The King will fuffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? Cham. 'Tis now too certain. How much more is his life in value with him? Crom. My mind gave me, Ye blew the fire that burns ye; now have at ye. Enter King, frowning on them ; takes his feat. Gard. Dread Sov'reign, how much are we bound to heav'n In daily thanks, that gave us fuch a Prince; His royal felf in judgment comes to hear King. You're ever good at fudden commendations, Good man, fit down: now let me fee the proudest [To Cran. He, that dares moft, but wag his finger at thee. By all that's holy, he had better flarve, Than but once think, this place becomes thee not. King. No, Sir, it does not please me. I thought, I had had men of fome understanding Was Was it difcretion, lords, to let this man, Would try him to the utmoft, had ye means; Cham. My most dread Sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excufe all. King. Well, well, my lords, refpect him: Am, for his love and fervice, fo to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him: King. Come, come, my lord, you'd fpare your fpoons: you fhall have Two noble partners with you: the old Dutchefs Of Norfolk, and the lady Marquefs Dorfet Once more, my lord of Winchefter, I charge you Embrace and love this man. Gard. With a true heart And brother's love I do it. Cran Cran. And let heaven Witnefs, how dear I hold this confirmation. King. Good man, those joyful tears fhew thy true heart: The common voice, I fee, is verify'd your Of thee, which fays thus: do my lord of Canterbury SCENE, the Palace-yard. [Exeunt. Noife and tumult within: Enter Porter and his man. Port. "Ou'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals; do you take the Court for Paris Garden? ye rude flaves, leave your gaping. Within. Good Mr. Porter, I belong to th` larder. Port. Belong to the gallows and be hang'd, ye rogue: is this a place to roar in? fetch me a dozen crab tree ftaves, and ftrong ones; these are but switches to 'em : I'll fcratch your heads; you must be feeing chriftnings? you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rafcals? Man. Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible (Unless we fwept them from the door with cannons) To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em fleep do On May day morning; which will never be: Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in ; Port. You did nothing, Sir. Man. I am not Sampson, nor Sir Guy, ror Colebrand, to mow 'em down before me; but if I fpar'd any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or fhe, cuckold of or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to see a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God fave her. Within. Do you hear, Mr. Porter ? Port. I fhall be with you presently, good Mr. Puppy. Keep the door close, firrah. Man. What would you have me do? Port. What fhould you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? is this Morefields to mufter in? or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great tool come to Court, the women fo befiege us? bless me! what a fry of fornication is at the door? on my christian confcience, this one chriftning will beget a thousand; here will be father, god-father, and all together. Man. The spoons will be the bigger, Sir. There is a fellow fomewhat near the door, he should be a brafier by his face; for, o' my confcience, twenty of the dog days now reign in's nofe; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance; that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nofe discharged against me; he stands there like a mortar piece to blow us up. There was a haberdasher's wife of fmall wit near him, that rail'd upon me 'till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling fuch a combuftion in the ftate. I mist the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cry'd out, Clubs! when I might fee from far fome forty truncheoneers draw to her fuccour; which were the hope of the ftrand, where he was quarter'd. They fell on; [ made good my place; at length they came to th' broomstaff with me, I defy'd 'em ftill; when fuddenly a file of boys behind 'em deliver'd fuch a fhower of pibbles, loose fhot, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the Work; the devil was amongst 'em, I think, furely. Port. Thefe are the youths that thunder at a playhoufe; and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the Tribulation of Tower-Hill, or the limbs of Limehouse their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have fome of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance thefe thefe three days; befides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come. Enter Lord Chamberlain. Cham. Mercy o' me! what a multitude are here? Your faithful friends o'th' fuburbs? we shall have We are but men; and what fo many may do, Cham. As I live, If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all A Marfbalfea, fhall hold you play these two months. Man. You great fellow, ftand close up, or I'll make your head ake. Port. You i'th' camblet, get up o'th' rail, I'll peck you o'er the pales else. [Exeunt. SCENE |