SCENE III. The Palace Yard. Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man. Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the Court for Paris-garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. [Within.] Good master Porter, I belong to the larder. Port. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, you rogue! Is this a place to roar in ?-Fetch me a dozen cab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but svitches to them.-I'll scratch your heads: you must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale ani cakes here, you rude rascals? Mo. Pray, sir, be patient: 't is as much impossible, Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons, To atter 'em, as 't is to make 'em sleep On May-day morning; which will never be. W may as well push against Paul's as stir them. 'ort. How got they in, and be hanged? Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in? A much as one sound cudgel of four foot You see the poor remainder-could distribute, I made no spare, sir. Port. You did nothing, sir. Man. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Col brand, To mow them down before me; but if I spared any Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again; Port. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.-Keep the door close, sirrah. Man. What would you have me do? Port. What should you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to Court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening 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 somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in 's nose: 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 nose discharged against me he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out: Clubs! when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o' the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to the broomstaff to me: I defied 'em still; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely. Port. These are the youths that thunder at a play-house, 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 some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days, besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. Enter the Lord Chamberlain. Cham. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They grow still, too; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves?—Ye have made a fine hand, fellows: There is a trim rabble let in. Are all these Your faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening. Port. An't please your honour, We are but men ; and what so many may do, Not being torn a pieces, we have done : An army cannot rule 'em. Cham. As I live, If the King blame me for 't, I'll lay ye all By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect. Ye are lazy knaves; And here ye lie, baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. sound; Hark! the trumpets They 're come already from the christening. Go, break among the press, and find a way out To let the troop pass fairly, or I'll find A Marshalsea, shall hold you play these two months. Port. Make way there for the princess. Man. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-The Palace. Enter Trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, CRANMER, Duke of NORFOLK, with his marshal's staff, Duke of SUFFOLK, two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening gifts; then, four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of NORFOLK, god-mother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, &c. Train borne by a Lady: then follows the Marchioness of DORSET, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks. Gart. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth! |