
               to
               divide
               th'Two-top't
               Parnassus
               Hill
               ,
            
             
               That
               Beaumont
               (
               Lofty
               Beaumont
               !
               )
               might
               have
               one
               ,
            
             
               And
               Fletcher
               take
               the
               other
               for
               his
               Throne
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               A
               pair
               of
               Journey-Men
               .
               They
               write
               both
               with
               a
               Quill
               .
               —
               
                 
                   —
                   Thus
                   have
                   I
                   seen
                   two
                   Grey-hound
                   Puppies
                   play
                
                 
                   With
                   one
                   another's
                   itching
                   Tails
                   all
                   day
                   .
                
              
               A
               couple
               of
               Cowards
               .
               Part
               them
               ,
               and
               like
               two
               Worms
               ,
               they
               would
               shrink
               in
               their
               Heads
               .
               Marry
               ,
               —
               Take
               them
               together
               ,
               and
               let
               them
               spit
               in
               one
               another's
               Mouths
               ,
               and
               they
               would
               do
               smartly
               .
               They
               would
               Club
               for
               Verse
               .
               One
               find
               Rhyme
               ,
               and
               another
               Reason
               .
               —
               So
               take
               them
               Jaylor
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               
                 Tom
                 Randolph's
                 Poems
              
               .
            
             
               A
               sweeter
               Swan
               did
               never
               Sing
               upon
            
             
               The
               Downy
               Banks
               of
               Oylie
               Helicon
               .
            
             
               Methinks
               ,
               I
               see
               the
               Fates
               and
               Muses
               fight
               ,
            
             
               Who
               's
               Chaplain
               Tom
               should
               be
               ;
               and
               in
               despight
               ,
            
             
               Like
               
                 Iealous
                 Lovers
              
               ,
               bring
               him
               to
               his
               Herse
               ,
            
             
               That
               they
               might
               kiss
               his
               Chin
               ,
               and
               read
               his
               Verse
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               —
            
             
               'T
               was
               
                 Tom
                 a
                 Bedlam
              
               ,
               not
               
                 Tom
                 Randolph
              
               sure
               ,
            
             
               His
               Wit
               's
               too
               Violent
               long
               to
               endure
               .
            
             
               Pitty
               !
               so
               rare
               a
               Fancy
               should
               have
               found
            
             
               An
               Helicon
               so
               deep
               as
               to
               be
               drown'd
               .
            
             
               
               Tom's
               dead
               and
               every
               Muse
               hath
               vow'd
               to
               be
               ,
            
             
               For
               
               Stafford's
               sake
               ,
               a
               
                 Stafford's
                 Niobe
              
               .
            
             
               Take
               him
               Jaylor
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               These
               Authors
               are
               as
               good
               as
               you
               can
               have
               .
               —
               Have
               you
               done
               the
               Dialogue
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               Alass
               !
               Gentlemen
               ,
               I
               am
               allowed
               no
               fuel
               to
               my
               Sacred
               fire
               of
               Poetry
               ;
               but
               I
               am
               fain
               to
               Curb
               and
               Curtail
               my
               Fancy
               .
               I
               scorn
               a
               Dialogue
               ,
               as
               I
               do
               Toys
               and
               Pamphlets
               .
               —
               I
               had
               intended
               to
               have
               had
               my
               Scene
               ,
               
                 Delphos
                 ,
                 Apollo
              
               and
               the
               
                 Nine
                 Muses
              
               should
               have
               been
               in
               a
               Masque
               .
               —
               But
               we
               have
               no
               Clothes
               ,
               unless
               we
               would
               dress
               them
               like
               Gypsies
               ,
               or
               Butter-Queens
               with
               Baskets
               on
               their
               Arms.
               —
               I
               would
               have
               had
               an
               
                 Oracle
                 ,
                 Priest
                 ,
                 Poet
              
               and
               Notaries
               .
               —
               And
               that
               Oracle
               should
               have
               told
               Fortunes
               ;
               All
               these
               
               Poet's
               Ghosts
               should
               have
               come
               in
               their
               Winding-Sheets
               ;
               —
               But
               in
               truth
               ,
               we
               have
               not
               so
               much
               Linnen
               in
               the
               Town
               as
               would
               have
               dress'd
               them
               .
               —
               I
               had
               much
               ado
               to
               borrow
               an
               old
               Doublet
               to
               act
               a
               Tinker
               in
               ;
               and
               am
               fain
               to
               pay
               for
               Hair
               to
               make
               Beards
               of
               ,
               as
               if
               the
               Horse-Tail
               was
               the
               Golden-Fleece
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               
                 Difficile
                 est
                 Satyram
                 non
                 scribere
              
               .
               
                 [
                 He
                 overthrows
                 all
                 the
                 Books
                 .
                 ]
              
               
                 
                   Must
                   Poet's
                   Fancies
                   thus
                   be
                   starv'd
                   and
                   tortur'd
                   !
                
                 
                   Avant
                   ,
                   ye
                   Bastards
                   of
                   Parnassus
                   Mount
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   Forswear
                   the
                   Stage
                   !
                   Undoff
                   your
                   Comick
                   Sock
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   being
                   sold
                   ,
                   this
                   Ignorant
                   Age
                   will
                   scarce
                
                 
                   Bestow
                   the
                   washing
                   of
                   th'Illiterate
                   World
                   !
                
                 
                   Poets
                   were
                   once
                   Crowned
                   and
                   Godded
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   not
                   a
                   Penny
                   to
                   buy
                   them
                   Ink
                   withal
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   no
                   more
                   Sack
                   than
                   what
                   they
                   take
                   in
                   Spoons
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     [
                     He
                     snatcheth
                     away
                     the
                     Quills
                     .
                     ]
                  
                   As
                   dying
                   Men
                   do
                   from
                   your
                   dirty
                   Nurses
                   ,
                
                 
                   Away
                   with
                   that
                   same
                   Quill
                   ,
                   away
                   with
                   't
                   Boy
                   .
                
              
            
             
               I
               would
               some
               Prentice
               would
               light
               on
               't
               to
               cross
               his
               Master's
               Debt-Books
               when
               he
               's
               Drunk
               .
               Or
               some
               Elder-Brother
               find
               it
               ,
               to
               Subscribe
               to
               Ten
               i'
               th'
               Hundred
               .
               Or
               it
               would
               serve
               a
               whole
               Corporation
               to
               set
               their
               Marks
               to
               a
               Petition
               against
               Bishops
               .
               May
               it
               be
               so
               full
               of
               Teeth
               ,
               as
               to
               write
               a
               Libel
               first
               ,
               and
               then
               the
               Sentence
               against
               the
               Libellor's
               Ears
               .
               —
               
                 
                   —
                   But
                   to
                   lie
                   sucking
                   of
                   the
                   Fingers
                   thus
                   ,
                
                 
                   Making
                   a
                   Plot
                   fit
                   for
                   the
                   Theatre
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Roscius
                   to
                   present
                   ,
                   and
                   have
                   no
                   Scene
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Clothes
                   ,
                   no
                   Properties
                   ,
                   no
                   Candle
                   scarce
                   !
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   this
                   makes
                   Furor
                   mad
                   ,
                   makes
                   Furor
                   fret
                   ;
                
                 
                   Wit
                   ,
                   that
                   should
                   nothing
                   want
                   ,
                   doth
                   nothing
                   get
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               But
               my
               Credit
               lies
               at
               stake
               ,
               Gentlemen
               .
               There
               's
               never
               an
               empty
               Head
               of
               my
               Trade
               hereabouts
               ,
               but
               ventures
               to
               be
               Witty
               ;
               and
               therefore
               something
               must
               be
               done
               ;
               and
               something
               in
               English
               too
               ,
               because
               here
               's
               Gentlemen
               will
               be
               present
               at
               it
               ;
               and
               something
               for
               the
               Times
               ;
               and
               all
               out
               of
               Nothing
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               And
               something
               shall
               be
               done
               .
               —
               Furor
               ,
               shall
               we
               conjure
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Furor
               shall
               conjure
               ;
               and
               I
               'll
               raise
               the
               Poets
               ,
               and
               charm
               their
               Quills
               to
               write
               a
               Satyr
               for
               thee
               .
               A
               Satyr
               ,
               that
               shall
               Sting
               ,
               and
               Lash
               ,
               and
               Scratch
               ;
               sharp
               like
               a
               Razor
               ,
               that
               shall
               make
               Men
               hang
               themselves
               .
               And
               those
               Nine
               Brats
               of
               Helicon
               ,
               shall
               leave
               their
               Horse-Pool
               ,
               to
               come
               and
               grease
               thy
               Buskins
               with
               their
               Sweat.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               —
               Speak
               ,
               —
               shall
               it
               be
               a
               Tragedy
               or
               a
               Comedy
               ;
               a
               Pastoral
               or
               Satyr
               ?
               Invention
               can
               do
               any
               thing
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               
                 Furor
                 Poeticus
              
               can
               do
               more
               ,
               you
               Rogue
               .
               I
               made
               an
               Alderman
               a
               Poet
               once
               ,
               and
               he
               never
               said
               Grace
               afterward
               ,
               but
               it
               was
               in
               Rhyme
               ;
               nor
               wore
               his
               Holy-day
               Breeches
               but
               in
               Meeter
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               Then
               for
               
               Apollo's
               sake
               ,
               charm
               open
               that
               Trunk
               ;
               there
               lies
               Comaedia
               ,
               a
               most
               Pritty
               Girl
               .
               There
               she
               lies
               Fetter'd
               in
               that
               fatal
               Trunk
               ,
               and
               hath
               done
               ever
               since
               Dialogues
               came
               in
               ,
               and
               Latine-Speeches
               under
               every
               Sign-post
               .
               —
               Raise
               her
               good
               Furor
               ;
               raise
               her
               from
               her
               Vrn.
               —
               
                 
                   —
                   And
                   every
                   Year
                   one
                   Act
                   in
                   five
                   ,
                   shall
                   be
                
                 
                   A
                   Sacrifice
                   unto
                   this
                   God
                   and
                   thee
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               I
               'll
               wake
               her
               ;
               and
               then
               thou
               shalt
               get
               her
               out
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Do.
               —
            
          
           
             [
             Invention
             
               with
               a
               white
               Wand
               goes
               about
               the
               Trunk
               ,
               and
               says
               .
            
             ]
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               The
               Muses
               scorn
               to
               give
               their
               Eyes
            
             
               To
               Morpheus
               for
               a
               Sacrifice
               ,
            
             
               Therefore
               Comaedia
               quickly
               rise
               .
            
             
               Upon
               Parnassus
               I
               do
               know
            
             
               Drowsie
               Poppy
               ne'r
               did
               grow
               ,
            
             
               No
               nor
               Anadine
               below
               .
            
             
               Comaedia
               do
               no
               longer
               snort
               ,
            
             
               Awake
               ,
               and
               thank
               Invention
               for
               't
               .
            
          
           
             
               Comaedia
               within
               .
            
             
               Oh
               —
               Oh
               —
               Oh.
               —
               Who
               calls
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Come
               now
               ,
               I
               'll
               get
               her
               out
               ,
               I
               'll
               warrant
               thee
               .
               
                 
                   Come
                   out
                   you
                   Slut
                   ,
                   or
                   else
                   I
                   'll
                   Knock
                
                 
                   For
                   Vulcan
                   to
                   break
                   op'e
                   the
                   Lock
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   shall
                   rend
                   thy
                   Comick
                   Sock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   make
                   thee
                   Dance
                   without
                   a
                   Smock
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Come
                   out
                   ,
                   for
                   
                   Furor's
                   in
                   a
                   Rage
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   such
                   Goblins
                   on
                   a
                   Stage
                   ;
                
                 
                   Come
                   drink
                   good
                   Sack
                   and
                   Claret
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thank
                   
                     Poeticus
                     Furor
                  
                   for
                   it
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             [
             Enter
             Comaedia
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Com.
               
            
             
               What
               ?
               My
               Servant
               Invention
               !
               And
               Furor
               my
               Companion
               !
               —
               Thanks
               to
               you
               both
               for
               my
               Liberty
               .
               —
               Who
               is
               this
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               A
               true
               Well-wisher
               to
               your
               Ladyship
               ,
               and
               one
               that
               desires
               your
               Help
               .
            
          
           
             
               Com.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               a
               Stranger
               to
               this
               Place
               and
               him
               .
               The
               Prentices
               Seven
               Champions
               scared
               me
               so
               ,
               that
               I
               fled
               hither
               for
               safety
               .
               —
               But
               he
               being
               a
               Friend
               of
               yours
               ,
               I
               'll
               do
               what
               he
               'll
               command
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               A
               cast
               of
               thine
               Office
               ,
               sweet
               Rogue
               .
               —
               Sirrah
               ,
               speak
               to
               her
               .
               —
               Let
               him
               kiss
               thy
               hand
               ,
               Wench
               .
               —
               Come
               .
               —
               Swear
               him
               first
               .
               —
               Come
               you
               little
               Pedanto
               ;
               if
               you
               be
               a
               Poet
               ,
               —
               you
               shall
               Swear
               ,
               —
               That
               you
               will
               never
               Drink
               but
               till
               two
               a
               Clock
               in
               the
               Morning
               .
               —
               Item
               ,
               —
               You
               shall
               never
               be
               Master
               of
               more
               than
               one
               Suit
               at
               a
               time
               ;
               and
               lie
               in
               Bed
               while
               that
               is
               Loused
               ,
               and
               put
               into
               the
               Fashion
               .
               —
               Item
               ,
               You
               shall
               keep
               three
               or
               four
               to
               admire
               you
               ,
               and
               so
               pay
               for
               the
               Shot
               .
               —
               Item
               ,
               Endeavour
               to
               get
               more
               
                 Comaedians
                 .
                 —
                 Item
              
               ,
               Get
               the
               Pox
               in
               Policy
               ,
               that
               no
               Man
               may
               make
               a
               Bridg
               of
               your
               Nose
               .
               —
               Item
               ,
               Be
               sure
               to
               die
               in
               Debt
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               I
               will
               do
               my
               Endeavour
               .
            
          
           
             
               Com.
               
            
             
               You
               two
               pass
               your
               words
               for
               him
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Both
               ,
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               yes
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               This
               is
               ,
               fair
               Lady
               ,
               but
               the
               second
               Year
               of
               Schooling
               ,
               and
               I
               am
               not
               provided
               with
               old
               Verses
               and
               Knacks
               ,
               as
               they
               are
               at
               Stamford
               ,
               and
               those
               stale
               Places
               ,
               (
               where
               Verses
               on
               the
               Fifth
               of
               November
               ,
               do
               serve
               an
               Apprentiship
               before
               they
               be
               set
               free
               )
               therefore
               I
               implore
               your
               Aid
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Hang
               Anagrams
               ,
               and
               Acrosticks
               ,
               and
               
                 Singing
                 Rhymes
              
               ,
               like
               Pipers
               at
               a
               Wake
               ;
               —
               Tho'st
               have
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Com.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               not
               in
               Tune
               now
               .
               But
               something
               I
               will
               do
               for
               you
               now
               ;
               more
               hereafter
               .
               
                 
                 [
                 
                   Ceres
                   speaks
                   from
                   above
                
                 .
                 ]
              
               
                 
                   What
                   bold
                   Attempt
                   is
                   this
                   ,
                   ye
                   Mortal
                   Shapes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Brats
                   of
                   Impudence
                   ?
                   Do
                   you
                   not
                   know
                
                 
                   This
                   place
                   is
                   
                   Ceres's
                   Temple
                   ?
                   And
                   that
                   you
                   dare
                
                 
                   With
                   your
                   foul
                   Feet
                   trample
                   on
                   my
                   Threshing-floor
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   makes
                   this
                   Concourse
                   here
                   ?
                   Where
                   are
                   my
                   Taskers
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   Threshers
                   that
                   do
                   sacrifice
                   their
                   Sweat
                
                 
                   And
                   brawny
                   Hands
                   to
                   Ceres
                   ?
                   Out
                   with
                   these
                   Candles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   I
                   will
                   blast
                   them
                   .
                   Will
                   you
                   fire
                   my
                   Stacks
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   me
                   die
                   a
                   Martyr
                   ?
                   —
                   Brother
                   Iove
                   !
                
                 
                   Lend
                   me
                   a
                   Thunder-bolt
                   .
                   —
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               
                 A
                 fools
                 Bolt
                 is
                 soon
                 shot
                 .
              
               If
               we
               burn
               this
               Barn
               ,
               I
               'll
               get
               her
               more
               Barns
               if
               she
               'll
               let
               me
               .
               —
               This
               is
               Ceres
               ,
               and
               she
               is
               woondy
               angry
               because
               we
               are
               upon
               her
               Ground
               .
               —
               We
               must
               please
               her
               ;
               No
               Ceres
               no
               Barley
               ,
               no
               Barley
               no
               Malt
               ,
               no
               Malt
               no
               Ale
               ,
               no
               Ale
               no
               Poets
               .
               —
               We
               must
               please
               her
               .
            
          
           
             
               Com.
               
            
             
               Invention
               speak
               to
               her
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Let
               us
               stand
               all
               together
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Surely
               she
               lives
               like
               Cats
               and
               Owls
               ,
               by
               catching
               of
               Mice
               .
               —
               Ask
               her
               ,
               who
               eat
               up
               her
               Oats
               in
               the
               High-fields
               last
               Year
               .
            
          
           
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Peace
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ceres
               .
            
             
               What
               ?
               Are
               ye
               Dumb
               ?
               Answer
               me
               .
               What
               's
               your
               Business
               ?
               Know
               ye
               not
               that
               I
               can
               Curse
               your
               Lands
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               For
               2
               pence
               you
               shall
               Curse
               all
               the
               Lands
               that
               we
               four
               have
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ceres
               .
            
             
               And
               charge
               the
               Fertile
               Fields
               to
               teem
               no
               more
               .
            
             
               The
               Crooked
               Plow-man
               may
               go
               slice
               the
               Ocean
            
             
               And
               sow
               the
               frothy
               Furrows
               of
               the
               Sea
               ,
            
             
               With
               as
               much
               hope
               of
               Harvest
               ,
               as
               his
               Clods
               ,
            
             
               If
               I
               command
               the
               Hoary
               Earth
               to
               be
            
             
               No
               longer
               Occupied
               .
               —
               Provoke
               me
               not
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Invent.
               
            
             
               Great
               Goddess
               of
               our
               Harvest
               and
               great'st
               Plenty
               !
            
             
               Your
               Frowns
               can
               make
               Invention
               barren
               too
            
             
               As
               well
               as
               Grounds
               .
               Religion
               drives
               us
               hither
               .
            
             
               This
               innocent
               Multitude
               ,
               that
               here
               is
               set
               ,
            
             
               Meet
               not
               for
               Mutiny
               .
               They
               'r
               no
               Rebellious
               Rout.
            
             
               But
               here
               they
               'r
               set
               to
               see
               Children
               play
               Men
               ,
            
             
               And
               Boys
               wear
               Beards
               .
               This
               Lady
               ,
               young
               and
               soft
               ,
            
             
               And
               Phoenix
               downy
               like
               ,
               is
               Comaedia
               .
            
             
               Innocent
               Wench
               !
               Not
               hurt
               a
               Mouse
               within
               your
               Walls
               ,
            
             
               You
               shall
               not
               loose
               a
               Cob-Nut
               by
               our
               Sport.
               
            
          
           
             
               Ceres
               .
            
             
               Why
               come
               you
               here
               to
               Act
               it
               ?
               Look
               a
               Stage
            
             
               That
               may
               deserve
               such
               glorious
               Spectators
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ped.
               
            
             
               Great
               Goddess
               !
               I
               am
               that
               unhappy
               Man
            
             
               Unworthy
               Shepherd
               of
               a
               pretty
               Flock
               ,
            
             
               But
               have
               no
               where
               to
               Fold
               them
               ,
               but
               i
               th'
               Temple
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               a
               bold
               Incroacher
               on
               the
               Gods
               ,
            
             
               And
               steal
               their
               Free-hold
               ;
               But
               against
               my
               Will.
            
             
               And
               tho
               we
               learn
               and
               weep
               ,
               and
               bleed
               and
               play
               ,
            
             
               Among
               the
               Untomb'd
               Ashes
               of
               our
               Fathers
               ▪
            
             
               And
               with
               prophane
               Feet
               ,
               trample
               o're
               their
               Urns
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               there
               to
               vent
               our
               Folly
               ,
               and
               build
               our
               Stage
               ,
            
             
               Were
               to
               challenge
               Thunder-bolts
               from
               Iove
               .
            
             
               We
               rather
               choose
               to
               hazard
               
               Ceres's
               frown
               ,
            
             
               Than
               yield
               .
               —
               That
               we
               hereafter
               may
               confess
               ,
            
             
               That
               Ceres
               was
               the
               Muses
               Patroness
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Do
               ,
               do
               ,
               —
               And
               I
               will
               promise
               you
               a
               Days-Work
               in
               Harvest
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ceres
               .
            
             
               Is
               Mirth
               all
               your
               intent
               ?
            
          
           
             
               All.
               
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               yes
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ceres
               .
            
             
               Then
               go
               about
               it
               quickly
               .
               You
               'r
               Welcome
               .
               —
            
             
               —
               And
               I
               will
               be
               an
               Actor
               in
               your
               Play
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               none
               but
               Ceres
               shall
               your
               Prologue
               say
               .
            
          
           
             [
             They
             all
             Sing
             .
             ]
          
           
             
             
               SONG
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 MNemosyne
                 no
                 more
                 shall
                 be
              
               
                 The
                 Muses
                 Mother
                 Crown'd
                 with
                 Bays
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 have
                 found
                 one
                 more
                 kind
                 than
                 she
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Ceres
                 best
                 deserves
                 our
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 she
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 she
              
               
                 Henceforth
                 shall
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Muses
                 kindest
                 Landlady
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Parnassus
                 is
                 but
                 barren
                 Ground
                 ,
              
               
                 Apollo
                 but
                 a
                 Beardless
                 Boy
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 Helicon
                 we
                 'll
                 here
                 be
                 drown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Ceres
                 she
                 shall
                 be
                 our
                 Ioy.
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 she
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 she
              
               
                 Deserves
                 the
                 Knee
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 Days
                 gracious
                 Liberty
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 she
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               [
               The
               PROLOGUE
               spoken
               from
               above
               by
               Ceres
               .
               ]
            
             
               GAllants
               ye
               'r
               Welcome
               ,
               Ceres
               bids
               ye
               so
               ,
            
             
               And
               hath
               a
               Blessing
               for
               you
               ,
               er'e
               ye
               go
               .
            
             
               You
               that
               are
               Clergy
               ,
               if
               you
               'll
               Merry
               be
               ,
            
             
               I
               'll
               see
               your
               Tith-Shocks
               paid
               more
               Honestly
               ;
            
             
               And
               he
               that
               Cheats
               you
               ,
               this
               shall
               be
               his
               Pain
               ,
            
             
               Above
               all
               Knaves
               ,
               to
               be
               
                 A
                 Knave
                 in
                 Grain
              
               .
            
             
               If
               
                 Married
                 Men
              
               will
               Laugh
               ;
               For
               them
               I
               pray
            
             
               May
               on
               their
               Heads
               fall
               Cornu-Copia
               ▪
            
             
               But
               he
               that
               from
               hence
               Discontented
               goes
               ,
            
             
               May
               a
               whole
               Harvest
               of
               Corns
               grow
               on
               's
               Toes
               .
            
             
               And
               you
               Good
               Women
               ,
               if
               you
               'll
               sit
               and
               see
            
             
               Both
               Wives
               and
               Maids
               ,
               you
               shall
               all
               Fruitful
               be
               :
            
             
               You
               that
               
                 Good
                 Fellows
              
               are
               ,
               but
               like
               our
               Sport
               ,
            
             
               And
               you
               shall
               have
               the
               price
               of
               Malt
               fall
               for
               't
               .
            
             
               In
               this
               ,
               my
               Blessing
               to
               you
               all
               appears
               ,
            
             
               I
               'll
               give
               you
               Corn
               ,
               if
               you
               will
               lend
               us
               Ears
               .
            
             
               Fall
               to
               then
               Gallants
               ;
               I
               confess
               your
               Fare
            
             
               Is
               course
               and
               homely
               ,
               but
               you
               Welcome
               are
               .
            
             
               You
               'r
               Welcome
               ;
               and
               in
               this
               your
               Welcome
               stands
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               would
               soundly
               ply
               your
               Mouths
               and
               Hands
               .
            
             
               Exeunt
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             ACT
             the
             Second
             .
          
           
             [
             Enter
             Marchurch
             
               reading
               a
               Letter
            
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Marchurch
               .
            
             
               A
               Fever
               ?
               —
               I
               would
               it
               had
               been
               the
               Plague
               ,
               or
               a
               whole
               Kennel
               of
               Diseases
               .
               —
               Yet
               the
               Fever
               is
               a
               good
               sound
               Card.
               —
               Out
               upon
               them
               ;
               these
               Parsons
               live
               for
               Wagers
               ,
               I
               think
               .
               —
               
                 Fourscore
                 and
                 odd
              
               !
               —
               His
               Parish
               have
               been
               weary
               of
               him
               this
               thirty
               Years
               ,
               and
               I
               these
               Forty
               .
               —
               Three
               or
               four
               that
               have
               bought
               a
               
                 Tith-Pig
                 in
                 Poke
              
               have
               paid
               for
               the
               Advowson
               ,
               and
               are
               all
               Dead
               ,
               and
               now
               ,
               God
               be
               thanked
               ,
               he
               hath
               found
               in
               his
               heart
               to
               be
               Sickish
               .
               —
               If
               the
               old
               Rogue
               die
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               what
               a
               Flock
               of
               Flesh-Crows
               ,
               Learned
               Creatures
               in
               Black
               Coats
               ,
               shall
               I
               have
               Nawing
               about
               me
               ,
               like
               so
               many
               Jack-Daws
               about
               a
               Steeple
               .
               I
               'll
               get
               that
               Oath
               against
               Symony
               well
               oyled
               and
               greased
               ,
               that
               it
               may
               go
               down
               glib
               with
               the
               Gudgeons
               .
            
          
           
             [
             Enter
             Ursely
             
               to
               him
               ,
               Big-belly'd
            
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Vrs.
               
            
             
               Do
               ye
               hear
               ,
               Sir
               ?
               let
               me
               not
               Lie-in
               here
               .
               Your
               Kinsman
               Marpudding
               will
               never
               endure
               me
               .
               He
               's
               never
               out
               of
               the
               Kitchin
               ,
               prying
               up
               and
               down
               .
               I
               'me
               so
               fearful
               of
               him
               lest
               he
               should
               spie
               my
               Belly
               —
               
                 [
                 She
                 crys
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               I
               know
               that
               it
               cannot
               be
               helped
               now
               ,
               But
               —
               but
               —
               you
               would
               be
               doing
               with
               me
               .
               —
               I
               would
               ,
               —
               I
               would
               ,
               —
               I
               had
               been
               in
               my
               Grave
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mar.
               
            
             
               Come
               ,
               come
               ,
               Wench
               ,
               leave
               your
               crying
               ,
               Fool
               ;
               I
               know
               thou
               hast
               Brains
               in
               thy
               Belly
               .
               —
               No
               body
               knows
               of
               it
               ,
               do's
               there
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               Vrs
               ▪
               
            
             
               No
               ,
               no
               ,
               Sir
               —
               But
               I
               would
               I
               had
               taken
               of
               that
               Savin
               in
               time
               you
               gave
               me
               ;
               but
               now
               it
               is
               too
               late
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mar.
               
            
             
               Come
               ,
               come
               ,
               Girl
               ,
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 looked
                 about
                 him
                 ,
                 and
                 Kisses
                 her
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Here
               ,
               here
               ,
               you
               Slut
               ,
               buy
               thee
               some
               Clouts
               ,
               and
               keep
               close
               ,
               —
               I
               'll
               make
               it
               the
               bravest
               Bastard
               in
               England
               ,
               and
               yet
               there
               are
               great
               ones
               abroad
               too
               .
               —
               What
               ?
               If
               all
               fail
               ,
               I
               'll
               make
               him
               my
               own
               Clark
               ;
               and
               if
               he
               come
               once
               to
               have
               a
               twang
               in
               the
               Law
               ,
               I
               'll
               warrant
               —
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vrs.
               
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               But
               you
               'll
               divide
               the
               Mony
               that
               he
               should
               have
               for
               Warrants
               .
               I
               had
               rather
               that
               he
               were
               made
               Priest
               and
               then
               Clark.
               —
               Hold
               still
               ,
               your
               Ruff's
               unpin'd
               ,
               —
               
                 [
                 She
                 kisses
                 him
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Sir
               ,
               I
               hear
               Mr.
               Parson
               's
               a
               dying
               ;
               —
               you
               may
               put
               me
               and
               my
               Belly
               to
               some
               poor
               Minister
               ;
               Alass
               !
               all
               will
               be
               a
               case
               to
               him
               .
               —
               Look
               you
               here
               ,
               —
               
                 [
                 She
                 pulls
                 out
                 a
                 black
                 Hood
                 and
                 puts
                 it
                 on
                 .
                 ]
              
               Do
               I
               not
               look
               well
               in
               it
               ?
               —
               I
               shall
               make
               a
               Gentlewoman
               quickly
               .
               —
               I
               look
               as
               well
               as
               some
               Body
               .
               —
               I
               pray
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               —
               I
               even
               long
               to
               be
               in
               my
               Pew
               ,
               and
               my
               loose
               Gown
               ,
               and
               to
               take
               the
               Wall.
               
            
          
           
             
               Mar.
               
            
             
               A
               pritty
               Woman
               ,
               —
               Go
               thy
               way
               Wench
               ,
               I
               'll
               think
               on
               thee
               ;
               but
               here
               we
               are
               in
               danger
               to
               be
               seen
               .
               —
               I
               fear
               nothing
               but
               that
               the
               old
               Pitch-barrel
               hath
               Fire
               in
               him
               still
               .
               —
               If
               he
               recover
               this
               Fit
               ,
               the
               Devil
               's
               in
               him
               .
               —
               I
               would
               he
               might
               live
               to
               see
               all
               Learning
               call'd
               in
               ,
               and
               his
               Chancel
               turn'd
               into
               a
               Barn
               ,
               for
               me
               to
               lay
               my
               Corn
               in
               ,
               and
               he
               and
               his
               Tribe
               die
               all
               mad
               in
               poor
               English.
               —
               Go
               thy
               way
               ,
               Wench
               ,
               —
               
                 [
                 Kisses
                 her
                 again
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Vrs.
               
            
             
               Do
               I
               not
               kiss
               better
               in
               my
               black
               Bag
               ?
               —
               I
               pray
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               remember
               me
               .
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             [
             Marchurch
             remains
             alone
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Scena
               Secunda
               .
            
             
               
                 Mar.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Si
                   non
                   Castè
                   tamen
                   faute
                
                 ;
                 It
                 is
                 the
                 Statute
                 
                   Henrici
                   Vicesimo
                
                 .
                 —
                 Hum
                 ,
                 hum
                 ,
                 give
                 me
                 a
                 Wench
                 with
                 a
                 Dishclout
                 in
                 her
                 Mouth
                 for
                 my
                 Mony.
                 O
                 ,
                 a
                 Kitchin-wench
                 will
                 melt
                 sweetly
                 ,
                 and
                 she
                 's
                 cheap
                 too
                 .
                 They
                 may
                 talk
                 ;
                 but
                 I
                 would
                 aslieve
                 smell
                 Coal-dust
                 and
                 ashes
                 ,
                 as
                 
                 Civet
                 and
                 Perfumes
                 .
                 Hang
                 Catamountains
                 ,
                 give
                 me
                 a
                 Pole-Cat
                 ;
                 she
                 's
                 cheap
                 ,
                 she
                 's
                 cheap
                 ,
                 and
                 hath
                 sound
                 Buttocks
                 .
                 —
                 Come
                 to
                 London
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 must
                 be
                 
                   Wine
                   ,
                   Oysters
                   ,
                   Lobsters
                   ,
                   Sturgeon
                   ,
                   Canary
                   ,
                   Anchovis
                   ,
                
                 Patagia's
                 (
                 out
                 on
                 't
                 ,
                 one
                 Pye
                 cost
                 me
                 five
                 Pounds
                 )
                 a
                 Periwig
                 for
                 Mr.
                 Bawd
                 ,
                 a
                 new
                 set
                 of
                 Teeth
                 for
                 old
                 Whore
                 Grandmother
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 Pok
                 .
                 —
                 Come
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
                 three
                 penny
                 worth
                 of
                 Lechery
                 is
                 enough
                 at
                 a
                 time
                 in
                 Conscience
                 .
                 If
                 this
                 Wench
                 would
                 but
                 Deliver
                 it
                 once
                 as
                 her
                 Act
                 and
                 Deed
                 ,
                 I
                 would
                 make
                 it
                 and
                 her
                 presently
                 go
                 off
                 with
                 a
                 Presentation
                 .
                 —
                 And
                 yet
                 it
                 is
                 a
                 
                   Good
                   Living
                
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 had
                 an
                 hundred
                 Pieces
                 ,
                 my
                 Wife
                 a
                 Sattin
                 Gown
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Man
                 a
                 new
                 Livery
                 ,
                 for
                 one
                 worse
                 than
                 this
                 by
                 a
                 good
                 deal
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 cannot
                 tell
                 what
                 I
                 should
                 do
                 .
                 —
                 Let
                 me
                 see
                 this
                 Letter
                 again
                 ,
                 —
                 it
                 does
                 me
                 good
                 to
                 read
                 that
                 the
                 old
                 Priest
                 is
                 a
                 dying
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 could
                 find
                 in
                 my
                 heart
                 for
                 good
                 Luck
                 ,
                 to
                 send
                 him
                 a
                 Mess
                 of
                 Porredge
                 and
                 Mercury
                 .
              
            
             
               [
               He
               stands
               reading
               to
               himself
               .
               ]
            
             
               [
               Enter
               two
               Watchmen
               .
               ]
            
             
               
                 Watch.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 Come
                 Neighbour
                 Dungo
                 ,
                 —
                 it
                 hath
                 oft
                 even
                 grieved
                 me
                 to
                 see
                 how
                 negligent
                 Watchmen
                 are
                 in
                 that
                 great
                 Office
                 they
                 are
                 in
                 ;
                 setting
                 their
                 Rusty
                 Holberds
                 against
                 prophane
                 Ale-house
                 Doors
                 ,
                 till
                 they
                 ,
                 being
                 even
                 Drunk
                 ,
                 have
                 charged
                 them
                 to
                 aid
                 them
                 Home
                 in
                 the
                 King's
                 Name
                 .
                 Since
                 I
                 am
                 called
                 to
                 the
                 Place
                 ,
                 I
                 will
                 do
                 the
                 best
                 Demeanour
                 to
                 bring
                 these
                 paltry
                 Ale-houses
                 into
                 Reformation
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 now
                 Friends
                 ,
                 —
                 how
                 now
                 ,
                 —
                 what
                 are
                 ye
                 Watchmen
                 these
                 dangerous
                 times
                 ?
                 Ha
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Watch.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 Yes
                 ,
                 if
                 it
                 may
                 please
                 your
                 good
                 Worship
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mar.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 Christmas
                 is
                 coming
                 ,
                 I
                 hope
                 you
                 will
                 Watch
                 your
                 time
                 to
                 bring
                 me
                 my
                 Capons
                 and
                 Pullets
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Watch.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 a
                 couple
                 of
                 fine
                 Fowl
                 for
                 your
                 Worship
                 ,
                 God
                 bless
                 '
                 em
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mar.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 well
                 said
                 Neighbours
                 .
                 —
                 Do
                 you
                 know
                 what
                 a
                 Trust
                 the
                 King
                 hath
                 committed
                 to
                 you
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 Watch.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 La'ye
                 there
                 now
                 ,
                 we
                 are
                 next
                 to
                 the
                 King.
                 
                   (
                   aside
                   .
                   )
                
              
            
             
               
                 Watch.
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 indeed
                 Sir
                 ,
                 not
                 so
                 well
                 as
                 we
                 ought
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mar.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 I
                 think
                 I
                 shall
                 be
                 Mayor
                 next
                 Year
                 ,
                 and
                 therefore
                 I
                 have
                 made
                 a
                 Speech
                 in
                 readiness
                 ;
                 and
                 ,
                 tho
                 I
                 say
                 it
                 ,
                 a
                 very
                 Learned
                 one
                 .
                 —
                 Come
                 ,
                 it
                 may
                 do
                 you
                 good
                 .
                 —
                 Suppose
                 now
                 I
                 was
                 Mayor
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 my
                 Servants
                 .
                 —
                 Suppose
                 your
                 Bills
                 were
                 Maces
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 ,
                 having
                 drunk
                 my
                 Gill
                 of
                 Muskadine
                 ,
                 and
                 polished
                 my
                 Venerable
                 Beard
                 ,
                 were
                 set
                 .
                 —
                 Hum
                 ,
                 hum
                 ,
                 —
                 hum
                 ,
                 —
                 thus
                 I
                 begin
                 .
                 —
                 Mark
                 Neighbours
                 ,
                 I
                 pray
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Watch.
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 ,
                 our
                 Ears
                 are
                 even
                 open
                 ,
                 and
                 do
                 desire
                 as
                 it
                 were
                 to
                 be
                 attentive
                 to
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mar.
                 
              
               
                 Whereas
                 ,
                 or
                 forasmuch
                 as
                 the
                 chief
                 Man
                 in
                 a
                 Kingdom
                 ,
                 whom
                 the
                 Latines
                 call
                 Rex
                 ,
                 We
                 ,
                 
                   A
                   King
                
                 ,
                 —
                 Hum
                 —
                 cannot
                 ,
                 or
                 is
                 not
                 able
                 to
                 see
                 all
                 places
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 Bird
                 which
                 the
                 Poets
                 call
                 Argus
                 with
                 his
                 hundred
                 Eyes
                 ;
                 —
                 He
                 therefore
                 hath
                 appointed
                 under
                 him
                 two
                 Officers
                 ,
                 the
                 one
                 a
                 Magistrate
                 ,
                 the
                 other
                 a
                 Governor
                 .
                 —
                 Do
                 you
                 mark
                 ,
                 —
                 and
                 these
                 two
                 are
                 the
                 Rat-Traps
                 of
                 the
                 Kingdom
                 ,
                 as
                 it
                 were
                 ,
                 baited
                 with
                 the
                 soft
                 Cheese
                 of
                 Justice
                 ,
                 to
                 take
                 those
                 who
                 gnaw
                 holes
                 in
                 the
                 Commonwealth
                 ,
                 the
                 Cubbard
                 of
                 the
                 Kingdom
                 .
                 —
                 And
                 these
                 two
                 ,
                 like
                 those
                 two
                 Friends
                 I
                 read
                 of
                 in
                 Prophane
                 Writ
                 ,
                 Caesar
                 and
                 Pompey
                 ,
                 are
                 to
                 joyn
                 together
                 ,
                 —
                 Hum
                 —
                 
                   Fratres
                   in
                   Malo
                
                 ,
                 as
                 one
                 saith
                 ,
                 
                   Brethren
                   in
                   Coats
                   of
                   Male
                
                 ,
                 to
                 keep
                 off
                 danger
                 .
                 —
                 And
                 forasmuch
                 as
                 I
                 am
                 called
                 to
                 one
                 of
                 these
                 Duties
                 under
                 the
                 Vulgar
                 Title
                 of
                 Mayor
                 ,
                 give
                 me
                 leave
                 to
                 tell
                 you
                 according
                 to
                 the
                 Statute
                 of
                 Richard
                 the
                 Sixth
                 ,
                 what
                 a
                 Mayor
                 is
                 .
                 A
                 Mayor
                 is
                 a
                 Magistrate
                 with
                 two
                 Legs
                 ,
                 Sadled
                 and
                 Bridled
                 for
                 his
                 Masters
                 service
                 ,
                 very
                 stable
                 without
                 stumbling
                 ,
                 being
                 foremost
                 in
                 a
                 Team
                 of
                 Aldermen
                 .
                 —
                 Now
                 this
                 Mayor
                 comes
                 to
                 his
                 Office
                 two
                 ways
                 ,
                 either
                 he
                 is
                 Chosen
                 or
                 Elected
                 .
                 For
                 you
                 must
                 know
                 ,
                 two
                 Places
                 are
                 capable
                 of
                 a
                 Major
                 ,
                 the
                 one
                 a
                 Corporation
                 ,
                 the
                 other
                 a
                 Body-Politick
                 ;
                 Chosen
                 by
                 two
                 sorts
                 of
                 Men
                 ,
                 the
                 one
                 Brethren
                 ,
                 the
                 other
                 Fraternity
                 .
                 —
                 Since
                 therefore
                 I
                 am
                 Elected
                 ,
                 I
                 will
                 not
                 Nod
                 away
                 my
                 time
                 ,
                 but
                 spend
                 it
                 as
                 that
                 famous
                 Cateline
                 did
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 was
                 Mayor
                 in
                 Rome
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 punishing
                 Usury
                 an
                 Hundred
                 and
                 sixty
                 Years
                 ago
                 .
                 —
                 And
                 so
                 Brethren
                 ,
                 hoping
                 that
                 
                 some
                 of
                 you
                 will
                 help
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 other
                 some
                 of
                 you
                 assist
                 me
                 ,
                 I
                 rest
                 ,
                 —
                 God
                 save
                 the
                 King.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Watch.
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 King
                 ?
                 —
                 I
                 say
                 ,
                 God
                 save
                 your
                 Worship
                 .
                 —
                 I'm
                 but
                 an
                 ignorant
                 Man
                 ,
                 but
                 in
                 my
                 opinion
                 it
                 is
                 a
                 rare
                 Speech
                 ;
                 is
                 't
                 not
                 Neighbour
                 ?
                 —
                 Our
                 Vicar
                 ,
                 for
                 all
                 his
                 black
                 Coat
                 ,
                 hath
                 not
                 such
                 a
                 word
                 in
                 his
                 Belly
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mar.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 Friends
                 ,
                 I
                 think
                 this
                 will
                 do
                 ,
                 —
                 If
                 the
                 Fools
                 had
                 chosen
                 me
                 Burgess
                 ,
                 I
                 would
                 have
                 Speech'd
                 it
                 in
                 better
                 Stuff
                 than
                 this
                 is
                 .
                 —
                 All
                 's
                 one
                 ,
                 —
                 
                   Caetere
                   quaecunque
                   volunt
                
                 ,
                 go
                 ,
                 look
                 to
                 your
                 Business
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ambo.
                 
              
               
                 God
                 bless
                 you
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 and
                 many
                 a
                 good
                 Mayor's
                 Speech
                 may
                 you
                 make
                 .
                 
                   [
                   Exeunt
                   Watchmen
                   .
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Mar.
                 
              
               
                 
                   alone
                   .
                
                 Well
                 ,
                 —
                 this
                 Wenches
                 Belly
                 is
                 a
                 vile
                 Pull-back
                 ,
                 But
                 —
                 here
                 comes
                 my
                 Nephew
                 .
                 —
                 What
                 Bookish
                 too
                 ?
                 Cookery
                 or
                 Houswifery
                 I
                 trow
                 .
                 
                   [
                   Enter
                   Marpudding
                   reading
                   .
                   ]
                
                 Well
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 worth
                 twenty
                 Wenches
                 .
                 I
                 think
                 the
                 best
                 Porridg-maker
                 in
                 the
                 World.
                 I
                 'll
                 listen
                 a
                 while
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Ha
                 —
                 
                   How
                   to
                   make
                   a
                   Hen
                   lay
                   twice
                   a
                   day
                   ,
                   after
                   Saint
                
                 Andrews
                 .
                 
                   
                     But
                     a
                     Cock
                     to
                     his
                     Crew
                     ,
                  
                   
                     That
                     at
                     Treading
                     is
                     true
                     ;
                  
                   
                     For
                     't
                     is
                     that
                     which
                     they
                     say
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Doth
                     cause
                     the
                     Hen
                     to
                     lay
                     .
                  
                   
                     And
                     when
                     your
                     Hen
                     hath
                     laid
                     her
                     Egg
                     ,
                  
                   
                     She
                     'll
                     Cackle
                     and
                     stretch
                     out
                     her
                     Leg.
                  
                   
                     Then
                     fill
                     her
                     full
                     of
                     Grain
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     something
                     she
                     will
                     Lay
                     again
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 make
                 our
                 Maids
                 look
                 after
                 the
                 second
                 Laying
                 ,
                 or
                 I
                 'll
                 —
                 A
                 pretty
                 Book
                 this
                 is
                 ,
                 —
                 I
                 wonder
                 why
                 it
                 sets
                 not
                 down
                 what
                 Egg-shells
                 are
                 good
                 for
                 .
                 It
                 goes
                 to
                 my
                 Heart
                 to
                 see
                 so
                 many
                 Egg-shells
                 thrown
                 away
                 and
                 broken
                 .
                 —
                 How
                 to
                 make
                 good
                 Pottage
                 for
                 Servants
                 .
                 —
                 Ay
                 marry
                 —
                 
                   [
                   Reads
                   .
                   ]
                
                 
                   
                   
                     Take
                     green
                     Puddle
                     out
                     of
                     a
                     Bog
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Thickned
                     with
                     the
                     Spawn
                     of
                     a
                     Frog
                     :
                  
                   
                     Let
                     there
                     be
                     a
                     Dishclout
                     in
                     't
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     of
                     Barley
                     Flower
                     a
                     Pint
                     —
                     
                       Marry
                       this
                       is
                       costly
                    
                     .
                  
                   
                     Bullocks
                     Liver
                     is
                     good
                     stuff
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Boyl
                     them
                     till
                     they
                     be
                     enough
                     :
                  
                   
                     The
                     Duck-weed
                     Liqour
                     being
                     green
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Is
                     like
                     Pot-herbs
                     quickly
                     seen
                     .
                  
                   
                     The
                     Dishclout
                     will
                     both
                     fat
                     the
                     Pot
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     make
                     Brewiss
                     too
                     I
                     wot
                     .
                  
                   
                     The
                     Liver
                     will
                     make
                     't
                     of
                     Meat
                     to
                     taste
                     ,
                  
                   
                     And
                     if
                     they
                     will
                     not
                     eat
                     it
                     ,
                     let
                     them
                     fast
                     .
                     ]
                  
                
                 Well
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 have
                 this
                 by
                 heart
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 how
                 now
                 Nephew
                 !
                 What
                 Book
                 have
                 you
                 got
                 there
                 ?
                 
                   The
                   Practice
                   of
                   Piety
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Piety
                 ?
                 No.
                 —
                 The
                 Practice
                 of
                 good
                 Housewifery
                 ,
                 I
                 trow
                 ,
                 an
                 excellent
                 Book
                 this
                 is
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 pray
                 you
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 speak
                 to
                 your
                 Servants
                 ,
                 they
                 call
                 me
                 Cotquean
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 what
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 look
                 but
                 a
                 little
                 after
                 them
                 .
                 Would
                 you
                 think
                 they
                 cannot
                 Fry
                 a
                 bit
                 of
                 Pudding
                 without
                 Butter
                 .
                 —
                 There
                 's
                 your
                 Maid
                 Vrseley
                 ,
                 your
                 Kitchin-wench
                 ,
                 is
                 more
                 Sauce
                 than
                 Pig
                 ;
                 and
                 they
                 cozen
                 me
                 too
                 :
                 For
                 I
                 'll
                 be
                 sworn
                 I
                 grop'd
                 the
                 Hens
                 this
                 Morning
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 were
                 a
                 Dozen
                 of
                 them
                 with
                 Egg
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 can
                 find
                 but
                 Five
                 .
                 —
                 Your
                 Scotchman
                 Hob
                 too
                 ,
                 since
                 he
                 came
                 into
                 England
                 ,
                 hath
                 learnt
                 to
                 pare
                 his
                 Cheese
                 .
                 —
                 Uncle
                 ,
                 Uncle
                 ,
                 they
                 'r
                 Corn-fed
                 ;
                 pray
                 you
                 Chide
                 them
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 will
                 Iohn
                 ,
                 I
                 will.
                 —
                 What
                 have
                 we
                 to
                 Dinner
                 I
                 pray
                 you
                 ?
                 —
                 Let
                 us
                 spare
                 a
                 little
                 .
                 Next
                 Year
                 I
                 must
                 be
                 Mayor
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 we
                 will
                 be
                 Liquorish
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 there
                 is
                 Sassages
                 which
                 you
                 left
                 cold
                 last
                 Night
                 ,
                 and
                 good
                 warm
                 Milk-Porredg
                 .
                 I
                 was
                 a
                 making
                 a
                 Pudding
                 too
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 came
                 to
                 look
                 you
                 .
                 The
                 Parson
                 is
                 dead
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 's
                 one
                 stays
                 with
                 a
                 Letter
                 to
                 speak
                 to
                 you
                 ;
                 Pray
                 order
                 it
                 so
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 may
                 have
                 something
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Good
                 News
                 ,
                 good
                 News
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 warrant
                 you
                 .
                 
                   [
                   Exit
                   March.
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 I
                 must
                 read
                 good
                 thrifty
                 Cookery
                 against
                 next
                 Year
                 ,
                 
                   [
                   He
                   pulls
                   out
                   his
                   Book
                   again
                   ]
                
                 —
                 How
                 to
                 wash
                 Clothes
                 without
                 Soap
                 ;
                 Take
                 Hogs-dung
                 a
                 good
                 deal
                 —
                 
                   [
                   Enter
                   Ursley
                   
                     stirring
                     a
                     Pudding
                  
                   .
                   ]
                
                 —
                 What
                 do
                 you
                 follow
                 me
                 for
                 ?
                 Can
                 I
                 never
                 be
                 at
                 quiet
                 ?
                 What
                 do
                 you
                 want
                 ,
                 I
                 wonder
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Want
                 ?
                 I
                 would
                 my
                 Quarter
                 were
                 come
                 out
                 ,
                 I
                 would
                 see
                 you
                 hang'd
                 e're
                 I
                 would
                 dwell
                 here
                 .
                 Your
                 Uncle
                 sends
                 word
                 he
                 'll
                 have
                 a
                 Minister
                 Dine
                 here
                 ,
                 and
                 is
                 this
                 a
                 Pudding
                 fitting
                 ?
                 Never
                 an
                 Egg
                 in
                 it
                 ,
                 nor
                 a
                 bit
                 of
                 Suet.
                 For
                 love
                 of
                 God
                 give
                 us
                 some
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 Money
                 for
                 Plumbs
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Plumbs
                 ?
                 —
                 Yes
                 ,
                 —
                 Do
                 you
                 long
                 ?
                 —
                 Come
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
                 you
                 stir
                 it
                 handsomely
                 !
                 
                   [
                   He
                   takes
                   it
                   from
                   her
                   and
                   stirs
                   it
                   .
                   ]
                
                 I
                 'll
                 make
                 this
                 a
                 good
                 Pudding
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 warrant
                 you
                 .
                 —
                 Here
                 go
                 you
                 and
                 put
                 these
                 Onions
                 into
                 the
                 Pot.
                 —
                 
                   [
                   Gives
                   her
                   some
                   Onions
                   out
                   of
                   his
                   Pocket
                   .
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 then
                 ,
                 take
                 Apron
                 and
                 all
                 .
                 —
                 
                   [
                   She
                   pulls
                   off
                   her
                   Apron
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   spies
                   her
                   great
                   Belly
                   .
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Ha!
                 brave
                 Whisking
                 !
                 What
                 ,
                 are
                 you
                 with
                 Child
                 ?
                 As
                 I
                 'm
                 an
                 honest
                 Man
                 ,
                 big
                 Belly'd
                 !
                 —
                 This
                 is
                 good
                 Gear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Yes
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 am
                 with
                 Child
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 your
                 cost
                 too
                 .
                 —
                 
                   (
                   Aside
                   .
                   )
                
                 [
                 I'll
                 vex
                 him
                 since
                 he
                 hath
                 spy'd
                 it
                 .
                 ]
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Mine
                 you
                 Whore
                 !
                 What
                 ,
                 would
                 be
                 seen
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Goodly
                 Mr.
                 Iohn
                 ,
                 how
                 strange
                 you
                 make
                 it
                 !
                 Well
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 never
                 trust
                 Man
                 again
                 !
                 —
                 You
                 've
                 forgot
                 what
                 you
                 did
                 to
                 me
                 ,
                 I
                 warrant
                 you
                 ;
                 but
                 I
                 have
                 something
                 to
                 show
                 for
                 't
                 :
                 You
                 are
                 like
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 Father
                 ,
                 I
                 promise
                 you
                 .
                 Do
                 you
                 remember
                 the
                 Pantry
                 last
                 Lent
                 ,
                 when
                 you
                 wanted
                 a
                 bit
                 of
                 Flesh
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 O
                 you
                 impudent
                 Jade
                 !
                 When
                 ?
                 What
                 ?
                 Where
                 ?
                 Did
                 I
                 ever
                 touch
                 you
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Did
                 you
                 not
                 ?
                 How
                 dare
                 you
                 stand
                 in
                 't
                 ?
                 —
                 Did
                 you
                 not
                 ?
                 —
                 And
                 did
                 not
                 I
                 tell
                 you
                 I
                 was
                 with
                 Child
                 ,
                 and
                 long'd
                 for
                 a
                 Turnip
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 gave
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 bid
                 me
                 keep
                 close
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 O
                 damn'd
                 Whore
                 !
                 I
                 was
                 accurst
                 that
                 ever
                 I
                 had
                 to
                 do
                 with
                 thee
                 ,
                 you
                 Quean
                 !
              
            
             
               
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 It
                 seems
                 you
                 had
                 knowledg
                 of
                 me
                 then
                 ;
                 well
                 ,
                 —
                 your
                 Tongue
                 will
                 not
                 suffer
                 you
                 to
                 Lie.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Husie
                 !
                 —
                 Did
                 I
                 ever
                 meddle
                 or
                 make
                 with
                 thee
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Make
                 with
                 me
                 !
                 —
                 Ay
                 that
                 you
                 did
                 .
                 —
                 We
                 joyn'd
                 to
                 make
                 a
                 Child
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 joyn
                 ,
                 you
                 Strumpet
                 ?
                 The
                 Devil
                 is
                 in
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 He
                 was
                 when
                 you
                 were
                 in
                 me
                 ,
                 but
                 never
                 else
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 A
                 Pox
                 on
                 your
                 Pudding
                 ,
                 —
                 
                   [
                   He
                   throws
                   it
                   down
                   ]
                
                 —
                 Husie
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 go
                 tell
                 my
                 Uncle
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 be
                 there
                 before
                 you
                 .
                 He
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Town
                 shall
                 know
                 it
                 .
                 —
                 They
                 know
                 partly
                 you
                 are
                 never
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 Kitchin
                 ,
                 prying
                 up
                 and
                 down
                 after
                 my
                 Tail
                 ,
                 snooking
                 in
                 every
                 Hole
                 ;
                 —
                 Cotquean
                 !
                 Who
                 should
                 do
                 it
                 but
                 you
                 Sirrah
                 ?
                 —
                 
                   [
                   She
                   offers
                   to
                   go
                   out
                   .
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 but
                 stay
                 Vrsley
                 ;
                 one
                 word
                 .
                 Did
                 I
                 ever
                 touch
                 you
                 ?
                 No
                 ,
                 never
                 in
                 all
                 my
                 Life
                 .
                 —
                 You
                 will
                 undo
                 me
                 for
                 ever
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Did
                 you
                 ?
                 Ay
                 ,
                 and
                 did
                 not
                 I
                 tell
                 you
                 I
                 would
                 find
                 another
                 Father
                 ?
                 —
                 And
                 so
                 I
                 will
                 yet
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 will
                 be
                 rul'd
                 .
                 —
                 Meddle
                 or
                 not
                 Meddle
                 ,
                 how
                 will
                 you
                 help
                 your self
                 if
                 I
                 lay
                 it
                 to
                 you
                 ?
                 —
                 Come
                 ,
                 come
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 true
                 ;
                 you
                 may
                 undo
                 me
                 if
                 you
                 will
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 hope
                 you
                 will
                 have
                 more
                 honesty
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Yes
                 ,
                 yes
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 teach
                 you
                 to
                 meddle
                 in
                 Womens
                 Matters
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 swear
                 ,
                 unless
                 you
                 will
                 give
                 me
                 the
                 Keys
                 of
                 all
                 ,
                 I
                 will
                 open
                 all
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 Vrsley
                 ,
                 I
                 could
                 never
                 have
                 smelt
                 out
                 this
                 Plot.
                 —
                 But
                 name
                 me
                 not
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 will.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Will
                 you
                 let
                 me
                 have
                 Butter
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Ay.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 Oat-meal
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Ay.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 Plumbs
                 ;
                 or
                 any
                 thing
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Ay.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 look
                 ye
                 do
                 ;
                 I
                 have
                 that
                 will
                 keep
                 you
                 in
                 awe
                 .
                 Give
                 me
                 the
                 Pantry
                 Key
                 now
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 would
                 I
                 had
                 never
                 seen
                 it
                 .
                 —
                 Will
                 you
                 not
                 wrong
                 me
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 will
                 hold
                 your
                 Tongue
                 ,
                 and
                 take
                 no
                 notice
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 must
                 bind
                 you
                 to
                 the
                 Peace
                 ;
                 for
                 if
                 my
                 Master
                 know
                 it
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 lay
                 it
                 to
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 A
                 Pox
                 of
                 all
                 your
                 Gipsy
                 Jades
                 .
                 —
                 Must
                 I
                 be
                 thus
                 Tongue-ti'd
                 for
                 nothing
                 .
                 —
                 There
                 's
                 a
                 good
                 Pudding
                 spoil'd
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 Ha
                 ,
                 ha
                 ,
                 ha
                 ,
                 —
                 come
                 ,
                 few
                 words
                 to
                 a
                 Bargain
                 .
                 —
                 Will
                 you
                 hold
                 your
                 Tongue
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 will
                 hold
                 mine
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Marpud.
                 
              
               
                 Here
                 is
                 the
                 Keys
                 .
                 —
                 The
                 Devil
                 take
                 '
                 em
                 .
                 —
                 Fare
                 you
                 well
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 'll
                 be
                 Reveng'd
                 .
                 
                   Exit
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Vrs.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 ,
                 so
                 ,
                 a
                 brave
                 Plot
                 !
                 Now
                 I
                 'm
                 provided
                 with
                 all
                 things
                 against
                 the
                 Hour
                 ;
                 and
                 this
                 Gudgeon
                 is
                 in
                 a
                 Net
                 safe
                 .
                 —
                 If
                 I
                 can
                 but
                 be
                 laid
                 and
                 up
                 again
                 ,
                 to
                 go
                 off
                 with
                 the
                 Living
                 ;
                 all
                 's
                 Right
                 .
              
            
             
               Exit
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ACT
             the
             Third
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Bookworm
             
               alone
               ,
               as
               from
               the
               Patron
               .
            
          
           
             
               Bookworm
               .
            
             
               HA
               !
               True
               ,
               true
               old
               Menander
               !
               
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Blood
                   and
                   Life
                   of
                   Man
                   is
                   powerful
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   which
                   you
                   have
                   none
                   I
                   dare
                   be
                   bold
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   You
                   may
                   a
                   while
                   Breath
                   ,
                   or
                   Move
                   ,
                   or
                   Walk
                   ,
                   or
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   for
                   a
                   Dead
                   Man
                   ,
                   amongst
                   Men
                   you
                   'll
                   go
                   .
                   
                     'T
                     is
                     so
                     ,
                     't
                     is
                     so
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               Greek
               ,
               Hebrew
               Fool
               !
               how
               have
               I
               spent
               my
               time
               ?
            
             
               My
               precious
               Midnight-hours
               ?
               Ten
               tedious
               Winters
               ;
            
             
               Burnt
               out
               a
               thousand
               Lamps
               ;
               out-watch'd
               the
               Moon
               ,
            
             
               When
               she
               sate
               longest
               up
               and
               been
               most
               pale
               ;
            
             
               My
               constant
               Candle
               was
               a
               surer
               Friend
            
             
               To
               Watchmen
               ,
               Bellmen
               ,
               and
               the
               Drowsie
               Weights
               ;
            
             
               The
               Ominous
               Night-crow
               ,
               envying
               my
               Light
               ,
            
             
               Would
               try
               to
               scare
               me
               from
               my
               Aristotle
               ,
            
             
               Beating
               her self
               against
               my
               Window
               Bars
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               within
               have
               lean'd
               upon
               this
               Elbow
            
             
               Searching
               Philosophy
               ,
               as
               dark
               as
               Night
               ,
            
             
               And
               conning
               Plato
               ,
               as
               Boys
               do
               their
               Grammars
               ;
            
             
               Brooding
               each
               Line
               ,
               and
               sitting
               on
               each
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               As
               close
               as
               Moth
               or
               Canker
               ,
               till
               mine
               Eyes
            
             
               With
               so
               much
               Labour
               ,
               oft
               would
               sweat
               a
               Tear
            
             
               Upon
               my
               knotty
               Task
               .
               At
               last
               .
               (
               God
               wot
               )
            
             
               My
               Father
               dies
               ,
               and
               leaves
               two
               hundred
               Pounds
            
             
               More
               for
               his
               hopeful
               Boy
               ,
               to
               buy
               him
               Books
               .
            
             
               And
               robb'd
               his
               other
               Sons
               to
               make
               me
               Rich.
            
             
               Then
               did
               I
               mount
               the
               Sphears
               ,
               and
               pose
               the
               Stars
               ,
            
             
               Catechise
               Planets
               ,
               what
               their
               Natures
               were
               ,
            
             
               I
               left
               an
               hundred
               of
               my
               Angels
               there
               .
            
             
               Then
               did
               I
               search
               the
               Oracle
               of
               Heaven
               ,
            
             
               And
               plum'd
               the
               Ocean
               of
               Divinity
               ;
            
             
               Provided
               still
               against
               the
               Day
            
             
               I
               should
               be
               call'd
               to
               do
               the
               Church
               some
               Service
               .
            
             
               But
               —
               now
               I
               see
               I
               studied
               Poverty
               ,
            
             
               And
               purchas'd
               Beggary
               at
               too
               dear
               a
               rate
               .
            
             
               Coming
               to
               Marchurch
               for
               this
               Living
            
             
               With
               Learning
               ,
               Manners
               ,
               Orders
               ,
               Bishops
               Letters
               ;
            
             
               O
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               (
               says
               he
               )
               Bishops
               are
               out
               of
               Credit
               ;
            
             
               And
               for
               your
               Learning
               it
               will
               serve
               i
               th'
               Belfrey
            
             
             
               To
               teach
               young
               Children
               :
               But
               the
               Living's
               gone
               —
            
             
               Unless
               your
               Money
               call
               it
               back
               again
               .
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               (
               said
               I
               )
               I
               'll
               give
               four
               hundred
               Pounds
               ,
            
             
               I
               'me
               sure
               my
               Knowledg
               cost
               me
               little
               less
               .
            
             
               A
               Pox
               of
               Knowledg
               (
               cries
               the
               greedy
               Churl
               )
            
             
               You
               Scholars
               are
               too
               troublesome
               .
               Farewel
               .
            
             
               What
               shall
               I
               do
               ?
               I
               cannot
               Curse
               him
               ,
               nor
               my self
               .
               Poor
               Wretch
               !
               he
               knows
               not
               the
               price
               of
               Virtue
               ;
               and
               I
               do
               too
               well
               .
               —
               'T
               is
               dear
               ,
               't
               is
               dear
               ,
               the
               Money
               I
               have
               spent
               would
               have
               bought
               me
               Land
               or
               Living
               ,
               House
               or
               Wife
               ;
               it
               would
               have
               maintain'd
               me
               in
               Scarlet
               and
               Livery
               ,
               and
               lasted
               a
               while
               in
               Hawks
               or
               Horses
               ;
               I
               could
               have
               Sworn
               it
               away
               ,
               or
               Drunk
               it
               either
               ,
               or
               Plaid
               it
               out
               for
               Pots
               at
               Shuffleboard
               or
               Billiards
               :
               —
               But
               it
               's
               gone
               ,
               and
               I
               as
               far
               to
               seek
               as
               Men
               in
               Leather-breeches
               at
               the
               Statues
               .
               —
               Here
               's
               all
               is
               left
               .
               —
               Some
               thirteen
               Shillings
               .
               It
               is
               in
               vain
               to
               grieve
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               pawn
               my
               Clothes
               and
               buy
               some
               others
               ,
               and
               with
               my
               little
               Sum
               of
               Mony
               go
               trade
               in
               Toys
               and
               Pamphlets
               .
               —
               A
               Profession
               that
               will
               get
               more
               Money
               than
               Disputing
               .
               
                 
                   And
                   tho
                   I
                   have
                   Read
                   much
                   ,
                   and
                   Studied
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   give
                   all
                   my
                   Learning
                   for
                   a
                   Song
                   .
                   
                     Exit
                     .
                  
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Scena
               Secunda
               .
            
             
               Enter
               Marchurch
               
                 and
                 Sir
              
               Homily
               .
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Is
                 he
                 Dead
                 ,
                 are
                 you
                 sure
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Yea
                 indeed
                 ,
                 as
                 
                   Sylva
                   Synogaga
                
                 saith
                 very
                 well
                 upon
                 that
                 very
                 place
                 .
                 
                   E
                   vivis
                   exirit
                
                 ,
                 he
                 is
                 Dead
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Dead
                 ,
                 Sir
                 Homily
                 ?
                 Why
                 ,
                 a
                 Dog
                 is
                 dead
                 .
                 Fie
                 upon
                 't
                 ,
                 are
                 you
                 a
                 Scholar
                 ,
                 and
                 no
                 better
                 Expression
                 in
                 your
                 Mouth
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 truly
                 your
                 Worship's
                 Observation
                 is
                 very
                 good
                 ;
                 for
                 tho
                 the
                 English
                 read
                 it
                 Dead
                 ,
                 yet
                 the
                 Geneva
                 Translation
                 ,
                 which
                 we
                 most
                 follow
                 ,
                 renders
                 it
                 Departed
                 ;
                 so
                 that
                 he
                 is
                 not
                 Dead
                 only
                 ,
                 but
                 Departed
                 also
                 ,
                 if
                 please
                 your
                 Worship
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 
                   aside
                   .
                
                 [
                 I
                 made
                 this
                 Mungrel
                 once
                 a
                 promise
                 of
                 the
                 Living
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 he
                 's
                 come
                 for
                 't
                 ]
                 —
                 Please
                 me
                 Sir
                 Homily
                 ?
                 Yes
                 ,
                 it
                 would
                 please
                 me
                 if
                 you
                 would
                 depart
                 too
                 ;
                 I
                 shall
                 never
                 have
                 such
                 an
                 Honest
                 Man
                 as
                 he
                 that
                 is
                 gone
                 .
                 —
                 
                   Aside
                   .
                
                 [
                 A
                 very
                 Knave
                 .
                 ]
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 desire
                 your
                 Worship
                 to
                 consider
                 my
                 Suit.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 what
                 is
                 your
                 Suit
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Fur.
                 
              
               
                 [
                 His
                 Suit
                 ?
                 Ha
                 ,
                 ha
                 ,
                 ha
                 ,
                 —
                 it
                 's
                 a
                 very
                 poor
                 one
                 .
                 —
                 That
                 's
                 ready
                 to
                 Depart
                 ,
                 I
                 'me
                 sure
                 .
                 ]
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Even
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 that
                 you
                 would
                 be
                 pleased
                 to
                 stand
                 my
                 friend
                 
                   Amicis
                   opitulari
                
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 Master
                 of
                 the
                 Sentences
                 hath
                 it
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Pitulari
                 ?
                 —
                 Pray
                 thee
                 Fellow
                 leave
                 this
                 Canting
                 ;
                 I
                 understand
                 no
                 Latine
                 ,
                 but
                 
                   Summa
                   Totalis
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 the
                 
                   Summa
                   Totalis
                
                 is
                 ,
                 That
                 I
                 may
                 succeed
                 him
                 in
                 your
                 Living
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Living
                 ?
                 Why
                 ,
                 how
                 dare
                 you
                 think
                 of
                 such
                 a
                 thing
                 ?
                 With
                 what
                 Face
                 canst
                 thou
                 ask
                 it
                 ?
                 There
                 's
                 never
                 a
                 Scholar
                 of
                 you
                 all
                 deserves
                 such
                 a
                 Living
                 .
                 
                   Aside
                   .
                
                 —
                 [
                 Ay
                 ,
                 this
                 Fellow
                 hath
                 been
                 Curate
                 ,
                 and
                 taught
                 School
                 here
                 this
                 dozen
                 Years
                 ;
                 he
                 may
                 have
                 Horn-book'd
                 himself
                 into
                 some
                 Money
                 .
                 ]
                 —
                 Hark
                 you
                 ,
                 
                   Sir
                   Homily
                
                 ,
                 How
                 long
                 have
                 you
                 been
                 Curate
                 here
                 ?
                 —
                 A
                 good
                 while
                 ,
                 I
                 trow
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 Sir
                 ,
                 as
                 I
                 remember
                 ,
                 some
                 twelve
                 Years
                 .
                 I
                 bought
                 these
                 Clothes
                 then
                 ,
                 and
                 they
                 are
                 almost
                 worn
                 out
                 now
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 
                   Sir
                   Homily
                
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 a
                 Moneyed
                 Man
                 ,
                 they
                 say
                 ;
                 Can
                 you
                 lend
                 me
                 ten
                 Pieces
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Alas
                 Sir
                 ,
                 
                   Opus
                   est
                   mihi
                   Viginti
                   minis
                
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
                 Opus
                 and
                 Vsus
                 must
                 go
                 together
                 with
                 me
                 ;
                 and
                 
                   Viginti
                   minis
                
                 be
                 in
                 the
                 Dative
                 Case
                 too
                 .
                 —
                 Beside
                 ,
                 
                   Sir
                   Homily
                
                 ,
                 How
                 dare
                 you
                 come
                 to
                 me
                 for
                 the
                 Living
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 Sir
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 oft
                 have
                 I
                 heard
                 you
                 ▪
                 with
                 blushing
                 ,
                 rail
                 and
                 complain
                 against
                 me
                 ?
                 against
                 Vsury
                 principally
                 ?
                 Which
                 I
                 put
                 up
                 a
                 good
                 while
                 and
                 said
                 nothing
                 :
                 But
                 I
                 must
                 have
                 one
                 will
                 be
                 quiet
                 and
                 peaceable
                 ,
                 and
                 Preach
                 but
                 once
                 a
                 Month.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Fur.
                 
              
               
                 [
                 One
                 !
                 —
                 within
                 this
                 twelve
                 Months
                 you
                 might
                 have
                 had
                 an
                 Hundred
                 would
                 have
                 Preached
                 but
                 once
                 a
                 Quarter
                 .
                 ]
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Again
                 ,
                 
                   Sir
                   Homily
                
                 ,
                 the
                 Women
                 of
                 the
                 Town
                 cry
                 out
                 against
                 you
                 exceedingly
                 ;
                 you
                 have
                 almost
                 kill'd
                 their
                 Children
                 with
                 Whipping
                 of
                 them
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 can
                 tell
                 you
                 ;
                 you
                 've
                 made
                 a
                 Rod
                 for
                 your
                 own
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 warrant
                 you
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 I
                 can
                 please
                 the
                 Women
                 ,
                 I
                 can
                 have
                 both
                 their
                 Hands
                 and
                 their
                 Voices
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 their
                 Voices
                 to
                 scold
                 at
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Hands
                 about
                 your
                 Ears
                 .
                 —
                 Come
                 ,
                 
                   Sir
                   Homily
                
                 ,
                 I
                 must
                 use
                 your
                 own
                 Language
                 .
                 now
                 ;
                 —
                 If
                 you
                 have
                 the
                 Living
                 ,
                 Untruss
                 ,
                 untruss
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 Sir
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 your
                 Purse-strings
                 ;
                 nothing
                 else
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 Sir
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 nothing
                 but
                 a
                 little
                 
                   AEs
                   in
                   presenti
                
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 School-men
                 say
                 ;
                 but
                 you
                 promis'd
                 me
                 once
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 was
                 a
                 Witness
                 for
                 you
                 at
                 the
                 Assize
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 should
                 have
                 it
                 for
                 nothing
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 be
                 at
                 Promises
                 ,
                 I
                 promise
                 you
                 ,
                 you
                 shall
                 come
                 short
                 on
                 't
                 .
                 Come
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
                 you
                 'r
                 a
                 sawcy
                 Knave
                 Homily
                 .
                 The
                 Living
                 is
                 now
                 mine
                 ;
                 and
                 therefore
                 I
                 give
                 you
                 Warning
                 here
                 to
                 provide
                 for
                 your self
                 ,
                 you
                 shall
                 be
                 no
                 longer
                 Curate
                 here
                 Sirrah
                 .
                 —
                 Get
                 you
                 gone
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 I
                 beseech
                 you
                 Sir.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 I
                 beseech
                 you
                 be
                 gone
                 ,
                 or
                 I
                 'll
                 beat
                 that
                 Latine
                 Nose
                 of
                 yours
                 ,
                 to
                 your
                 English
                 Face
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Latine
                   Nose
                
                 ?
                 You
                 ventured
                 far
                 to
                 have
                 said
                 a
                 French
                 Nose
                 .
                 —
                 Will
                 you
                 not
                 be
                 as
                 good
                 as
                 your
                 word
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Yes
                 that
                 I
                 will
                 ,
                 Sirrah
                 ,
                 —
                 
                   [
                   Beats
                   him
                   .
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Farewel
                 Canker
                 .
                 —
                 Have
                 I
                 this
                 payment
                 for
                 my
                 Service
                 !
                 
                   Exit
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 ,
                 I
                 'me
                 glad
                 I
                 am
                 deliver'd
                 of
                 this
                 Bryar
                 .
                 If
                 Vrsely
                 can
                 but
                 be
                 Delivered
                 well
                 ,
                 we
                 are
                 safe
                 .
                 Why
                 ,
                 this
                 is
                 it
                 to
                 countenance
                 
                 a
                 Scholar
                 !
                 A
                 Chimney-sweeper
                 shall
                 have
                 it
                 first
                 ;
                 or
                 any
                 thing
                 that
                 goes
                 in
                 Black.
                 This
                 Fellow
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 should
                 give
                 it
                 him
                 freely
                 ,
                 (
                 as
                 God
                 forgive
                 me
                 that
                 ever
                 I
                 should
                 have
                 such
                 a
                 thought
                 )
                 would
                 be
                 the
                 first
                 Man
                 that
                 would
                 make
                 Vrsely
                 do
                 Penance
                 ,
                 and
                 me
                 help
                 to
                 Repair
                 Pauls
                 .
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 can
                 get
                 but
                 an
                 honest
                 Book-learn'd
                 Fellow
                 ,
                 that
                 will
                 come
                 off
                 with
                 more
                 Gold
                 and
                 less
                 Latine
                 ,
                 it
                 's
                 right
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 'll
                 look
                 to
                 this
                 Rascal
                 ;
                 I
                 know
                 he
                 'll
                 come
                 anone
                 and
                 recant
                 ,
                 and
                 offer
                 Money
                 too
                 .
                 —
                 But
                 I
                 'll
                 serve
                 him
                 a
                 Trick
                 .
                 
                   [
                   He
                   knocks
                   with
                   his
                   Stick
                   ]
                
                 Why
                 Hob
                 ,
                 —
                 why
                 Hobnail
                 there
                 .
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 Hob
                 
              
               
                 
                   answers
                   within
                   ,
                
                 I
                 'll
                 come
                 anon
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 There
                 comes
                 a
                 Fellow
                 that
                 I
                 'll
                 set
                 upon
                 the
                 Service
                 ;
                 a
                 Northern-Fellow
                 that
                 hath
                 got
                 well
                 under
                 me
                 .
                 I
                 've
                 made
                 him
                 Constable
                 this
                 Year
                 .
                 He
                 's
                 a
                 Fellow
                 that
                 never
                 could
                 endure
                 any
                 thing
                 in
                 Black
                 ,
                 but
                 a
                 black
                 Iack
                 or
                 Pot
                 ;
                 —
                 as
                 brave
                 a
                 Scare-crow
                 as
                 ever
                 hung
                 upon
                 a
                 Dunghil
                 .
              
            
             
               Enter
               Hob.
               
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 God
                 give
                 you
                 a
                 good
                 e'ne
                 Master
                 ,
                 did
                 you
                 call
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 Hob
                 ,
                 ay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 was
                 at
                 Mumle-ty-Peg
                 with
                 a
                 Barley
                 Bag-pudding
                 below
                 .
                 Much
                 good
                 do
                 't
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 news
                 from
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
                 Hob
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 there
                 's
                 Brock
                 ,
                 your
                 Grisle
                 Mare
                 ,
                 cannot
                 Gang
                 for
                 Kibes
                 .
                 We
                 must
                 get
                 some
                 Brimstone
                 ,
                 and
                 Train-Oyl
                 ,
                 and
                 anoint
                 them
                 I
                 trow
                 .
                 —
                 We
                 have
                 plow'd
                 all
                 the
                 Land
                 next
                 the
                 Dike-Nook
                 to
                 Day
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 hark
                 you
                 Hob
                 ,
                 you
                 must
                 undertake
                 a
                 Business
                 for
                 me
                 to
                 day
                 ,
                 and
                 do
                 it
                 lustily
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 's
                 that
                 ,
                 marry
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 this
                 is
                 it
                 Hob
                 ;
                 Our
                 Parson
                 's
                 Dead
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Marry
                 ,
                 the
                 Dule
                 rest
                 his
                 Cragg
                 .
                 —
                 He
                 did
                 so
                 spose
                 me
                 a
                 while
                 agon
                 ,
                 I
                 could
                 not
                 con
                 him
                 an
                 Answer
                 :
                 He
                 askt
                 me
                 who
                 gave
                 me
                 my
                 Name
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 hold
                 ,
                 but
                 here
                 me
                 speak
                 .
                 There
                 's
                 Curate
                 Homily
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 hold
                 ,
                 but
                 hear
                 me
                 speak
                 .
                 There
                 's
                 Curate
                 Homily
                 .
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 as
                 Honest
                 a
                 Man
                 as
                 ever
                 break
                 Crust
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Pish
                 ,
                 pish
                 ,
                 a
                 Knave
                 ,
                 a
                 very
                 Knave
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 no
                 matter
                 ,
                 tho
                 he
                 be
                 a
                 Knave
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 an
                 Honest
                 Man
                 for
                 all
                 that
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 be
                 quiet
                 a
                 little
                 Hob.
                 He
                 was
                 here
                 awhile
                 ago
                 ,
                 Railing
                 and
                 Complaining
                 against
                 you
                 mightily
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Against
                 me
                 !
                 The
                 Dule
                 on
                 him
                 !
                 What
                 does
                 he
                 ken
                 o'
                 me
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 he
                 says
                 ,
                 I
                 let
                 thee
                 have
                 too
                 cheap
                 a
                 Pennyworth
                 of
                 thy
                 Farm
                 ;
                 and
                 that
                 thou
                 art
                 so
                 Covetous
                 .
                 —
                 Besides
                 he
                 comes
                 to
                 claim
                 the
                 Living
                 of
                 me
                 ;
                 I
                 think
                 he
                 was
                 Drunk
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Hark
                 you
                 Sir
                 ,
                 I
                 am
                 Constable
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 'll
                 have
                 a
                 pair
                 of
                 Stocks
                 made
                 with
                 ten
                 Holes
                 ,
                 and
                 he
                 shall
                 have
                 Tithe
                 ;
                 and
                 if
                 he
                 have
                 not
                 his
                 Pass
                 about
                 him
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 set
                 fast
                 his
                 Hands
                 by
                 the
                 Heels
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 tell
                 you
                 a
                 better
                 way
                 .
                 Stand
                 you
                 here
                 with
                 your
                 Whip
                 ,
                 whilst
                 I
                 go
                 down
                 and
                 watch
                 for
                 him
                 ;
                 I
                 think
                 he
                 'll
                 come
                 this
                 way
                 presently
                 again
                 ;
                 if
                 he
                 does
                 ,
                 Yerk
                 him
                 soundly
                 ,
                 and
                 forwarn
                 him
                 my
                 Ground
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 let
                 me
                 alone
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 'll
                 louk
                 the
                 Sloven
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 'll
                 sponge
                 his
                 Gaskins
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 March.
                 
              
               
                 Prithee
                 do
                 ,
                 soundly
                 ;
                 spare
                 him
                 not
                 .
                 
                   Exit
                   March.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 warrant
                 you
                 Master
                 .
                 —
                 I
                 have
                 not
                 quite
                 Din'd
                 yet
                 .
                 —
                 This
                 Marpudding
                 cuts
                 us
                 vile
                 short
                 ;
                 I
                 'se
                 womble
                 i'
                 th'
                 Crop
                 still
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 shall
                 have
                 the
                 better
                 Stomach
                 to
                 him
                 .
                 —
                 Abuse
                 me
                 and
                 my
                 Master
                 !
                 —
                 What
                 the
                 Dule
                 harm
                 have
                 I
                 done
                 him
                 ?
                 I'se
                 gar
                 mumble
                 the
                 Sloven
                 if
                 he
                 Gang
                 this
                 way
                 ,
                 I
                 'se
                 line
                 his
                 black
                 Coat
                 for
                 him
                 ;
                 —
                 I
                 'se
                 make
                 him
                 past
                 standing
                 two
                 Hours
                 a
                 Sunday
                 to
                 spoil
                 our
                 Victuals
                 .
                 —
                 Here
                 he
                 comes
                 ,
                 I
                 'se
                 step
                 and
                 listen
                 a
                 little
                 .
              
            
             
               Enter
               Sir
               Homily
               .
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 
                   Fallere
                   fallentem
                   non
                   est
                   fraus
                
                 ,
                 so
                 saith
                 my
                 Author
                 .
                 
                   
                   
                     He
                     that
                     does
                     promise
                     make
                     ,
                     and
                     then
                     deceive
                     ,
                  
                   
                     To
                     cozen
                     him
                     's
                     not
                     Knavery
                     ,
                     by
                     your
                     leave
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 What
                 an
                 Ass
                 was
                 I
                 ,
                 to
                 think
                 Learning
                 would
                 get
                 a
                 Man
                 a
                 Living
                 ?
                 If
                 Parnassus
                 was
                 this
                 Churl
                 's
                 ground
                 ,
                 he
                 'd
                 plow
                 it
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 the
                 poor
                 Muses
                 gather
                 Stones
                 out
                 on
                 't
                 ,
                 as
                 they
                 do
                 Irish
                 Women
                 .
                 —
                 O
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 had
                 come
                 with
                 my
                 thirty
                 or
                 forty
                 Pieces
                 ,
                 I
                 should
                 have
                 been
                 some
                 Sundays
                 bidden
                 to
                 Dinner
                 to
                 my
                 own
                 Tithe-Pig
                 .
                 —
                 Marry
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 I
                 might
                 have
                 set
                 at
                 the
                 lower
                 end
                 of
                 the
                 Table
                 with
                 the
                 Folks
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 said
                 Grace
                 .
                 —
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 I
                 am
                 resolved
                 to
                 have
                 a
                 Plot
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 could
                 meet
                 with
                 Hob.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Hob
                 
              
               
                 
                   aside
                   .
                
                 [
                 Hob
                 will
                 meet
                 with
                 you
                 presently
                 .
                 ]
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Yonder
                 are
                 two
                 more
                 Scholars
                 that
                 he
                 hath
                 turn'd
                 away
                 .
                 —
                 Faith
                 ,
                 I
                 've
                 got
                 a
                 Plot
                 will
                 fit
                 his
                 Worship
                 ;
                 and
                 may
                 hap
                 ,
                 make
                 him
                 turn
                 his
                 Ruff
                 into
                 a
                 Band
                 ,
                 otherwise
                 called
                 an
                 Halter
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Hey
                 ,
                 ho
                 ,
                 whirry
                 :
                 
                   [
                   
                     Whips
                     Sir
                  
                   Hom.
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 good
                 Hob
                 ,
                 good
                 Hob.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 now
                 Sirrah
                 ?
                 Plain
                 Hob
                 ?
                 Do
                 you
                 know
                 who
                 you
                 speak
                 to
                 ?
                 It
                 might
                 be
                 Mr.
                 Constable
                 Hob
                 in
                 your
                 Mouth
                 ,
                 Goodman
                 Curate
                 ,
                 you
                 shew
                 your
                 Manners
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 pray
                 ,
                 what
                 do
                 you
                 mean
                 ?
                 Will
                 you
                 kill
                 me
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 Sirrah
                 ,
                 I
                 will
                 Fley
                 you
                 alive
                 .
                 —
                 Abuse
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Master
                 no
                 more
                 ,
                 Sirrah
                 .
                 —
                 You
                 say
                 I
                 have
                 my
                 Farm
                 too
                 cheap
                 ;
                 But
                 you
                 shall
                 pay
                 dear
                 enough
                 for
                 it
                 .
                 
                   [
                   Whispers
                   him
                   .
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 O
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 never
                 in
                 my
                 Life
                 .
                 I
                 am
                 come
                 to
                 speak
                 with
                 you
                 for
                 your
                 good
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 Sirrah
                 ,
                 this
                 is
                 for
                 your
                 good
                 too
                 .
                 —
                 Ha
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 hold
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 make
                 thee
                 a
                 Man
                 ,
                 —
                 a
                 Gentleman
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Furor
                 .
              
               
                 [
                 Faith
                 he
                 seems
                 to
                 be
                 no
                 very
                 Gentle-man
                 ,
                 by
                 his
                 Whipping
                 thee
                 .
                 ]
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 quickly
                 ,
                 make
                 me
                 a
                 Gentleman
                 streight
                 .
                 Come
                 get
                 up
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 give
                 you
                 leave
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 thus
                 it
                 is
                 ,
                 —
                 Our
                 old
                 Parson
                 's
                 Dead
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Living
                 is
                 in
                 your
                 Masters
                 Disposing
                 .
                 He
                 will
                 not
                 part
                 with
                 it
                 
                 without
                 Money
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 have
                 none
                 my self
                 ,
                 or
                 if
                 I
                 had
                 ,
                 he
                 will
                 not
                 let
                 me
                 have
                 it
                 .
                 If
                 you
                 'll
                 make
                 your self
                 ,
                 now
                 venture
                 for
                 this
                 Living
                 .
                 —
                 None
                 now
                 can
                 have
                 two
                 Livings
                 a
                 piece
                 .
                 The
                 price
                 of
                 Steeples
                 will
                 fall
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 but
                 thirty
                 or
                 forty
                 Pieces
                 (
                 as
                 you
                 are
                 a
                 Money'd
                 Man
                 ,
                 I
                 'me
                 sure
                 )
                 and
                 you
                 'r
                 made
                 for
                 ever
                 .
                 You
                 cannot
                 miss
                 of
                 it
                 .
                 And
                 what
                 a
                 brave
                 thing
                 is
                 it
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 Parson
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Ha!
                 —
                 Cuds-foot
                 it
                 's
                 a
                 brave
                 Plot.
                 But
                 how
                 can
                 that
                 be
                 ?
                 I
                 am
                 not
                 Book-learn'd
                 above
                 my
                 single
                 Psalter
                 .
                 I
                 must
                 read
                 Prayers
                 with
                 a
                 Feskew
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 trouble
                 not
                 your self
                 about
                 Prayers
                 .
                 —
                 Can
                 you
                 lie
                 long
                 in
                 Bed
                 with
                 an
                 handsome
                 Wife
                 ?
                 Eat
                 good
                 fat
                 Pigs
                 ?
                 Ride
                 a
                 Hunting
                 ?
                 That
                 's
                 all
                 you
                 shall
                 do
                 ;
                 ler
                 me
                 alone
                 with
                 the
                 Service
                 ;
                 I
                 'll
                 be
                 your
                 Curate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 good
                 Gear
                 .
                 —
                 But
                 how
                 must
                 I
                 do
                 for
                 Sermons
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Paw
                 ,
                 waw
                 !
                 What
                 do
                 you
                 talk
                 of
                 Sermons
                 ?
                 Talk
                 what
                 comes
                 at
                 Tongues-end
                 ,
                 can't
                 you
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 have
                 no
                 Latine
                 to
                 spout
                 at
                 him
                 ,
                 if
                 he
                 spose
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Latin
                 ?
                 —
                 It
                 is
                 that
                 which
                 undoes
                 many
                 a
                 Man.
                 Take
                 heed
                 of
                 that
                 while
                 you
                 breath
                 .
                 I
                 'll
                 learn
                 you
                 a
                 word
                 or
                 two
                 shall
                 serve
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 warrant
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 but
                 he
                 'll
                 ken
                 me
                 to
                 be
                 Hob
                 ,
                 his
                 Man
                 ,
                 I
                 doubt
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 you
                 shall
                 have
                 a
                 false
                 Beard
                 on
                 ,
                 that
                 shall
                 make
                 you
                 look
                 very
                 Grave
                 ;
                 and
                 I
                 'll
                 lend
                 you
                 my
                 Clothes
                 ;
                 I
                 'll
                 put
                 on
                 a
                 Gray
                 Cloke
                 and
                 wait
                 on
                 you
                 ,
                 as
                 your
                 Man
                 ;
                 and
                 you
                 shall
                 call
                 your self
                 by
                 some
                 other
                 Name
                 .
                 Never
                 fear
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 warrant
                 you
                 speed
                 .
                 I
                 'll
                 stand
                 behind
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 tell
                 you
                 .
                 —
                 Be
                 sure
                 to
                 shew
                 good
                 store
                 of
                 Money
                 ,
                 and
                 Bargain
                 with
                 him
                 presently
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 methinks
                 I
                 feel
                 my self
                 creeping
                 into
                 a
                 Gentleman
                 (
                 
                   Mr.
                   Doctor
                   Parson
                
                 Hob
                 )
                 already
                 .
                 I
                 may
                 be
                 a
                 Bishop
                 before
                 I
                 die
                 .
                 Why
                 ,
                 what
                 a
                 vile
                 Knave
                 was
                 I
                 ,
                 to
                 whip
                 so
                 Honest
                 a
                 Man
                 ?
                 Here
                 ,
                 
                   Sir
                   Homily
                
                 ,
                 besworn
                 you
                 shall
                 whip
                 me
                 now
                 ,
                 
                 because
                 I
                 whipt
                 you
                 .
                 —
                 Besworn
                 you
                 shall
                 .
                 —
                 Nay
                 ,
                 Cuds-digs
                 you
                 shall
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 but
                 your
                 Clothes
                 are
                 thicker
                 than
                 mine
                 ;
                 mine
                 are
                 but
                 thin
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 strip
                 me
                 to
                 the
                 very
                 Sark
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 forgive
                 thee
                 freely
                 .
                 —
                 Let
                 's
                 go
                 and
                 dress
                 our selves
                 quickly
                 .
                 
                   [
                   Offers
                   to
                   go
                   .
                   ]
                
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 stay
                 —
                 hark
                 you
                 .
                 —
                 
                   Great
                   words
                   butter
                   no
                   Parsnips
                   .
                   —
                   I
                   'se
                   not
                   buy
                   a
                   Pig
                   i
                   th'
                   Poke
                   .
                
                 —
                 Have
                 you
                 seen
                 the
                 Comedy
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 Comedy
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 the
                 Comedy
                 you
                 ken
                 ,
                 —
                 The
                 Living
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 it
                 is
                 worth
                 an
                 Hundred
                 Pounds
                 a
                 Year
                 ,
                 Man.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 ,
                 must
                 I
                 wear
                 this
                 Gray
                 Hat
                 too
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 you
                 shall
                 have
                 mine
                 ;
                 'T
                 is
                 a
                 Steeple-crown'd
                 ,
                 and
                 it
                 will
                 do
                 better
                 for
                 a
                 Gentleman
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 had
                 rather
                 you
                 would
                 teach
                 me
                 a
                 little
                 Latine
                 now
                 ,
                 I
                 'se
                 con't
                 ,
                 be-like
                 ,
                 as
                 we
                 gang
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 in
                 your
                 Discourse
                 ,
                 if
                 he
                 ask
                 you
                 who
                 you
                 are
                 ,
                 you
                 may
                 say
                 
                   Ego
                   sum
                   Clericus
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 's
                 that
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 a
                 Clark.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Clark
                 ?
                 Why
                 ,
                 I
                 thought
                 I
                 should
                 have
                 been
                 Parson
                 ;
                 must
                 I
                 be
                 but
                 Clark
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Pish.
                 Why
                 ,
                 then
                 thou
                 shalt
                 say
                 ,
                 
                   Ego
                   sum
                   Presbyteros
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 's
                 that
                 ,
                 —
                 
                   Bread
                   and
                   Butter
                
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 it
                 's
                 Greek
                 and
                 Latine
                 too
                 ,
                 —
                 I
                 am
                 a
                 Priest.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 marry
                 ;
                 I
                 would
                 have
                 the
                 
                   Priest
                   forget
                   that
                   ever
                   he
                   was
                   Clark.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 he
                 use
                 you
                 well
                 ,
                 cry
                 
                   Gratias
                   ago
                   Domine
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 So.
                 —
                 But
                 if
                 he
                 ask
                 how
                 Old
                 I
                 am
                 ?
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 cannot
                 you
                 tell
                 that
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 by
                 my
                 troth
                 ,
                 it
                 's
                 so
                 long
                 ago
                 ,
                 that
                 I'se
                 forgotten
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 then
                 you
                 may
                 say
                 ,
                 I
                 am
                 about
                 Fifty
                 ;
                 and
                 the
                 elder
                 you
                 are
                 ,
                 the
                 cheaper
                 you
                 'l
                 have
                 it
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 —
                 Ay
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 true
                 .
                 —
                 Come
                 let
                 us
                 gang
                 .
                 —
                 But
                 what
                 's
                 the
                 Latin
                 thing
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 Hom.
                 
              
               
                 Why
                 ,
                 
                   Gratias
                   ago
                   Domine
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hob.
                 
              
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 oh
                 —
                 
                   Gratias
                   ago
                   Homily
                
                 .
              
            
             
               Exeunt
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ACT
             the
             Fourth
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Bookworm
             
               like
               a
               Ballad-man
            
             .
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               HOW
               shall
               he
               Sing
               ,
               whose
               Throat
               is
               hoarse
               with
               care
               ?
            
             
               Or
               he
               keep
               Time
               ,
               whose
               Heart-strings
               broken
               are
               ?
            
             
               Alas
               !
               how
               shall
               I
               sing
               that
               am
               so
               much
               out
               of
               Tune
               ?
               I
               had
               rather
               confute
               Bellarmine
               ,
               or
               turn
               Aquinas
               into
               English
               Verse
               .
               Yet
               this
               is
               better
               than
               the
               Mill
               of
               School
               ,
               where
               they
               grind
               Grammar
               Toll-free
               ;
               and
               the
               poor
               Master
               turns
               round
               in
               's
               Accidence
               till
               his
               Eyes
               drop
               out
               .
               Nay
               ,
               faith
               ,
               it
               's
               better
               than
               a
               Parlour
               Lecture
               ,
               tho
               not
               so
               sweet
               and
               gainful
               ;
               where
               the
               Men
               with
               their
               smooth
               Chin
               ,
               and
               Velvet
               Caps
               ,
               stand
               damning
               the
               Tongues
               ;
               Unless
               the
               Hebrew
               escape
               ,
               because
               ,
               like
               Women
               ,
               it
               doth
               backward
               fall
               .
               All
               Learning
               ,
               to
               Reprobrates
               ,
               is
               as
               ungodly
               as
               Logick
               .
               —
               But
               I
               shall
               forget
               my
               Knacks
               .
               —
               Come
               ,
               come
               ,
               come
               .
               New
               Almanacks
               ,
               new
               Almanacks
               ,
               new
               Almanacks
               new
               —
               
               Who
               buys
               an
               Almanack
               ?
               without
               Saint-Days
               ,
               and
               Ember
               Weeks
               in
               't
               ,
               or
               any
               superstitious
               Feast-Days
               that
               end
               in
               Mass
               ,
               Christmass
               ,
               Candlemass
               —
               Who
               buys
               an
               Almanack
               ,
               with
               a
               new
               Chronology
               of
               Memorable
               Accidents
               ?
               —
               Since
               the
               Conquest
               ,
               one
               Year
               .
               Since
               the
               Rising
               in
               the
               North
               —
               Since
               Hallifax
               went
               to
               the
               Tower
               —
               Since
               Finch
               and
               Windebank
               departed
               this
               Nation
               —
               Since
               
                 Doctors
                 Commons
              
               were
               enclosed
               —
               Since
               the
               Scots
               had
               Mony
               —
               Who
               buys
               an
               Almanack
               ,
               with
               new
               Fairs
               and
               Markets
               .
               —
               As
               for
               Example
               —
               Upon
               the
               thirty
               first
               of
               February
               ,
               there
               shall
               be
               a
               Fair
               throughout
               all
               England
               ;
               At
               which
               there
               will
               be
               sold
               Northern-Cloth
               that
               will
               not
               shrink
               ;
               Sponges
               that
               will
               not
               Drink
               .
               Tradesmen
               may
               buy
               Consciences
               .
               Whore's
               Maiden-heads
               ,
               and
               French-men
               Noses
               .
               There
               will
               be
               also
               
                 Tongues
                 tip't
                 with
                 true
                 Latin
              
               for
               Attornies
               ;
               and
               Pens
               that
               will
               write
               true
               English
               for
               Gentlewomen
               .
               
                 Extemporary
                 Prayers
              
               without
               Tautologies
               .
               Fellowships
               for
               Scholars
               ,
               and
               Scholarships
               for
               Fellows
               ;
               and
               Benefices
               so
               plentiful
               ,
               they
               shall
               go
               a
               begging
               .
               —
               Come
               ,
               who
               buys
               an
               Almanack
               ?
               Memorandum
               ;
               There
               shall
               be
               great
               Eclipses
               in
               the
               Star-Chamber
               ,
               by
               reason
               of
               the
               happy
               Conjunction
               of
               the
               two
               Houses
               with
               Sol.
               The
               Sea
               of
               Rome
               will
               be
               at
               so
               low
               a
               Tide
               ,
               that
               it
               shall
               not
               come
               up
               to
               Labeth
               .
               There
               will
               be
               also
               great
               Thundrings
               among
               great
               Ones
               ,
               m
               and
               that
               will
               cause
               great
               Lightnings
               among
               the
               Subjects
               ,
               which
               will
               clear
               the
               Air
               mightily
               .
               —
               This
               Year
               also
               ,
               Lords
               will
               have
               but
               one
               
                 Lady
                 ;
                 Ladies
              
               but
               one
               
                 Face
                 ;
                 Doctors
              
               will
               preach
               twice
               a
               Day
               ,
               and
               their
               Curats
               eat
               
                 Roast-meat
                 ;
                 Scholars
              
               will
               be
               all
               of
               one
               
                 Opinion
                 ;
                 England
              
               of
               one
               
                 Religion
                 ;
                 Birds
              
               all
               of
               a
               Colour
               ,
               and
               Shrove-Tuesday
               will
               fall
               upon
               a
               Munday
               .
               —
               But
               these
               things
               will
               not
               be
               seen
               of
               us
               in
               this
               Kingdom
               .
               —
               There
               will
               be
               also
               strange
               Apparitions
               —
               Two
               Phoenix's
               —
               Three
               blew
               Beans
               in
               a
               blew
               Bladder
               .
               Four
               silent
               Women
               —
               Six
               true
               Taylors
               .
               Ten
               Maids
               at
               One
               and
               Twenty
               .
               Twelve
               Honest
               Men
               of
               a
               Jury
               .
               Lawyers
               will
               plead
               for
               Nothing
               .
               Poets
               will
               purchase
               Land
               ,
               because
               Sack
               will
               be
               at
               a
               Penny
               a
               Gallon
               .
               Courtiers
               will
               pay
               their
               Debts
               .
               May
               Day
               will
               fall
               on
               the
               12
               th
               of
               August
               .
               —
               Come
               —
               Will
               no
               Body
               buy
               my
               Almanacks
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Alas
               ,
               poor
               Scholar
               !
               He
               shall
               take
               some
               Mony
               of
               me
               .
               Hear
               you
               ,
               Friend
               ,
               What
               is
               the
               price
               of
               that
               Book
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               But
               two
               pence
               ,
               Sir.
               
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Sack
               ,
               at
               a
               penny
               a
               Gallon
               ,
               say'st
               thou
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               Yes
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               If
               this
               be
               true
               ,
               'Faith
               I
               'le
               quaff
               burnt
               Sack.
               
            
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               And
               if
               it
               be
               not
               true
               ,
               'Faith
               burn
               my
               Almanack
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               There
               's
               Six
               pence
               for
               thee
               ;
               give
               me
               the
               rest
               in
               Books
               .
               —
               Hast
               thou
               not
               pretty
               Knacks
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               here
               's
               a
               
               Cobler's
               Sermon
               ,
               (
               I
               have
               but
               one
               of
               them
               of
               thirty
               left
               since
               morning
               )
               And
               Father
               Phillips
               philip'd
               too
               —
               New
               come
               out
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Well
               said
               ;
               give
               me
               them
               .
            
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               —
               Almanacks
               ,
               Almanacks
               ,
               Almanacks
               ,
               New
               —
               Let
               me
               see
               .
               It
               's
               cold
               ;
               I
               'le
               go
               spend
               my
               two-pence
               at
               the
               Ale
               house
               ,
               and
               hear
               what
               News
               ,
               and
               come
               again
               .
               
                 [
                 
                   Exit
                   &
                   Redi●t
                
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               God
               save
               me
               ;
               Here
               comes
               Fantastes
               of
               our
               Colledg
               :
               A
               pritty
               Scholar
               ,
               yet
               a
               meer
               Animal
               .
               —
               He
               comes
               for
               the
               Living
               too
               .
               Faith
               ,
               I
               'le
               sit
               down
               a
               little
               while
               and
               see
               the
               Issue
               .
            
          
           
             Enter
             Fantastes
             
               like
               a
               Scholar
               ,
               with
               one
               Boot
               Russet
               ,
               and
               the
               other
               Black.
               
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Alas
               !
               here
               comes
               another
               Aristotle
               in
               a
               black
               Cover
               .
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               his
               Boots
               are
               of
               two
               several
               Opinions
               ,
               or
               else
               of
               two
               several
               Vniversities
               ;
               The
               one
               of
               Cambridg
               ,
               the
               other
               of
               Oxford
               .
               —
               God
               bless
               him
               ;
               what
               a
               fatal
               Cap
               he
               hath
               on
               !
               It
               looks
               as
               if
               it
               had
               served
               an
               Apprentiship
               at
               the
               Gallows
               ,
               to
               teach
               those
               that
               are
               hang'd
               
                 Blind-man's
                 Buff.
              
               ]
            
          
           
             Fantastes
             
               opens
               his
               Box.
            
             
          
           
             
               Fantastes
               .
            
             
               Let
               me
               see
               my
               Colledg-Letters
               ?
               —
               Oh
               ,
               safe
               —
               My
               Orders
               ?
               Oh
               ,
               safe
               .
               —
               My
               Petition
               —
               Oh!
               —
               Come
               ,
               I
               'le
               read
               it
               over
               once
               more
               .
               —
               First
               ,
               I
               must
               premise
               two
               Legs
               (
               that
               's
               the
               least
               )
               —
               But
               how
               if
               there
               should
               be
               Gentlewomen
               ?
               I
               never
               kist
               any
               Body
               in
               a
               black
               Bag
               in
               my
               Life
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               What
               ?
               Man
               ?
               Set
               a
               good
               Face
               on
               't
               .
               You
               are
               not
               the
               first
               Scholar
               that
               kiss'd
               a
               Lady
               .
               ]
            
             
               They
               say
               ,
               they
               'l
               turn
               their
               Cheeks
               —
               And
               then
               I
               'le
               do
               ,
               
                 Quicquid
                 in
                 Buccam
                 Venerit
              
               ▪
               —
               I
               do
               not
               remember
               any
               thing
               in
               Aristostle
               concerning
               Kissing
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Unless
               in
               his
               Posteriorum
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               'Faith
               ,
               I
               'le
               turn
               and
               blow
               my
               Nose
               ,
               if
               any
               come
               by
               ,
               as
               if
               I
               did
               not
               see
               them
               .
               And
               for
               my
               Hat
               —
               Here
               ,
               thus
               —
               Or
               rather
               thus
               —
               Nay
               ,
               better
               thus
               :
            
             
               
                 
                   
                     Most
                     Propitious
                     Patron
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   AS
                   I
                   was
                   Equitating
                   in
                   these
                   Rural
                   Dimensions
                   ,
                   the
                   intelligence
                   of
                   the
                   Vacuity
                   of
                   your
                   Worship
                   's
                   Ecclesiastical
                   Donation
                   ,
                   did
                   dexterously
                   occur
                   and
                   perforate
                   my
                   Auricles
                   ;
                   And
                   forthwith
                   ,
                   gratifying
                   my
                   Beast
                   with
                   a
                   Measure
                   of
                   Pinguifying
                   Provender
                   ,
                   I
                   did
                   approperate
                   to
                   your
                   resplendent
                   Habitation
                   ,
                   to
                   impenetrate
                   the
                   Beneficial
                   Presentation
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                   A
                   profound
                   Aristotelian
                   .
                   —
                   Sir
                   Fortune
                   hath
                   not
                   Beatify'd
                   me
                   with
                   Mundane
                   Promotions
                   ,
                   neither
                   have
                   I
                   conglomerated
                   any
                   Terrestrial
                   Substance
                   ;
                   But
                   if
                   you
                   please
                   ,
                   with
                   your
                   perspicuous
                   Luminaries
                   to
                   contemplate
                   and
                   perscrutate
                   these
                   Testifications
                   ,
                   you
                   shall
                   be
                   animadverted
                   of
                   my
                   Deportment
                   in
                   the
                   Oxfordian
                   Society
                   ,
                   in
                   my
                   modification
                   for
                   Literature
                   .
                   Here
                   is
                   moreover
                   in
                   this
                   Membrane
                   with
                   the
                   cerous
                   Assignments
                   ,
                   the
                   Episcopal
                   Assign
                   to
                   gratify
                   your
                   Supplicant
                   ,
                   (
                   ponderating
                   the
                   Premises
                   )
                   you
                   shall
                   vivificate
                   the
                   mortiferous
                   Essence
                   of
                   my
                   Intellectuals
                   ,
                   and
                   invocate
                   into
                   this
                   Domical
                   one
                   that
                   will
                   not
                   contaminate
                   your
                   Family
                   ;
                   but
                   perprecate
                   the
                   Deities
                   for
                   the
                   longitude
                   of
                   their
                   Benediction
                   upon
                   your
                   Propagation
                   :
                   And
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Your
                     Incarcerated
                     Creature
                     ,
                     Fantastes
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               There
               's
               Rhetorick
               in
               every
               word
               ,
               I
               'me
               sure
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               In
               troth
               ,
               I
               hope
               some
               body
               will
               take
               him
               for
               a
               Conjurer
               ,
               and
               beat
               him
               soundly
               ;
               or
               else
               throw
               him
               into
               Goal
               for
               Coining
               false
               English
               ,
               and
               then
               he
               will
               be
               Incarcerated
               indeed
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               I
               fear
               nothing
               but
               that
               I
               come
               too
               late
               .
               These
               Livings
               ,
               they
               are
               like
               Herrings
               .
               They
               are
               Novelty
               ,
               but
               they
               will
               not
               keep
               long
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               I
               fear
               your's
               will
               be
               a
               Shotten
               one
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               These
               scurvy
               Boots
               ,
               —
               How
               shall
               I
               make
               them
               both
               of
               a
               Colour
               ?
               —
               I
               'll
               black
               them
               with
               the
               inside
               of
               my
               Coat
               .
            
          
           
             Enter
             Goodman
             Scuttle
             .
          
           
             
               Scuttle
               .
            
             
               Now
               verily
               and
               indeed
               ,
               I
               am
               glad
               that
               I
               am
               called
               out
               of
               New-England
               :
               The
               Brethren
               there
               do
               multiply
               too
               fast
               ,
               and
               the
               Sisters
               are
               not
               plentiful
               in
               their
               Benevolence
               towards
               us
               ,
               so
               as
               they
               be
               here
               .
               —
               And
               then
               many
               of
               them
               do
               Back-slide
               from
               what
               I
               did
               there
               deliver
               to
               them
               .
               —
               Truly
               I
               will
               quite
               leave
               my
               Basket-making
               ,
               unless
               now
               and
               then
               a
               Cradle
               for
               some
               Elect
               Babe
               .
               —
               Sure
               if
               I
               do
               not
               get
               this
               Living
               (
               as
               Marchurch
               ,
               by
               report
               ,
               is
               a
               Carnal
               Man
               )
               I
               can
               by
               my
               Short-hand
               ,
               and
               Repetition
               ,
               get
               a
               Competency
               .
               —
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               This
               Fellow
               hath
               the
               Living's
               fresh
               scent
               in
               his
               Nose
               ,
               too
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               How
               now
               ?
               Who
               's
               this
               ?
               Nay
               ,
               as
               long
               as
               he
               is
               not
               in
               Black
               I
               care
               not
               .
               —
               It
               may
               be
               he
               is
               some
               Servant
               in
               the
               House
               .
               —
               God
               save
               you
               ,
               Sir.
               
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               
                 (
                 aside
                 .
                 )
              
               
                 God
                 save
                 you
              
               ?
               Ha!
               —
               Truly
               Popery
               at
               the
               very
               first
               word
               .
               These
               
                 Vniversity
                 Men
              
               are
               all
               in
               some
               measure
               corrupted
               with
               it
               .
               For
               tho
               I
               know
               I
               shall
               be
               saved
               ,
               yet
               he
               knows
               not
               what
               I
               am
               .
               He
               might
               have
               said
               the
               same
               to
               some
               
                 Reprobate
                 Hell-hound
              
               ,
               and
               to
               him
               it
               is
               Popery
               .
               —
               I
               will
               not
               answer
               so
               vain
               a
               Word
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Do
               you
               live
               here
               I
               pray
               you
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               
                 (
                 aside
                 .
                 )
              
               Truly
               ,
               this
               
               Arminian's
               business
               is
               revealed
               unto
               me
               .
               He
               comes
               about
               the
               Living
               as
               well
               as
               I
               ;
               and
               being
               wicked
               
               as
               he
               is
               ,
               I
               ought
               to
               deceive
               him
               for
               the
               Churches
               good
               .
               I
               will
               Lye
               unto
               him
               .
               —
               Yes
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               do
               Inhabit
               here
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Inhabit
               here
               !
               —
               Nay
               ,
               if
               you
               can
               vary
               the
               Phrase
               ,
               have
               at
               you
               .
               —
               Is
               the
               Regulator
               of
               the
               Domicil
               segregated
               from
               his
               Negotiations
               ,
               I
               pray
               you
               ,
               Sir
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ah
               Sir
               !
               these
               Popish
               words
               become
               you
               not
               .
               —
               They
               edifie
               not
               .
               —
               If
               I
               were
               to
               write
               you
               a
               Sermon
               ,
               I
               have
               not
               a
               Character
               for
               such
               words
               .
               I
               pray
               you
               speak
               teachably
               and
               plainly
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Is
               the
               Gentleman
               of
               the
               House
               at
               home
               ,
               can
               you
               tell
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               No
               indeed
               ,
               he
               is
               not
               at
               Home
               ;
               he
               is
               newly
               rid
               Abroad
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               When
               will
               he
               return
               again
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Not
               this
               Week
               I
               believe
               .
               What
               's
               your
               Business
               ,
               I
               pray
               you
               ,
               with
               him
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Is
               his
               Living
               void
               ,
               can
               you
               tell
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ha!
               —
               I
               thought
               so
               .
               —
               Yea
               ,
               truly
               it
               is
               void
               ;
               but
               it
               is
               in
               vain
               for
               such
               as
               you
               are
               ,
               to
               look
               after
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Why
               so
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Why
               truly
               ,
               you
               are
               prophane
               Men
               ,
               and
               Idolatrous
               ,
               and
               can
               do
               nothing
               but
               with
               Study
               and
               Popish
               Books
               .
               —
               I
               wonder
               what
               you
               should
               do
               at
               a
               Colledg
               so
               long
               .
               —
               No
               good
               I
               warrant
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               What!
               We
               read
               
                 Philosophy
                 ,
                 Logick
                 ,
                 Divinity
              
               .
               —
               We
               learn
               the
               Tongues
               —
               
                 Hebrew
                 ,
                 Greek
              
               ,
               and
               Latin
               ,
               to
               fit
               us
               for
               the
               Church
               ;
               and
               all
               little
               enough
               .
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ah!
               —
               I
               thought
               that
               would
               be
               your
               Answer
               .
               —
               Does
               not
               the
               Pope
               the
               like
               ?
               I
               dare
               my self
               Preach
               with
               you
               for
               the
               Living
               ;
               and
               he
               that
               gives
               over
               first
               ,
               shall
               lose
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               What
               Trade
               are
               you
               ,
               Sir
               ?
               —
               You
               talk
               madly
               .
               —
               Ah!
               such
               as
               you
               are
               have
               undone
               us
               all
               .
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               you
               vile
               Priest
               ,
               such
               as
               you
               are
               .
               —
               And
               I
               intend
               to
               get
               this
               Living
               .
               —
               If
               such
               Wretches
               as
               you
               are
               get
               it
               ,
               you
               must
               be
               Parson
               and
               have
               Tithes
               .
               —
               No
               ,
               no.
               —
               I
               'll
               at
               Composition
               and
               stand
               to
               their
               Benevolence
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               O
               ,
               Domine
               ,
               is't
               come
               to
               this
               !
               
                 [
                 Surgit
                 Bookworm
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Bookworm
               .
            
             
               [
               I'll
               set
               them
               together
               by
               th'
               Ears
               .
               ]
               —
               Come
               —
               Who
               buys
               a
               Ballad
               ?
            
             
               
                 [
                 Sings
                 .
                 ]
              
               God
               prosper
               long
               our
               Noble
               King
               ,
               &c.
               —
            
             
               Who
               buys
               a
               new
               Ballad
               ?
               
                 [
                 He
                 sings
                 again
                 .
                 ]
              
               
                 
                   I
                   am
                   confirm'd
                   a
                   Scholar
                   can
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   this
                   or
                   that
                   ,
                   or
                   any
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Ovid
                   taught
                   all
                   Students
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   a
                   Metamorphosis
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   he
                   cannot
                   change
                   a
                   Groat
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   'll
                   turn
                   his
                   Skin
                   and
                   change
                   his
                   Coat
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Do
               you
               hear
               ,
               Sir
               Scholar
               ?
               You
               Black-Coats
               can
               be
               any
               thing
               ,
               and
               Temporizers
               .
               I
               'll
               buy
               it
               of
               him
               .
               —
               Honest
               Man
               ,
               pray
               let
               me
               have
               that
               Ballad
               .
               —
               Have
               you
               any
               thing
               against
               Bishops
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               Sir.
               —
               There
               is
               
                 Little
                 Laud
                 in
                 Limbo
              
               ,
               and
               
                 Lambeth
                 Fair
              
               ,
               and
               
                 Rome
                 for
                 a
                 Corner'd
                 Cap
              
               ,
               and
               the
               
                 Character
                 of
                 a
                 Bishop
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               I
               shall
               think
               the
               better
               of
               you
               Ballad-men
               hereafter
               .
               —
               The
               price
               of
               them
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               Two
               Groats
               .
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Very
               cheap
               .
               —
               If
               I
               get
               the
               Living
               ,
               I
               'll
               have
               thee
               my
               Clark.
               
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Hang
               you
               Rascal
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               venture
               in
               ▪
               —
               I
               'll
               serve
               your
               Turn
               .
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               'll
               give
               them
               a
               Character
               of
               you
               ,
               you
               Popeling
               ,
               I
               'll
               be
               there
               as
               soon
               as
               you
               ,
               I
               warrant
               you
               .
               
                 [
                 They
                 justle
                 at
                 the
                 Door
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             Exeunt
             .
          
           
             
               Bookw.
               
            
             
               These
               are
               brave
               Times
               !
               —
               I
               'll
               lay
               Ten
               Pound
               the
               Basket-maker
               carries
               it
               away
               .
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Enter
               a
               Tinker
               singing
            
             .
          
           
             
               Tinker
               .
            
             
               When
               Alexander
               cross'd
               the
               Seas
               ,
            
             
               King
               Pippin
               and
               Diogenes
               .
            
             
               Mul'd
               Sack
               is
               good
               to
               cure
               the
               Fleas
               .
            
             
               
                 Tom
                 Tinker
              
               lives
               a
               merry
               Life
               ,
            
             
               And
               is
               o'
               th'
               mending
               hand
               ,
            
             
               A
               Copper
               Nose
               ,
               a
               Brazen
               Face
               ,
            
             
               He
               hath
               at
               your
               Command
               .
            
             
               Come
               ,
               come
               ,
               Have
               you
               any
               Work
               for
               a
               Tinker
               ?
               —
               Have
               you
               any
               Bellows
               or
               Bowls
               to
               mend
               ?
               Any
               Dishes
               ,
               Kettles
               or
               Skillets
               ,
               or
               old
               Frying-Pans
               to
               mend
               ?
               —
               Come
               ,
               come
               ,
               I
               can
               mend
               Platter-Faces
               ,
               or
               Crack'd
               Maiden-Heads
               ,
               or
               Tipt
               Cuckold's-Horns
               .
               Who
               will
               buy
               a
               brave
               Candlestick
               ?
               —
               My
               Wares
               are
               all
               sound
               ,
               but
               I
               must
               crack
               of
               them
               ,
               to
               make
               them
               sell
               the
               better
               .
               He
               that
               useth
               this
               Candlestick
               shall
               do
               more
               with
               a
               Week
               ,
               than
               another
               with
               a
               Quarter
               ;
               and
               he
               that
               tells
               his
               Gold
               by
               this
               Candlestick
               ,
               without
               ever
               a
               Candle
               in
               't
               ,
               shall
               not
               find
               it
               Light.
               —
               I
               'll
               warrant
               ,
               this
               was
               the
               Candlestick
               Diogenes
               sought
               for
               an
               Honest
               Man
               with
               .
               —
               I
               was
               offer'd
               Moneys
               enough
               for
               it
               two
               Years
               ago
               by
               an
               old
               Blade
               ,
               to
               set
               upon
               an
               Altar
               in
               his
               Chancel
               :
               But
               now
               Conformity
               burns
               and
               stinks
               in
               the
               Socket
               ,
               and
               Wax-Candles
               wax
               dim
               ,
               and
               are
               like
               to
               go
               out
               in
               a
               Snuff
               ;
               yet
               it
               serves
               a
               Papist
               to
               light
               him
               to
               Rome
               .
               For
               the
               
               Pope's
               Fire
               begins
               to
               burn
               Blew
               ,
               and
               it
               's
               thought
               he
               wants
               a
               pair
               of
               Tongs
               to
               turn
               up
               his
               
               Purgatory-bottom-Cake
               .
               —
               Come
               ,
               who
               buys
               it
               ?
               That
               the
               Tinker
               may
               have
               some
               better
               Mettal
               to
               melt
               into
               Ale.
               He
               that
               will
               chaffer
               ,
               shall
               have
               this
               Prolonger
               into
               the
               Bargain
               .
               —
               O
               brave
               Prolonger
               !
               —
               If
               Patents
               and
               Monopolies
               had
               had
               Prolongers
               ,
               they
               had
               not
               gone
               out
               yet
               .
               —
               You
               that
               are
               the
               Lights
               of
               the
               Church
               have
               Extinguishers
               enow
               ,
               but
               your
               two
               Steeples
               like
               double-wick'd-Candles
               ,
               wont
               Prolongers
               .
               —
               Ship-Money
               ,
               Star
               Chamber
               ,
               High-Commission
               ,
               Michaelmas
               Term
               ,
               —
               all
               want
               
               Prolongers
               .
               —
               But
               I
               shall
               prolong
               the
               time
               ,
               and
               take
               nothing
               .
               —
               But
               who
               comes
               here
               ?
               —
               Another
               Black
               Coat
               .
               —
               Sure
               here
               is
               some
               Carrion
               here-abouts
               ,
               I
               see
               so
               many
               Crows
               stirring
               !
               —
               Have
               you
               any
               Work
               for
               a
               Tinker
               ?
               
                 Enter
                 Fantastes
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               This
               is
               as
               brave
               as
               can
               be
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               set
               him
               on
               Work
               now
               .
               Jovial
               Tinker
               !
               Where
               's
               the
               best
               Liquor
               ?
               —
               Ha
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               God
               bless
               your
               Learning
               ,
               Master
               .
               
                 
                   There
                   is
                   good
                   Liquor
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   never
                   Drunk
                   quicker
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   thou
                   'lt
                   follow
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thou
                   'st
                   find
                   Chink
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   'll
                   find
                   Drink
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   we
                   'll
                   Merry
                   be
                   .
                   —
                
              
            
             
               Master
               will
               you
               set
               a
               poor
               Tinker
               on
               Work
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Alas
               !
               What
               Work
               should
               Scholars
               have
               for
               Tinkers
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               What
               ?
               —
               Master
               ,
               will
               you
               give
               me
               leave
               ,
               —
               You
               are
               but
               Tinkers
               your selves
               ,
               many
               of
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               As
               how
               prithee
               !
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               How
               ?
               —
               Why
               you
               keep
               such
               a
               Hammering
               of
               a
               poor
               Text
               ,
               before
               you
               can
               hit
               the
               right
               Nail
               on
               the
               head
               ;
               —
               and
               then
               in
               stopping
               one
               Hole
               ,
               you
               oftentimes
               make
               two
               .
               —
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Thou'
               rt
               a
               mad
               Blade
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               and
               none
               but
               Scholars
               and
               Tinkers
               carry
               all
               their
               Tools
               about
               them
               ,
               to
               mend
               this
               Brass
               and
               Iron
               Age.
               
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Hark
               thee
               ,
               Tom
               ,
               canst
               Fight
               lustily
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Ay
               Faith
               ,
               therein
               we
               differ
               .
               —
               You
               Black
               Coats
               are
               Cowards
               ,
               and
               we
               are
               not
               .
               —
               Yes
               ,
               I
               can
               play
               at
               Quarter-staff
               a
               little
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Wilt
               thou
               be
               true
               to
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Will
               I
               not
               Bully
               ?
               Hector
               ,
               try
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Sirrah
               ,
               here
               is
               a
               Living
               void
               here
               in
               Town
               ,
               and
               I
               am
               come
               to
               try
               my
               Fortune
               for
               it
               .
               Here
               ,
               even
               now
               ,
               I
               met
               with
               a
               Roguish
               Sniveling
               New-English
               Basket-maker
               ,
               that
               
               does
               abuse
               me
               and
               all
               Scholars
               as
               past
               —
               Wouldst
               thou
               think
               that
               he
               is
               gone
               in
               here
               to
               get
               the
               Living
               from
               us
               all
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Does
               he
               snivle
               in
               the
               Nose
               ,
               Master
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               Tom
               ,
               that
               he
               does
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               By
               Iove
               ,
               I
               'll
               sell
               him
               a
               pair
               of
               Snuffers
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Stand
               here
               and
               watch
               for
               him
               ,
               and
               search
               his
               Pockets
               ▪
               and
               thou
               shalt
               see
               what
               Authors
               he
               reads
               .
               —
               Look
               you
               —
               There
               's
               Twelve-pence
               for
               thee
               ,
               and
               meet
               me
               half
               an
               Hour
               hence
               at
               the
               Ale-House
               ,
               and
               whether
               thou
               speedest
               or
               not
               ,
               I
               'll
               give
               thee
               half
               a
               dozen
               of
               Ale
               ,
               and
               we
               'll
               Laugh
               and
               be
               Merry
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Hark
               you
               Master
               ,
               I
               'll
               make
               him
               down
               on
               his
               Knees
               ,
               and
               pray
               for
               Bishops
               e're
               I
               have
               done
               with
               him
               .
               —
               Let
               me
               alone
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fant
               .
            
             
               Be
               sure
               you
               Pay
               him
               soundly
               .
               —
               Spare
               him
               not
               .
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               This
               is
               Handsome
               !
               —
               A
               Basket-maker
               get
               a
               Living
               !
               —
               He
               had
               best
               bring
               a
               pair
               of
               Hilts
               with
               him
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               have
               a
               bout
               at
               Wastrels
               with
               him
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               teach
               him
               how
               to
               baste
               a
               Pulpit
               .
               —
               Here
               he
               comes
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               listen
               awhile
               what
               Tune
               his
               Nose
               is
               in
               ,
               that
               I
               may
               mend
               it
               .
            
          
           
             Enter
             Goodman
             Scuttle
             .
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ah
               ,
               as
               very
               a
               wicked
               Man
               as
               ever
               I
               came
               near
               ,
               a
               very
               Reprobate
               ,
               not
               any
               good
               word
               came
               from
               him
               .
               —
               But
               he
               must
               have
               Money
               ,
               Money
               .
               —
               'T
               is
               a
               thousand
               pitties
               that
               such
               good
               Men
               as
               we
               ,
               should
               be
               put
               aside
               by
               such
               Carnal
               and
               Unsanctify'd
               Patrons
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Have
               you
               any
               Work
               for
               a
               Tinker
               ?
               —
               Yo
               —
               Friend
               ,
               —
               Will
               you
               set
               a
               poor
               Tinker
               on
               Work
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Away
               ,
               away
               for
               Banbury
               .
               —
               I
               have
               no
               Work
               for
               such
               Fellows
               as
               you
               are
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               but
               Sirrah
               ,
               Rascal
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               Work
               for
               nothing
               .
               —
            
          
           
             Beats
             him
             .
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               —
               Murder
               ,
               —
               Murder
               .
               —
               Will
               you
               kill
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Sirrah
               ,
               It
               is
               revealed
               unto
               me
               that
               you
               have
               a
               mind
               to
               
               Preach
               ,
               and
               to
               leave
               your
               Trade
               .
               —
               Thus
               and
               thus
               —
               and
               then
               thus
               ,
               you
               must
               thump
               the
               Cushion
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Beats
                 him
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Come
               on
               you
               Knave
               .
               —
               You
               told
               never
               a
               Lye
               to
               day
               for
               the
               good
               of
               the
               Church
               ,
               did
               you
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Yea
               indeed
               ,
               but
               I
               'll
               do
               so
               no
               more
               .
               —
               Pray
               spare
               my
               Bife
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Sirrah
               ,
               Will
               you
               lead
               me
               to
               a
               Cup
               of
               good
               Ale
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               ay
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               And
               to
               a
               pritty
               Wench
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               so
               it
               may
               be
               private
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               And
               will
               you
               love
               good
               Scholars
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               indeed
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               And
               pray
               for
               Bishops
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               and
               Arch-Bishops
               too
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               now
               I
               see
               you
               are
               a
               dissembling
               Knave
               .
               I
               'll
               have
               you
               Silenc'd
               i'Faith
               .
               —
               You
               gaped
               for
               a
               Benefice
               .
               —
               Now
               gape
               ,
               
                 [
                 gags
                 him
                 ]
              
               so
               now
               let
               me
               see
               what
               is
               in
               your
               Pockets
               .
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Awe
               ,
               awe
               ,
               awe
               ▪
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 feels
                 in
                 his
                 Pockets
                 ,
                 and
                 pulls
                 out
                 a
                 Book
                 of
                 Characters
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Tink
               .
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               I
               'll
               keep
               you
               in
               awe
               .
               —
               How
               now
               ,
               what
               's
               here
               ?
               A
               Book
               of
               Characters
               !
               O
               Sirrah
               ,
               you
               write
               Characters
               do
               you
               ?
               I
               'll
               pay
               you
               in
               Words
               at
               length
               .
               —
               Here
               's
               good
               Gear
               indeed
               .
               —
               Come
               on
               .
               —
               Now
               get
               up
               ▪
               —
               So
               —
               let
               me
               see
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Pins
                 his
                 Book
                 on
                 his
                 Back
                 .
                 ]
              
               Come
               ,
               I
               'll
               give
               you
               Induction
               ,
               you
               have
               your
               Orders
               about
               you
               .
               —
               Come
               ,
               Sirrah
               ,
               or
               I
               'll
               choak
               thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Scut
               .
            
             
               Au
               ,
               au
               ,
               au
               .
               —
               
                 Exeunt
                 .
              
            
          
           
             Enter
             Marchurch
             alone
             .
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               the
               blessed'st
               days
               that
               ever
               came
               !
               I
               think
               ,
               when
               I
               was
               Born
               ,
               all
               ill
               Fortune
               was
               lull'd
               asleep
               ,
               and
               the
               fatal
               Planets
               were
               in
               a
               Swoon
               .
               —
               I
               never
               saw
               that
               wrinkled
               Brow
               of
               Fortune
               .
               Her
               clearer
               Face
               hath
               always
               shined
               upon
               my
               Days
               .
               —
               Nay
               ,
               —
               Now
               ,
               —
               just
               now
               ▪
               —
               When
               I
               look'd
               to
               have
               been
               Branded
               for
               ever
               ,
               for
               this
               same
               Vrsely
               ,
               I
               think
               there
               was
               a
               Mask
               
               or
               Vizard
               drawn
               over
               the
               Eyes
               of
               the
               World.
               —
               My
               Servants
               and
               People
               ,
               all
               from
               Home
               .
               —
               And
               Vrsely
               had
               no
               sooner
               spawn'd
               ,
               but
               there
               comes
               a
               Gypsie
               Beggar-woman
               to
               my
               Door
               ,
               who
               for
               Twenty
               Shillings
               took
               away
               the
               Bastard
               with
               her
               .
               I
               made
               her
               a
               sufficient
               Pass
               to
               carry
               her
               far
               enough
               .
               In
               troth
               
               Vrsely's
               was
               an
               excellent
               Plot
               to
               keep
               my
               Nephew
               in
               Aw
               .
               —
               If
               it
               be
               possible
               ,
               I
               'll
               Marry
               her
               off
               with
               this
               Living
               .
               —
               One
               ,
               two
               ,
               three
               ,
               four
               ,
               five
               Black
               Coats
               ,
               but
               not
               a
               Penny
               among
               them
               all
               .
               —
               I
               wonder
               what
               's
               become
               of
               Hob
               !
               —
               He
               hath
               paid
               Homily
               soundly
               ,
               they
               say
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Draws
                 out
                 a
                 Letter
                 ▪
                 ]
              
               —
               Here
               's
               a
               Letter
               .
               Good
               News
               ;
               I
               hope
               ,
               some
               Chapman
               for
               the
               Living
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 opens
                 the
                 Letter
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             Enter
             Hob
             
               dress'd
               like
               a
               Parson
               ,
               and
            
             Homily
             
               as
               his
               Man.
            
             
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Cud's
               Noun's
               ,
               
                 Sir
                 Homily
              
               .
               —
               Here
               's
               my
               Master
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Peace
               ,
               peace
               .
               You
               must
               not
               call
               me
               Homily
               ,
               but
               Iack.
               
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Why
               then
               ,
               
                 Iack
                 Homily
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               that
               's
               worst
               of
               all
               .
               Call
               me
               plain
               Iack.
               
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Why
               then
               
                 Plain
                 Iack.
              
               —
               Come
               ,
               stand
               close
               .
               —
               Fifteen
               Years
               old
               am
               I
               say'st
               thou
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Pish.
               —
               I
               say
               Fifty
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Fifty
               .
               —
               How
               many
               Twenties
               is
               that
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               It
               's
               twenty
               to
               one
               ,
               you
               'll
               spoyl
               all
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Now
               ,
               now
               .
               —
               Come
               stand
               close
               by
               me
               good
               Homily
               .
               —
               O
               ,
               Iack
               I
               would
               say
               .
               —
               You
               ,
               —
               Hear
               ,
               —
               Ho
               ,
               Honest
               Man.
               —
               Hark
               ye
               me
               .
               —
               Hear
               .
               —
               Does
               not
               Mr.
               Marchurch
               live
               here
               ,
               I
               'se
               pray
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               O
               ,
               that
               's
               well
               done
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Cud's
               duds
               —
               He
               'll
               know
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Lawye
               now
               !
               —
               Here
               's
               another
               ,
               that
               makes
               Six
               .
               —
               Marry
               he
               hath
               a
               Man
               waits
               on
               him
               .
               —
               Yes
               Sir
               ,
               Mr.
               Marchurch
               does
               dwell
               here
               :
               Would
               you
               speak
               with
               him
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               marry
               would
               I.
               —
               I
               'se
               come
               forty
               Miles
               to
               speak
               with
               him
               .
               —
               God
               speed
               Plough
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               the
               Man
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               Marchurch
               is
               my
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               
                 Iack
                 ,
                 Iack
              
               ,
               must
               I
               ask
               him
               ,
               Who
               gave
               him
               that
               Name
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               No
               ,
               no.
               —
               Tell
               him
               ,
               you
               are
               a
               Suitor
               to
               him
               for
               the
               Living
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               —
               Goodine
               to
               your
               Worship
               .
               —
               I
               'se
               hear
               you
               have
               a
               Living
               in
               your
               Gift
               .
               I'se
               a
               poor
               Minister
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               and
               shall
               be
               bound
               to
               pray
               for
               your
               Worship
               ,
               and
               you
               shall
               give
               it
               me
               .
               I
               'll
               live
               like
               an
               Honest
               Man
               among
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Alas
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               you
               are
               a
               meer
               Stranger
               to
               me
               ,
               but
               by
               your
               Language
               ,
               you
               seem
               to
               be
               a
               Northern
               Man.
               
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Yea
               Sir
               ,
               I
               was
               Born
               in
               Cumberland
               ,
               and
               had
               a
               good
               Living
               in
               the
               North
               (
               tho
               I
               say
               it
               )
               but
               when
               the
               Scots
               came
               last
               Year
               ,
               I
               was
               fain
               to
               fly
               ,
               and
               make
               Money
               of
               what
               I
               had
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               if
               you
               have
               Money
               ,
               have
               at
               you
               ,
               as
               errand
               a
               Clown
               as
               you
               are
               .
               
                 [
                 Aside
                 .
                 ]
              
               Why
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               a
               Cumberland
               Man
               ,
               say
               you
               ?
               I
               have
               a
               Tenant
               here
               in
               Town
               ,
               your
               Country-man
               ;
               his
               name
               is
               Hob
               ,
               —
               an
               Honest
               Man.
               
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Cuds
               duds
               ,
               cuds
               duds
               ,
               cuds
               duds
               ,
               —
               Iack.
               —
               
                 (
                 Aside
                 .
                 )
              
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Sir
               ,
               I
               pray
               you
               speak
               louder
               ,
               my
               Master
               is
               somewhat
               Deaf
               .
               —
               He
               hears
               you
               not
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               God-a-mercy
               ,
               Iack.
               —
               Why
               Sir
               ,
               Hob
               say
               you
               is
               his
               Name
               ?
               There
               is
               a
               famous
               Cudgel-player
               of
               his
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               I
               pray
               you
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               what
               may
               be
               your
               Name
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               What
               's
               my
               Name
               ?
               —
               My
               Name
               ,
               —
               my
               Name
               is
               —
               Richmond
               .
               My
               Father
               was
               a
               good
               Gentleman
               ,
               I
               'se
               sure
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               That
               Skil's
               not
               worth
               what
               your
               Father
               was
               ;
               your
               own
               Parsonage
               shews
               you
               to
               be
               a
               Man
               sufficient
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               but
               your
               Parsonage
               would
               do
               it
               better
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               must
               needs
               confess
               ,
               there
               is
               a
               pritty
               Living
               in
               my
               Hands
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               Sir.
               —
               There
               's
               something
               in
               my
               Hand
               too
               .
               —
            
          
           
             Shews
             him
             Money
             .
          
           
             
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               I
               hope
               that
               you
               and
               I
               shall
               shake
               Hands
               presently
               .
               What
               University
               are
               you
               of
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Oxford
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Have
               you
               taken
               your
               Degrees
               there
               ,
               Sir
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Degrees
               ?
               —
               I
               have
               spent
               an
               Hundred
               Pounds
               there
               by
               Degrees
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Was
               you
               ever
               Fellow
               of
               any
               House
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               marry
               ,
               now
               and
               then
               ,
               Fellow
               of
               an
               Ale-House
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               The
               Canon
               doth
               not
               require
               any
               thing
               ,
               but
               that
               you
               be
               able
               to
               speak
               a
               piece
               of
               Latin.
               
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Latin
               !
               —
               yea
               ,
               that
               I
               can
               ,
               Twenty
               pieces
               of
               better
               Mettal
               than
               Latin.
               —
               Hang
               Latin
               ,
               it
               is
               good
               for
               nothing
               but
               Dripping-pans
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               You
               say
               right
               .
               —
               There
               is
               a
               great
               deal
               of
               Popery
               in
               it
               .
               —
               You
               have
               no
               Living
               as
               yet
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               pray
               you
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               No
               ,
               indeed
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               —
               you
               are
               my
               first
               Chapman
               .
               —
               I
               have
               not
               bidden
               a
               Penny
               to
               any
               Man
               but
               your
               Worship
               .
               Pray
               use
               me
               well
               ,
               and
               you
               shall
               have
               more
               of
               my
               Custom
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Marry
               ,
               and
               I
               have
               another
               Commodity
               for
               thee
               ,
               if
               thou
               be'st
               not
               Marry'd
               .
               —
               
                 (
                 aside
                 .
                 )
              
               How
               Old
               are
               you
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               pray
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               —
               Ise
               two
               Twenties
               and
               Ten.
               —
               Fifteen
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               That
               's
               nothing
               ,
               you
               Parsons
               live
               long
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom
               
            
             
               Coff
               ,
               and
               make
               your self
               Sick.
               —
               
                 (
                 aside
                 .
                 )
              
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Alas
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               am
               Old
               and
               Crazy
               .
               Ho
               ,
               ho
               ,
               ho
               ,
               —
               Hold
               my
               Head
               ,
               Iack.
               —
               Oh
               ,
               Sick.
               
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               O
               ,
               admirably
               well
               done
               .
               —
               
                 (
                 aside
                 .
                 )
              
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               ho
               ,
               ho
               ,
               —
               I
               am
               so
               troubled
               with
               the
               Coughing
               of
               the
               Lungs
               ,
               it
               will
               e'en
               kill
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               I
               hope
               it
               will
               ,
               e're
               long
               .
               —
               
                 (
                 aside
                 .
                 )
              
               —
               Alas
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               am
               sorry
               to
               see
               you
               so
               Sickly
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Pulls
                 out
                 an
                 Aquavitae-bottle
                 .
                 ]
              
               Here
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               —
               I
               pray
               you
               drink
               a
               little
               of
               this
               .
               —
               I
               never
               go
               without
               my
               Bottle
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               ho
               ,
               ho
               ,
               —
               God
               thank
               your
               Worship
               .
               —
               It
               will
               even
               fall
               again
               into
               your
               hands
               before
               seven
               Years
               come
               to
               an
               end
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               because
               I
               see
               you
               are
               so
               Sickly
               ,
               and
               likely
               to
               be
               an
               Honest
               Man
               among
               us
               ;
               hark
               you
               .
               —
               
                 Whispers
                 him
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Fifty
               Pieces
               !
               Marry
               ,
               God
               bless
               us
               ,
               you
               had
               need
               lend
               me
               your
               Aquavitae-bottle
               again
               ;
               this
               gangs
               cold
               to
               my
               Heart
               .
               Fifty
               Pieces
               !
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               Twenty
               down
               now
               ,
               and
               I
               'll
               take
               your
               word
               for
               the
               rest
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Offer
               him
               Twenty
               ,
               offer
               him
               Twenty
               .
               —
               Do
               ,
               do
               .
               —
            
          
           
             Aside
             .
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Why
               will
               Twenty
               fetch
               it
               down
               now
               upon
               the
               Stubs
               ?
               Here
               it
               is
               in
               good
               Gold.
               If
               I
               live
               tway
               Years
               more
               ,
               I
               'se
               give
               you
               Ten
               Pounds
               more
               if
               I
               like
               my
               Bargain
               .
               What
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               Livings
               are
               fallen
               now
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               In
               truth
               ,
               I
               thought
               mine
               would
               never
               have
               fallen
               .
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               .
               —
               These
               are
               dangerous
               Times
               .
               —
               I
               shall
               have
               some
               Chaplain
               or
               other
               come
               with
               the
               King's
               Title
               and
               cozen
               me
               ,
               or
               some
               Mischief
               ,
               if
               I
               keep
               it
               in
               my
               Hands
               .
               —
               
                 (
                 Aside
                 .
                 )
              
               —
               Are
               you
               a
               Married
               Man
               ,
               Sir
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               No
               marry
               not
               I
               ,
               Sir.
               
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               If
               I
               use
               you
               well
               ,
               I
               hope
               you
               'll
               not
               speak
               on
               't
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               No
               ,
               no
               ,
               I
               'se
               be
               as
               Mum
               as
               a
               Lawyer
               without
               his
               Fee.
               
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               I
               hope
               you
               'll
               live
               Peaceably
               among
               us
               ,
               and
               not
               go
               to
               Law
               ,
               or
               present
               any
               Man
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Yea
               marry
               ,
               I
               'se
               present
               your
               Worship
               with
               a
               Tith-Pig
               ,
               or
               so
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               You
               say
               well
               for
               that
               .
               —
               But
               hark
               you
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               you
               shall
               allow
               me
               two
               or
               three
               Quarters
               of
               Wheat
               every
               Christmas
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               No
               ,
               no
               ,
               Sir.
               —
               You
               shall
               not
               catch
               old
               Birds
               with
               Chaff
               .
               —
               Is
               it
               a
               Bargain
               ?
               Here
               's
               my
               Money
               ,
               will
               you
               strike
               me
               Luck
               on
               't
               ?
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Come
               ,
               give
               me
               your
               hand
               ,
               Mr.
               Parson
               .
               —
               It
               's
               done
               .
               —
               Your
               Name
               is
               Mr.
               Richmond
               ,
               you
               say
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               that
               's
               my
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Well
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               God
               give
               you
               Joy
               ▪
               —
               I
               will
               go
               write
               your
               Presentation
               ,
               and
               about
               two
               Hours
               hence
               I
               will
               expect
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Very
               well
               .
               Our
               Horses
               are
               at
               yonder
               Ale-House
               ;
               We
               'll
               come
               to
               you
               anon
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               You
               shall
               be
               Welcome
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               
                 Iack
                 ,
                 Iack
              
               ,
               —
               What
               's
               the
               Latin
               thing
               ?
               
                 Aside
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               
                 Gratias
                 ago
                 Domine
              
               .
               —
               
                 Aside
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               
                 Gratias
                 ago
                 Homily
              
               ▪
               —
               
                 
                   Exit
                   cum
                
                 Homily
                 .
              
            
          
           
             Manet
             Marchurch
             solus
             .
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               —
               How
               bravely
               have
               I
               taken
               my
               old
               Black
               Jack
               by
               the
               Ear
               ,
               and
               drained
               him
               !
               What
               an
               interest
               have
               I
               got
               in
               this
               Verb
               Impersonal
               .
               —
               If
               I
               should
               have
               made
               an
               
                 Hue
                 and
                 Cry
              
               from
               
                 In
                 Speech
              
               to
               
                 For
                 the
                 due
                 joyning
              
               ,
               I
               should
               not
               have
               found
               such
               a
               
                 Participle
                 in
                 Rus.
              
               —
               Well
               ,
               let
               him
               be
               what
               he
               will
               ,
               (
               as
               I
               think
               he
               is
               not
               guilty
               of
               much
               Learning
               )
               let
               him
               be
               Pulpit-Monger
               ,
               Desk-Thumper
               ,
               and
               Sermon-Braker
               (
               as
               I
               think
               he
               hath
               as
               few
               new
               ones
               ,
               as
               any
               here
               )
               if
               he
               be
               able
               to
               set
               out
               a
               Stave
               in
               a
               Psalm
               right
               (
               as
               he
               is
               Old
               enough
               )
               I
               care
               not
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               humour
               him
               till
               he
               is
               safe
               ,
               and
               then
               ,
               may-hap
               ,
               I
               may
               pin
               Vrsely
               on
               his
               Back
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Nay
               ,
               rather
               pin
               him
               upon
               her
               Belly
               .
               But
               if
               you
               geld
               him
               so
               as
               you
               begin
               ,
               he
               'll
               be
               able
               to
               do
               nothing
               ;
               you
               have
               taken
               away
               his
               Gold
               now
               ,
               and
               his
               pretious
               Stones
               will
               be
               next
               .
               ]
               However
               I
               am
               glad
               ,
               I
               have
               crack'd
               the
               Flea
               Homily
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               in
               ,
               and
               expect
               my
               Animal
               .
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Surgit
               Furor
               .
               &
               Canit
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 Have
                 been
                 a
                 Jovial
                 Rambler
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 have
                 Travel'd
                 many
                 Nations
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 seen
              
               
                 How
                 Men
                 have
                 delighted
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Several
                 Transformations
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 do
                 I
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 chop
                 ,
                 let
                 them
                 change
                 Boy
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 turn
                 and
                 never
                 spare
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 see
                 a
                 Lurch
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 put
                 upon
                 the
                 Church
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 this
                 fetches
                 off
                 my
                 Hair.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Old
                 Proteus
                 stands
                 amazed
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 himself
                 put
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Copernicus
              
               
                 Did
                 prophesy
                 of
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 said
                 the
                 World
                 turn'd
                 round
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Your
                 Rich
                 Men
                 turn'd
                 to
                 Lions
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Rich
                 Men
                 ,
                 an
                 Ass
                 in
                 Fashion
                 ,
              
               
                 Marry'd
                 Wives
                 wear
                 Fox-skins
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 their
                 Husbands
                 Ox-skins
                 ;
              
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 ho
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 Jugling
                 Nation
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 seen
                 a
                 Beggar
                 in
                 Scarlet
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 a
                 Master
                 of
                 a
                 Gaffer
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Gentleman
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 Become
                 one
                 of
                 the
                 first
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 which
                 I
                 am
                 a
                 Scoffer
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 seen
                 a
                 Deck
                 of
                 Religions
                 ,
              
               
                 Pack'd
                 and
                 Shuffl'd
                 most
                 rarely
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Papists
                 in
                 a
                 Dump
                 ,
              
               
                 'Cause
                 Puritan
                 is
                 Trump
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 swears
                 they
                 Deal
                 not
                 fairly
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 been
                 in
                 many
                 a
                 Parlour
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Sermons
                 have
                 been
                 Plenty
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 heard
                 a
                 Ladkin
                 Pray
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 a
                 Night
                 and
                 a
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 could
                 scarce
                 tell
                 Twenty
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 do
                 I
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 chop
                 ,
                 let
                 them
                 change
                 Boy
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 turn
                 and
                 never
                 spare
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 see
                 a
                 Lurch
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 put
                 upon
                 the
                 Church
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 ,
                 this
                 fetches
                 off
                 my
                 Hair.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             ACT
             the
             Fifth
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Furor
             .
          
           
             
               Furor
               .
            
             
               A
               Carter
               get
               a
               Living
               !
               —
               I
               'll
               put
               a
               spoke
               in
               his
               Wheel
               .
               —
               (
               If
               it
               were
               Carter
               upon
               Seton
               ,
               it
               would
               have
               been
               another
               matter
               )
               —
               Who
               of
               both
               ,
               he
               had
               better
               have
               bought
               the
               Schoolmasters
               Place
               ,
               and
               then
               all
               would
               have
               been
               but
               a
               Whipping
               still
               ;
               but
               now
               he
               will
               never
               be
               able
               to
               set
               out
               a
               Psalm
               right
               without
               Whisling
               ;
               or
               say
               Grace
               without
               Rhymes
               for
               's
               heart
               .
               —
               But
               see
               where
               he
               comes
               .
               —
               How
               now
               ,
               Drunk
               !
               —
               He
               hath
               been
               Preaching
               over
               a
               Black
               Pot
               already
               .
               —
               I
               marvel
               what
               's
               become
               of
               his
               Man
               Homily
               !
               He
               is
               not
               his
               own
               Man
               I
               'me
               sure
               .
               —
               Well
               ,
               I
               'll
               to
               my
               Kennel
               once
               more
               ,
               and
               mark
               the
               Catastrophe
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             Enter
             Hob
             
               Drunk
               ,
               with
               a
               Pipe
               of
               Tobacco
               in
               's
               Mouth
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Cuds
               duds
               —
               Curis
               Tobacco
               !
               —
               Room
               there
               for
               Parson
               Hob.
               —
               Mr.
               Marpudding
               can
               be
               hang'd
               e're
               he
               can
               do
               thus
               .
               
                 [
                 Puffs
                 ,
                 Whisles
                 ,
                 and
                 Sings
                 .
                 ]
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   's
                   be
                   Merry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   why
                   should
                   we
                   be
                   Sad
                   ?
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   have
                   a
                   Living
                   anon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   it
                   be
                   good
                   or
                   bad
                   .
                
              
            
             
             
               Whoop
               ,
               Ha.
               —
               Well
               sung
               Parson
               Hob.
               —
               Sirrah
               ,
               Boy
               ,
               drive
               your
               Cart
               that
               way
               .
               
                 [
                 He
                 Reels
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Thou
               'lt
               overthrow
               presently
               ;
               thou
               hast
               thy
               Load
               .
               —
               Whoist
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               I
               'll
               have
               my
               Frock
               dy'd
               Black
               ,
               and
               it
               will
               make
               a
               good
               Cassock
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Open's
                 his
                 Primmer
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               I
               must
               learn
               to
               Read
               against
               Sunday
               .
               —
               G
               —
               r
               —
               a
               —
               c
               —
               e.
               —
               Grace
               .
               —
               B
               —
               e
               —
               f
               —
               o
               —
               r
               —
               e
               ,
               —
               Before
               .
               —
               M
               —
               e
               —
               a
               —
               t
               ,
               —
               Meat
               .
               —
               
                 Grace
                 before
                 Meat
              
               .
               —
               O
               brave
               Doctor
               Hobs
               !
               —
               Pease-Porridg
               hot
               ,
               Pease-Porridg
               cold
               .
               —
               Pease
               Porridg
               nine
               days
               old
               ,
               —
               spell
               That
               with
               four
               Letters
               .
               —
               First
               begin
               with
               the
               Horn-book
               ,
               the
               Horn-book
               ,
               the
               Horn-book
               .
               
                 
                   And
                   then
                   go
                   on
                   to
                   the
                   Primmer
                   —
                   (
                   And
                   so
                   far
                   I
                   'm
                   advanc'd
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   good
                   Fellow
                   's
                   an
                   Health
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   an
                   Health
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   no
                   deceit
                   in
                   a
                   Brimmer
                   .
                   —
                
              
            
             
               Why
               —
               where
               's
               my
               Man
               Homily
               ?
               —
               How
               Letcherous
               are
               these
               Black
               Breeches
               the
               Rogue
               lent
               me
               !
               —
               
                 [
                 Whoops
                 and
                 Sings
                 .
                 ]
              
               
                 
                   But
                   still
                   she
                   replies
                   ,
                   good
                   Sir
                   let
                   it
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   ever
                   I
                   have
                   any
                   Man
                   ,
                   Black
                   Coat
                   for
                   me
                   .
                   
                     How
                     proud
                     am
                     I
                  
                   ?
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Ay
               —
               your
               
                 Pride
                 will
                 have
                 a
                 fall
                 presently
                 .
              
               ]
            
             
               You
               —
               Sexton
               —
               Whip
               the
               Dog
               out
               of
               the
               Parson's
               Pew
               there
               .
               —
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Spew
               there
               .
               ]
            
             
               Whoist
               there
               —
               Hob
               —
               
                 [
                 Falls
                 down
                 .
                 ]
              
            
             
               [
               So
               ,
               so
               —
               The
               Living's
               fallen
               again
               already
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               I
               'se
               Parson
               of
               the
               Parish
               ;
               I
               think
               the
               Clark
               is
               mad
               .
               —
               The
               Sexton
               Chimes
               all-in
               .
               —
               Fy
               ,
               fy
               —
               What
               a
               lean
               Tith
               Pig
               is
               this
               ?
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 falls
                 asleep
                 and
                 snores
                 .
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               What
               ,
               cannot
               you
               be
               contented
               to
               Fall
               ,
               but
               you
               must
               
                 fall
                 asleep
              
               too
               ?
               —
               It
               's
               hard
               Rising
               for
               a
               Church-man
               ,
               when
               he
               's
               once
               down
               .
               Thou
               had'st
               need
               ,
               I
               'me
               sure
               ,
               sleep
               soundly
               ;
               thy
               Coat
               hath
               not
               had
               a
               Nap
               this
               seven
               Years
               .
            
          
           
             
             [
             
               Enter
               Sir
            
             Homily
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Sir
               Homily
               .
            
             
               Did
               ever
               any
               Man
               serve
               such
               a
               Master
               ?
               —
               A
               Parson
               too
               ?
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               —
               Parson
               Hob
               !
               —
               After
               we
               went
               down
               from
               old
               Marchurch
               ,
               even
               now
               Hob
               for
               joy
               ,
               would
               needs
               have
               me
               to
               the
               Ale-House
               ;
               where
               after
               a
               while
               Tipling
               on
               't
               soundly
               ,
               I
               put
               a
               Pouder
               into
               his
               Drink
               to
               Fox
               him
               ,
               and
               to
               make
               him
               Sleep
               securely
               .
               He
               steals
               away
               from
               me
               .
               —
               I
               know
               he
               is
               so
               far
               gone
               ,
               that
               he
               cannot
               be
               gone
               far
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Spies
                 him
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               Have
               I
               found
               thee
               ?
               —
               
                 Malus
                 Pastor
                 dormit
                 sapinus
              
               !
               —
               But
               it
               's
               no
               Talking
               .
               —
               Now
               if
               ever
               ,
               good
               Fortune
               stand
               to
               me
               !
               —
               This
               is
               the
               time
               that
               Marchurch
               expects
               him
               to
               come
               for
               the
               Presentation
               .
               —
               As
               long
               as
               I
               have
               been
               in
               Town
               ,
               they
               know
               not
               my
               Name
               .
               They
               call
               me
               Sir
               Homily
               ,
               but
               my
               Name
               is
               Richmond
               ;
               and
               that
               I
               gave
               him
               for
               his
               false
               Name
               .
               —
               His
               Cloak
               and
               his
               false
               Beard
               ,
               I
               'll
               make
               bold
               withal
               ,
               to
               Disfigure
               me
               .
               —
               Above
               half
               the
               Money
               he
               hath
               paid
               ,
               and
               the
               other
               shall
               never
               be
               paid
               ;
               for
               he
               knows
               (
               and
               shall
               do
               better
               if
               I
               speed
               )
               what
               Symony
               is
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               try
               if
               I
               can
               Act
               him
               ,
               and
               get
               it
               .
               —
               And
               if
               thou
               hast
               not
               hang'd
               thy self
               before
               I
               come
               again
               ,
               I
               'll
               wrangle
               it
               out
               well
               enough
               with
               thee
               ,
               I
               'll
               warrant
               thee
               .
               —
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             Enter
             a
             Gypsie
             Woman
             with
             a
             Child
             on
             her
             Back
             .
          
           
             
               Gypsie
               .
            
             
               I
               wonder
               what
               's
               become
               of
               my
               Tinker
               ?
               —
               This
               will
               make
               us
               good
               Sport.
               —
               Here
               's
               Twenty
               Shillings
               to
               
                 Bous
                 and
                 Ken
              
               this
               Christmas
               .
               —
               I
               hope
               his
               Gold
               is
               not
               so
               Light
               as
               his
               Whore.
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               .
               —
               Here
               's
               a
               Pass
               too
               that
               will
               carry
               us
               all
               England
               over
               ,
               in
               spight
               of
               Stocks
               ,
               and
               Whipping-Posts
               .
               —
               
                 She
                 sings
                 .
              
               
                 
                 
                   Lullaby
                   ,
                   Lullaby
                   Baby
                   ,
                   Lullaby
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sweetly
                   Sleep
                   and
                   sweetly
                   Slumber
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sweetly
                   Sleep
                   and
                   make
                   no
                   Moan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thee
                   as
                   mine
                   I
                   must
                   now
                   Number
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   indeed
                   thou'
                   rt
                   not
                   mine
                   own
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Not
               thine
               own
               ?
               —
               I
               hope
               it
               's
               no
               Bodies
               in
               this
               Company
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               lay
               my
               Life
               ,
               
                 It
                 's
                 a
                 Chip
                 of
                 the
                 old
                 Block
                 ;
                 Marchurch
                 supra
                 Vrsely
                 ,
              
               newly
               Printed
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Gypsie
               .
            
             
               Ho
               yes
               .
               —
               If
               any
               Man
               or
               Woman
               ,
               in
               Town
               or
               Country
               ,
               will
               buy
               a
               Barn.
               —
               
                 [
                 Spies
                 Hob.
                 ]
              
               —
               How
               now
               ?
               Who
               's
               this
               ?
               —
               'T
               is
               a
               Scholar
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Ay
               marry
               ,
               if
               all
               that
               went
               in
               Black
               were
               Scholars
               ,
               there
               would
               be
               a
               great
               many
               more
               than
               there
               are
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Gypsie
               .
            
             
               A
               Scholar
               ,
               as
               I
               live
               .
               —
               If
               I
               had
               not
               taken
               this
               from
               the
               old
               Letcher
               now
               ,
               I
               should
               have
               sworn
               that
               it
               had
               been
               thine
               .
               —
               However
               I
               'll
               look
               no
               farther
               for
               a
               Father
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Takes
                 the
                 Child
                 from
                 her
                 Back
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Ha!
               —
               He
               's
               fast
               asleep
               .
               —
               By
               the
               complexion
               of
               his
               Clothes
               ,
               he
               should
               have
               no
               Money
               .
               —
               But
               I
               fear
               no
               Colours
               ;
               I
               'll
               search
               him
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Searcheth
                 his
                 Pockets
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Oh
               ,
               —
               Rich
               ,
               Rich
               —
               very
               Rich.
               —
               Surely
               he
               hath
               had
               two
               Livings
               ,
               and
               sold
               one
               of
               them
               .
               —
               Well
               ,
               I
               'll
               take
               your
               Money
               ,
               but
               I
               'll
               leave
               you
               a
               sufficient
               Pawn
               here
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 She
                 lays
                 the
                 Child
                 by
                 him
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Ha!
               —
               I
               have
               no
               Shooes
               to
               hang
               on
               my
               Feet
               ;
               what
               if
               I
               should
               take
               his
               Boots
               ?
               —
               I
               have
               known
               
                 Women
                 wear
                 the
                 Breeches
              
               ,
               why
               not
               the
               Boots
               too
               ?
               —
               But
               stay
               ,
               let
               me
               smell
               at
               him
               .
               —
               Hang
               him
               he
               smells
               of
               Drink
               .
               —
               He
               's
               full
               enough
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               off
               with
               them
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 She
                 pulls
                 off
                 his
                 Boots
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Nay
               ,
               a
               right
               Scholar
               ,
               he
               wears
               them
               but
               for
               want
               of
               Stockins
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               e'ne
               change
               with
               him
               .
               —
               He
               'll
               make
               Legs
               better
               by
               half
               in
               my
               Shooes
               than
               in
               his
               Boots
               .
               —
               Come
               ,
               hang
               't
               —
               he
               shall
               have
               the
               Skin
               too
               .
               —
               I
               'll
               cover
               him
               with
               this
               Sheet
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               An
               incomparable
               good
               Plot
               !
               —
               God-a-mercy
               little
               Comaedia
               !
               —
               If
               the
               Basket-maker
               were
               here
               ,
               he
               might
               now
               make
               a
               Cradle
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Gypsie
               .
            
             
               I
               'll
               not
               stay
               to
               put
               them
               on
               here
               ,
               till
               I
               have
               got
               further
               .
               —
               
                 To
                 the
                 Auditors
                 .
              
               —
               Look
               you
               Gentlemen
               ,
               if
               any
               of
               you
               have
               such
               a
               Commodity
               to
               put
               off
               ;
               Twenty
               Shillings
               is
               my
               Price
               ;
               but
               I
               'll
               use
               you
               kindly
               .
               —
               This
               is
               the
               last
               time
               of
               asking
               .
               —
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             Hob
             wakes
             ,
             and
             stretches
             himself
             .
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Oh
               —
               oh
               —
               Come
               Hostes
               ,
               what
               's
               to
               pay
               ?
               —
               
                 Starts
                 up
                 .
              
               —
               Oh
               my
               Boots
               !
               —
               Where
               the
               Dule
               have
               I
               been
               Bare-foot
               and
               Bare-leg'd
               .
               —
               Oh
               —
               my
               Beard
               's
               gone
               !
               —
               My
               false
               Beard
               hath
               deceived
               me
               ,
               —
               Ha!
               —
               what
               's
               —
               what
               's
               —
               a
               Child
               !
               Oh
               —
               I
               'me
               undone
               —
               undone
               ,
               —
               undone
               .
               —
               Sure
               I
               'me
               brought
               a
               Bed
               !
               —
               I
               wonder'd
               my
               Belly
               did
               so
               ake
               —
               and
               I
               was
               with
               Child
               .
               —
               Oh
               —
               what
               an
               He
               Whore
               am
               I
               !
               —
               Is
               this
               the
               Living
               I
               stood
               for
               so
               long
               !
               —
               Oh
               ,
               oh
               ,
               —
               It
               's
               mine
               .
               —
               I
               have
               heard
               them
               say
               ,
               that
               Parsons
               have
               commonly
               first
               a
               Child
               ,
               and
               then
               a
               Living
               afterwards
               .
               —
               And
               't
               is
               so
               indeed
               ;
               for
               I
               remember
               my
               Breeches
               were
               Leacherous
               .
               —
               Let
               me
               see
               .
               —
               Surely
               it
               cannot
               be
               mine
               .
               —
               Oh
               ,
               oh
               —
               yes
               .
               —
               It
               is
               mine
               ,
               —
               now
               it
               is
               mine
               .
               —
               They
               say
               when
               they
               have
               a
               Child
               they
               Travel
               with
               it
               ;
               and
               I
               warrant
               I
               travel'd
               all
               Night
               with
               it
               ,
               and
               that
               hath
               worn
               my
               Boots
               to
               a
               pair
               of
               Shoes
               .
               —
               I
               remember
               I
               said
               to
               Homily
               ,
               that
               I
               was
               with
               Child
               till
               I
               had
               got
               the
               Living
               .
               —
               It
               's
               so
               indeed
               .
               —
               Oh
               ,
               it
               's
               mine
               ,
               I
               doubt
               —
               I
               did
               so
               dream
               of
               a
               Christning
               to
               Night
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Why
               then
               I
               pray
               you
               ,
               
                 Name
                 the
                 Child
              
               ▪
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Stay
               ,
               —
               How
               can
               it
               be
               mine
               ?
               —
               Can
               a
               Man
               be
               with
               Child
               ?
               —
               Unless
               it
               should
               come
               with
               Drinking
               .
               Ay
               ,
               ay
               —
               It
               was
               that
               —
               It
               was
               that
               .
               —
               Too
               much
               Drinking
               will
               make
               a
               Man
               Big
               belly'd
               .
               —
               I
               warrant
               ,
               I
               spued
               it
               up
               .
               —
               Oh
               what
               a
               Drunken
               Whore
               am
               I
               !
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 feels
                 in
                 his
                 Pocket
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               
               Oh
               —
               Mad
               —
               Mad
               —
               Undone
               —
               Undone
               —
               My
               Money
               ,
               My
               Money
               —
               Why
               ,
               —
               I
               'me
               not
               only
               deliver'd
               of
               my
               Child
               ,
               but
               of
               my
               Purse
               too
               —
               O
               —
               this
               Rogue
               Homily
               !
               —
               What
               shall
               I
               do
               ?
               —
               Would
               the
               Steeple
               were
               in
               his
               Belly
               .
               —
               O
               —
               hang
               his
               lousy
               Cloaths
               —
            
             
               [
               Puts
               off
               his
               Cloaths
               .
               ]
            
             
               —
               My
               Master
               will
               see
               me
               hang'd
               e're
               he
               will
               give
               me
               my
               Mony
               again
               .
               —
               And
               then
               this
               Bastard
               of
               mine
               too
               .
               —
               Stay
               ,
               I
               am
               Constable
               !
               —
               May
               I
               not
               command
               my self
               to
               hang
               my self
               ?
               —
               I
               should
               have
               in
               these
               Breeches
               an
               Halter
               ,
               and
               there
               's
               a
               Beam
               will
               fit
               my
               turn
               .
               —
               Here
               's
               a
               Sheet
               .
               I
               'le
               do
               Pennance
               in
               it
               ,
               as
               I
               hang
               ,
               for
               my
               Whoredom
               .
               —
               Oh
               what
               a
               drunken
               Whore
               am
               I
               !
               —
               Come
               on
               —
               Is
               this
               all
               the
               Bell-ropes
               I
               must
               have
               ?
            
          
           
             Enter
             first
             Watchman
             .
          
           
             
               1
               
                 st
                 Watch.
              
               
            
             
               Our
               Landlord
               ,
               and
               Mr.
               Marpudding
               will
               think
               I
               am
               run
               away
               ,
               if
               I
               bring
               not
               my
               Christmass
               Capons
               .
               I
               would
               the
               Bones
               were
               in
               one
               of
               their
               Bellies
               ,
               and
               the
               Feathers
               in
               the
               other
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Nay
               ,
               would
               he
               himself
               were
               a
               Capon
               —
               Alas
               !
               poor
               Hob
               ,
               how
               hard
               is
               he
               at
               his
               Devotion
               !
            
          
           
             Enter
             second
             Watchman
             .
          
           
             
               Watch.
               2.
               
            
             
               O
               Neigbour
               Dungo
               ,
               we
               are
               undone
               ,
               if
               Mr.
               Marchurch
               be
               here
               before
               us
               —
               Come
               ,
               come
               ,
               yonder
               is
               at
               the
               Ale-house
               ,
               Gypsies
               ,
               Tinkers
               ,
               and
               Ballad-singers
               ,
               roaring
               ;
               and
               the
               Constable
               Hob
               ,
               the
               Clown
               ,
               is
               drunk
               himself
               some-where
               —
               Come
               ,
               come
               —
               Let
               's
               go
               rout
               '
               em
               .
            
          
           
             
               Watch.
               1.
               
            
             
               Say
               ye
               me
               so
               ?
               —
               I
               may
               venture
               my
               Basket
               here
               till
               I
               return
               —
               Come
               on
               .
               —
               
                 Exeunt
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Ah
               —
               I
               confess
               I
               deserve
               this
               Death
               —
               I
               have
               been
               a
               Drunkard
               ,
               and
               covetous
               Churl
               ,
               and
               would
               have
               cheated
               my
               Master
               
               of
               his
               Living
               .
               Besides
               ,
               I
               once
               kiss'd
               a
               Wench
               behind
               the
               Stable-door
               ;
               and
               now
               I
               am
               a
               Whore.
               —
               Ah
               Hob
               ,
               thou
               art
               a
               Whore
               !
               —
               I
               did
               not
               think
               thou
               wouldst
               have
               come
               to
               this
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 puts
                 the
                 Rope
                 about
                 his
                 Neck
                 ,
                 and
                 sings
                 .
                 ]
              
               
                 
                   Good
                   People
                   all
                   give
                   ear
                   a
                   while
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   my
                   End
                   all
                   your
                   Examples
                   be
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   was
                   Drunk
                   ,
                   then
                   I
                   was
                   got
                   with
                   Child
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   bought
                   a
                   Living
                   ,
                   but
                   I
                   am
                   beguil'd
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   honest
                   Men
                   ,
                   I
                   pray
                   ,
                   take
                   my
                   Advice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Meddle
                   not
                   with
                   Parsons
                   not
                   in
                   any
                   wise
                   :
                
                 
                   Follow
                   your
                   Trades
                   ,
                   and
                   do
                   not
                   soar
                   so
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   at
                   the
                   last
                   you
                   will
                   repent
                   like
                   I.
                
                 
                   Fourty
                   good
                   Pounds
                   in
                   seven
                   Years
                   I
                   got
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   it
                   's
                   gone
                   ,
                   and
                   Mony
                   I
                   have
                   not
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   ring
                   my
                   Bells
                   ,
                   by
                   this
                   time
                   I
                   did
                   hope
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   I
                   ring
                   my
                   Hands
                   ,
                   and
                   hang
                   by
                   th'
                   Rope
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   now
                   I
                   forgive
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   —
                   but
                   Homily
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             [
             Enter
             Homily
             .
             ]
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               So
               ,
               Policy
               hath
               got
               that
               which
               Prayers
               could
               not
               .
               —
               I
               have
               it
               here
               —
               But
               stay
               —
               what
               have
               we
               here
               —
               A
               Basket
               ?
               —
               
                 [
                 Looks
                 into
                 it
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Two
               fat
               Capons
               and
               some
               Beef
               for
               this
               old
               Marchurch
               —
               I
               hear
               a
               whispering
               in
               the
               Town
               of
               a
               Bastard
               of
               Vrsleys
               ;
               It
               must
               needs
               be
               his
               or
               
               Marpudding's
               ;
               and
               if
               it
               be
               so
               ,
               —
               I
               'le
               keep
               him
               in
               awe
               .
               —
               But
               stay
               ,
               —
               Who
               owns
               this
               ?
               —
               He
               is
               not
               far
               off
               here
               —
               
                 [
                 Spies
                 Hob
                 ]
              
               How
               now
               !
               —
               Parson
               Hob
               doing
               Service
               in
               his
               Sunplice
               already
               !
               —
               Why
               
                 Hob
                 —
                 Hob
              
               ,
               Mr.
               Hob.
               
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               a
               little
               busy
               ,
               —
               I
               pray
               leave
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Nay
               —
               but
               Master
               —
               do
               you
               not
               know
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               No
               Gentleman
               —
               Poor
               Parson
               Hob
               now
               —
               
                 [
                 Look
                 on
                 him
                 .
                 ]
              
               a
               Dule
               on
               thee
               ,
               is
               it
               thee
               ?
               I
               pray
               let
               me
               alone
               .
               —
               You
               will
               cozen
               me
               of
               this
               Preferment
               too
               presently
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Nay
               —
               Pish
               —
               Hob
               !
               —
               Why
               did
               you
               steal
               from
               me
               at
               the
               Ale-house
               ?
               —
               For
               this
               ?
               —
               Where
               have
               you
               been
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Where
               ?
               —
               Why
               ,
               committing
               Fornication
               with
               a
               Jug
               of
               Ale
               I-trow
               .
               Look
               you
               here
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 points
                 to
                 the
                 Child
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               I
               am
               a
               Whore
               ,
               —
               I
               fell
               asleep
               ,
               and
               when
               I
               was
               awaked
               ,
               I
               found
               my self
               delivered
               of
               this
               Bastard
               —
               My
               Boots
               are
               gone
               —
               and
               my
               Mony
               all
               gone
               —
               and
               this
               Sheet
               left
               me
               for
               a
               Winding-sheet
               .
               —
               This
               was
               your
               Plot.
               —
               You
               would
               make
               me
               a
               Parson
               and
               be
               hang'd
               .
               —
               Will
               you
               be
               my
               Curat
               ,
               and
               do
               this
               for
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               What
               —
               hang
               my self
               ?
               No
               indeed
               ,
               nor
               you
               shall
               not
               neither
               .
               —
               Come
               ,
               come
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Do
               you
               see
               that
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               I
               'le
               lay
               my
               Life
               this
               is
               
               Marchurch's
               Bastard
               ,
               however
               it
               came
               here
               .
               —
               Away
               Fool
               —
               Your
               Child
               ?
               —
               If
               it
               be
               ,
               I
               will
               keep
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Will
               you
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               that
               I
               will
               ,
               and
               set
               all
               right
               and
               streight
               again
               if
               I
               can
               ,
               —
               Help
               you
               to
               your
               Mony
               again
               ,
               and
               take
               this
               Child
               .
               —
               Will
               you
               be
               a
               Parson
               ,
               or
               a
               Plowman
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Parson
               !
               —
               No
               —
               Zuckers
               —
               They
               shall
               have
               an
               hundred
               Livings
               a
               piece
               first
               .
               —
               Would
               I
               had
               my
               Gold
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Why
               then
               ,
               Hark
               you
               .
               —
               Did
               you
               fall
               asleep
               here
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Ay
               ,
               Drunk
               ,
               —
               like
               a
               Rogue
               as
               I
               was
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               you
               would
               needs
               go
               to
               the
               Ale-house
               ;
               It
               was
               not
               my
               doings
               .
               —
               And
               what
               ,
               when
               thou
               wakedst
               ,
               thou
               found'st
               this
               Child
               ,
               and
               thy
               Pockets
               pick'd
               ,
               and
               thy
               Boots
               gone
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Yea
               marry
               did
               I.
               —
               And
               what
               of
               all
               this
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               What
               ?
               —
               I
               smell
               a
               Rat
               —
               This
               Bastard
               ,
               Sirrah
               ,
               is
               Vrsleys
               .
               —
               I
               'le
               venture
               a
               Wager
               thy
               Master
               got
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               How
               's
               that
               !
               —
               Cuds
               duds
               ,
               she
               was
               main
               saucy
               with
               him
               as
               ever
               I
               saw
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               it
               is
               so
               I
               warrant
               thee
               .
               —
               Hear
               but
               me
               .
               —
               Will
               you
               be
               but
               contented
               to
               let
               me
               have
               the
               Living
               ,
               if
               I
               rid
               you
               of
               it
               ,
               and
               get
               you
               your
               Mony
               again
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Will
               I
               not
               ?
               —
               Yea
               ,
               and
               love
               thee
               all
               the
               days
               of
               my
               Life
               for
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Why
               then
               to
               tell
               the
               truth
               ,
               I
               have
               got
               it
               .
               —
               I
               found
               thee
               here
               asleep
               ,
               and
               took
               thy
               Cloak
               and
               thy
               Beard
               from
               thee
               ,
               and
               went
               in
               thy
               Name
               ,
               and
               sped
               well
               .
               —
               There
               I
               heard
               a
               whispering
               of
               this
               Bastard
               ;
               and
               Vrsley
               could
               not
               be
               seen
               .
               'T
               is
               so
               ,
               I
               'le
               warrant
               thee
               .
               —
               I
               'le
               give
               thee
               good
               Bonds
               for
               thy
               Mony
               ,
               and
               something
               beside
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Yea.
               —
               But
               I
               must
               be
               hang'd
               ,
               now
               or
               never
               ,
               for
               I
               have
               confess'd
               my
               Sins
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               What
               dost
               do
               with
               that
               Primmer
               ;
               was
               it
               thine
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Ay
               ,
               't
               is
               mine
               .
               I
               got
               it
               to
               learn
               to
               read
               my
               Letters
               against
               I
               should
               be
               Parson
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               And
               what
               ,
               —
               thou
               wouldst
               have
               made
               a
               long
               Letter
               of
               thy self
               ?
               —
               Come
               —
               look
               you
               here
               ;
               This
               Basket
               some
               Body
               hath
               left
               —
               
                 [
                 Peeps
                 aside
                 .
                 ]
              
               There
               are
               two
               Capons
               a
               going
               in
               it
               to
               your
               Master
               .
               Wee
               'l
               put
               this
               Chicken
               too
               under
               the
               Capons
               ,
               and
               leave
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Ha!
               —
               I
               think
               thou
               l't
               prove
               an
               honest
               Man.
               
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               ay
               ,
               —
               Come
               —
               pull
               your
               Block-head
               out
               of
               the
               Noose
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 Pulls
                 out
                 his
                 Head.
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               So
               —
               Shall
               I
               live
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               and
               richly
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               Why
               then
               I
               will
               un-confess
               all
               my
               Sins
               again
               .
               —
               I
               never
               was
               a
               Drunkard
               ,
               nor
               Covetous
               ,
               nor
               Parson
               ,
               nor
               kiss'd
               any
               Body
               behind
               the
               Stable-door
               —
               Not
               I.
               
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Come
               now
               look
               you
               here
               Sir.
               —
               
                 [
                 He
                 puts
                 the
                 Child
                 into
                 the
                 Basket.
                 ]
              
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               —
               These
               Black-Coats
               can
               put
               off
               Children
               to
               other
               Men
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               —
               How
               I
               shall
               laugh
               anon
               ,
               when
               I
               am
               Hob
               again
               ,
               to
               see
               Marchurch
               have
               an
               Heir
               —
               Marpudding
               
               will
               knock
               it
               i
               th'
               Head
               within
               's
               two
               days
               ,
               if
               it
               offer
               to
               eat
               any
               thing
               .
               —
               And
               will
               you
               give
               me
               your
               Bond
               for
               my
               Mony
               too
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               that
               I
               will.
               
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               —
               Come
               on
               Sirrah
               Hob
               —
               Your
               are
               a
               Rogue
               —
               But
               I
               will
               let
               you
               live
               a
               while
               longer
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               Go
               thou
               into
               my
               House
               ,
               and
               put
               on
               my
               Boots
               ;
               by
               that
               time
               I
               'le
               come
               .
               —
               But
               I
               'le
               scout
               here
               a
               while
               to
               see
               what
               this
               Basket
               will
               do
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hob.
               
            
             
               I
               'le
               go
               —
               But
               stay
               —
               If
               you
               give
               me
               Bond
               ,
               I
               must
               have
               Witnesses
               .
               —
               I
               'le
               go
               no
               further
               .
               —
               
                 [
                 To
                 the
                 Auditors
                 .
                 ]
              
               —
               Pray
               ,
               Gentlemen
               ,
               set
               your
               Hands
               to
               it
               .
               —
               Methinks
               this
               is
               better
               than
               making
               out
               of
               hand
               with
               my self
               by
               half
               .
               —
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             Manet
             Homily
             .
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               What
               a
               Fool
               was
               this
               !
               —
               If
               Men
               should
               hang
               themselves
               when
               they
               are
               cheated
               of
               their
               Mony
               ,
               what
               dangling
               would
               there
               be
               this
               Christmass
               ?
               —
               No
               sooner
               Parson
               but
               suspended
               .
               —
               I
               will
               be
               honest
               .
               The
               Clown
               shall
               have
               all
               his
               Mony
               again
               .
               —
               But
               this
               Primmer
               shall
               go
               in
               to
               teach
               the
               Baby
               too
               .
               —
               But
               whist
               —
               Here
               comes
               Dungo
               .
               —
               'T
               is
               as
               I
               said
               .
               —
               I
               'le
               scout
               and
               listen
               .
            
          
           
             Enter
             Dungo
             
               the
               first
               Watchman
            
             .
          
           
             
               Watch.
               1.
               
            
             
               Oh
               —
               That
               's
               well
               .
               —
               My
               Basket
               is
               safe
               .
               —
               Ha
               ,
               ha
               ,
               ha
               .
               Yonder
               is
               a
               Gipsy-woman
               at
               the
               Ale-house
               —
               A
               pritty
               Woman
               indeed
               ;
               and
               two
               Scholars
               which
               have
               been
               here
               for
               the
               Living
               ,
               they
               do
               so
               smooth
               her
               up
               .
               —
               She
               's
               a
               Fortune-teller
               too
               .
               —
               She
               call'd
               me
               Gentleman
               ,
               besworn
               .
               —
               Yet
               she
               said
               I
               should
               have
               some
               ill
               Luck
               come
               unto
               me
               .
               —
               I
               was
               afraid
               of
               nothing
               but
               my
               Capons
               ,
               and
               they
               (
               I
               see
               )
               are
               safe
               enough
               .
               —
               Now
               truly
               they
               are
               very
               fat
               .
               How
               heavy
               they
               be
               !
               —
               However
               I
               'le
               away
               .
               —
            
          
           
             
             Enter
             Marchurch
             .
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               So
               that
               Cure
               is
               cur'd
               .
               —
               I
               never
               met
               with
               such
               a
               Clown
               in
               all
               my
               Life
               as
               my
               new
               Parson
               .
               He
               's
               gone
               to
               the
               Bishop
               .
               —
               'T
               is
               well
               the
               Times
               are
               as
               they
               are
               ,
               he
               would
               be
               stay'd
               else
               for
               a
               Dunce
               .
               Let
               him
               look
               to
               his
               Flock
               ,
               but
               I
               'le
               fleece
               him
               I
               'le
               warrant
               him
               .
            
          
           
             
               Dung.
               
            
             
               Good'ine
               to
               your
               Worship
               .
            
          
           
             
               March.
               
            
             
               How
               now
               Neighbour
               ,
               What
               have
               you
               there
               ?
               —
               Ha
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Dung.
               
            
             
               A
               couple
               of
               
               Christmass-Capons
               for
               your
               Worship
               —
               I
               love
               to
               keep
               touch
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mar.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               it
               is
               honestly
               done
               .
               —
               Are
               they
               Fat
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Dung.
               
            
             
               Fine
               fed
               Fowls
               —
               if
               it
               please
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               [
               Yet
               not
               better
               fed
               than
               taught
               .
               There
               's
               a
               Primmer
               among
               them
               ,
               will
               bring
               you
               to
               your
               Psalms
               of
               Mercy
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Dung.
               
            
             
               Here
               's
               one
               ,
               a
               good
               tender
               Bird
               ,
               of
               your
               Worship
               's
               own
               breed
               ,
               your
               Worship
               may
               do
               well
               to
               keep
               it
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mar.
               
            
             
               Ay
               ,
               and
               so
               I
               will.
               —
               My
               People
               ,
               Neighbour
               ,
               are
               not
               at
               Home
               to
               bid
               you
               drink
               ,
               —
               But
               here
               's
               a
               couple
               of
               Pence
               for
               you
               .
               —
               Give
               me
               the
               Basket.
               
            
          
           
             
               Dung.
               
            
             
               I
               thank
               your
               Worship
               .
               I
               hope
               they
               will
               prove
               well
               ,
               and
               give
               you
               Content
               .
               —
               By
               your
               leave
               .
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Mar.
               
            
             
               Farewel
               ,
               farewel
               .
               —
               Oh
               ,
               I
               love
               this
               young
               Flesh
               at
               my
               Heart
               .
               —
               My
               Nephew
               ,
               since
               the
               Keys
               were
               gone
               ,
               and
               he
               in
               danger
               to
               be
               a
               Father
               ,
               is
               grown
               very
               kind
               .
               I
               'le
               in
               ,
               and
               Vrsley
               is
               pritty
               hearty
               ,
               she
               shall
               dress
               one
               of
               them
               and
               we
               will
               be
               merry
               .
               —
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Gramarcy
               Invention
               ,
               This
               is
               even
               as
               I
               would
               have
               it
               .
            
          
           
             Homily
             
               comes
               forth
            
             .
          
           
             
               Sir
               Hom.
               
            
             
               This
               is
               sweet
               Revenge
               !
               —
               I
               'le
               now
               to
               Horse
               ,
               and
               
               away
               to
               the
               Bishop
               .
               —
               When
               I
               return
               ,
               if
               his
               two
               Capons
               be
               alive
               ,
               I
               'le
               pluck
               a
               Feather
               with
               him
               .
               I
               'le
               have
               an
               Order
               of
               Pennance
               for
               him
               ,
               and
               make
               him
               pay
               Hob
               his
               Mony
               again
               for
               Simony
               :
               —
               But
               I
               hope
               he
               'l
               prevent
               all
               ,
               and
               hang
               himself
               —
               
                 
                   When
                   I
                   return
                   ,
                   then
                   shall
                   I
                   tend
                   to
                   sing
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'le
                   take
                   possession
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Bells
                   shall
                   ring
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shall
                   ring
                   these
                   Changes
                   ;
                   and
                   at
                   every
                   Knell
                
                 
                   Marchurch
                   shall
                   cry
                   ,
                   It
                   is
                   his
                   Passing-Bell
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   with
                   Bells
                   my self
                   I
                   cannot
                   deal
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   pray
                   you
                   lend
                   your
                   Hands
                   to
                   ring
                   a
                   Peal
                   .
                   —
                   
                     Exit
                     .
                  
                
              
            
          
           
             
               Fur.
               
            
             
               Why
               so
               ,
               —
               Is
               not
               this
               better
               than
               a
               Dialogue
               ,
               or
               some
               stew'd
               Prunes
               ?
               —
               I
               'le
               in
               ,
               and
               Fox
               little
               Comaedia's
               Nose
               for
               this
               ,
               and
               send
               you
               out
               an
               Epilogue
               .
               —
               
                 Exit
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           The
           EPILOGUE
           .
        
         
           
             ALL
             's
             well
             that
             ends
             well
             .
             This
             ,
             tho
             not
             allow'd
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             like
             light
             Gold
             ,
             it
             may
             go
             in
             a
             Crowd
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             the
             Folks
             are
             pleas'd
             ;
             they
             think
             it
             rare
             ,
          
           
             Because
             it
             glitters
             .
             —
             But
             you
             Touch-stones
             are
             .
          
           
             Our
             trembling
             Author
             wishes
             that
             it
             might
          
           
             Rather
             have
             gone
             a
             Trust
             ,
             than
             pay
             what
             's
             Light.
          
           
             
               Sir
               Homily
            
             in
             's
             Pars'nage
             doubtful
             sits
             ,
          
           
             Lest
             you
             put
             in
             your
             
               Quare
               Impedit's
            
             .
          
           
           
             Marchurch
             will
             bargain
             for
             a
             Plaudite
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             'l
             strike
             Hands
             ,
             it
             's
             made
             .
             —
             Hum
             —
             Simonie
             .
          
           
             His
             
               Cotquean
               Nephew
            
             bids
             you
             ,
             without
             stud'ing
             ,
          
           
             Be
             fair-condition'd
             ,
             and
             eat
             Bread
             with
             Pudding
             .
          
           
             Hob
             swears
             ,
             if
             he
             were
             Parson
             ,
             he
             would
             know
          
           
             Whether
             Laughs
             were
             due
             to
             him
             ,
             or
             no
             ?
          
           
             The
             Basket-maker
             to
             this
             Point
             will
             stand
             :
          
           
             In
             taking
             Iest
             you
             must
             not
             use
             Short-hand
             .
          
           
             Nay
             more
             ;
             the
             Tinker
             (
             so
             it
             be
             by
             stealth
             )
          
           
             Hath
             made
             him
             swear
             ,
             that
             he
             will
             drink
             your
             Health
             .
          
           
             Your
             Palm'stry
             is
             more
             than
             the
             
             Gipsie's
             skill
             ;
          
           
             Can
             tell
             your
             Fortune
             ,
             whether
             Good
             or
             Ill.
             
          
        
         
           Ceres
           ,
           after
           the
           Epilogue
           ,
           speaks
           from
           Above
           .
        
         
           
             Looking
             for
             Barley
             here
             ,
             I
             hope
             you
             've
             found
             ,
          
           
             With
             
             AEsop's
             Cock
             ,
             some
             Jewel
             on
             the
             Ground
             :
          
           
             And
             if
             you
             have
             ;
             Truth
             ,
             let
             it
             so
             appear
          
           
             Like
             Jewels
             ,
             let
             each
             word
             hang
             on
             your
             Ear.
          
           
             The
             Sport
             was
             Innocent
             ,
             and
             if
             I
             'd
             had
          
           
             A
             worthier
             Stage
             ,
             I
             should
             have
             been
             more
             glad
             .
          
           
             Hower'e
             ,
             these
             shall
             be
             welcome
             to
             this
             Place
          
           
             Each
             Year
             ,
             and
             Ceres
             takes
             it
             for
             a
             Grace
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
  

