Chapter XVIII: Prologue

The style that banish'd Ovid and his book,
And, spite of's laurel made him thunderstrook,
Is banish'd from this scene by us; and here
Cato may come into the theatre.
At our love-tricks none need their eyelids crush,
Chaste vestals may look on without a blush:
Our cheats do take, if they but time beguile,
And all our plot is but to make you smile.
You're welcome then to London, which our show,
Since you mayn't go to that, has brought to you.
Pardon, if we offend you with our noise,
'Tis but an echo of their clamorous voice.

THE LONDON CHANTICLEERS.

SCENE I.

_Enter_ HEATH, _a broom-man_.

HEATH. Brooms, maids, brooms! Old boots or shoes! Come, buy my
brooms!

_You maidens that do cleanse the door,_
_And make a looking-glass o' th' floor,_
_That every night prepare the ground,_
_For Oberon to dance a round,_
_And do expect Queen Mab for you_
_Should drop a tester in a shoe,_
_And would sleep without pinching, come_
_Quickly to me, and buy a broom,_
_That will effect the thing you mean;_
_'Tis a new broom, and will sweep clean._

Come, buy my broom, maids! Maids, did I say? Sure, there are
none i' th' city; or, if there be any, they have forsworn my
custom. All the brooms I have sold to-day would not sweep half
the ground I have gone; and the money I have got will scarce
buy ale enough to moisten my mouth after one cry. Sure, all
the city are turned dustmen, and the whole corporation are of
the company of Grobians. Women sweep their houses with their
long coats, and men their shops with their scrubbed beards.
There's no use of a besom now but to make rods of and sweep the
children's backsides. 'Tis better killing men for eightpence
a day, or hanging of 'em for thirteenpence halfpenny apiece,
than follow this poor and idle life; 'tis easier canting out,
_A piece of broken bread for a poor man_, than singing,
_Brooms, maids, brooms: come, buy my brooms!_ I should e'en go
hang myself now if I were worth a halter; but who will spend
a groat on't, when he may be hanged at free cost? I'll go rob
the sheriff, and not leave him enough to hire an executioner
for me; steal the judge's gown, that he may not come to the
assizes, and poison the jury, that they may not bring me in
guilty.

_Enter_ BRISTLE.

BRIS. Buy a save-all, buy a save-all; never more need. Come,
buy a save-all! Buy a comb-brush or a pot-brush; buy a flint,
or a steel, or a tinder-box.

HEATH. O Bristle, welcome! I perceive by thy merry note, that
there's music in thy pocket. What, dost jingle?

BRIS. And I perceive by thy heavy countenance thy purse is
light. Dost want coin?

HEATH. Dost thou doubt that? Dost thou not see I'm sober? Do I
swear or kick for asking, if I want money?

BRIS. These are infallible signs indeed that thou dost want it.

HEATH. I have been up this two hours, and have not visited one
alehouse yet.

BRIS. Nay, I am fully satisfied; but canst thou want money
whilst thou hast fingers to tell it?

HEATH. Why, wouldst have 'um made of loadstones, to draw all
that comes nigh 'em?

BRIS. Canst thou be poor, and have a tongue Nay, then, 'tis
pity but thou shouldst be sent to the Mint thyself, and be
stamped into farthings, to be bestowed on beggars! I'd dig to
the Antipodes with my nails, but I'd find a mine; and, like the
cripple, run up Paul's steeple, but I'd get the silver cock.

HEATH. He had no legs to break if he had fallen, nor weight
enough to crack his neck.

BRIS. Nor thou wit enough to be hanged. Thou hadst rather be
starved than break open a cupboard, and die a good poor man
or an honest beggar, than a rich thief or a gentleman rogue.
Thou thinkest it more commendable, I warrant, to be carried in
a chair from constable to constable, with a warrant from the
churchwardens; that thou art a poor man, and desirest their
charity; that thou art willing to work, but art almost starved;
hast half a dozen children, the eldest not above three years
old, their mother having been dead this eight year; and such
pitiful complaints, with as many tears as would drown all the
victuals thou eat'st, than ride a mile or two in a cart, with
the sheriff attending on thee! Thou believ'st that more may be
gotten with a _Good your_ (non-sense) _Worship_ to every Jack
than a _Sirrah, deliver your purse_ to the best lord i' th'
land; and all this grounded upon that precise axiom, "A little
with honesty is better than a great deal with knavery."

HEATH. Thanks, good Bristle, for thy counsel. I mean to be as
perfect a pickpocket, as good as ever nipped the judge's bung
while he was condemning him. Look to thy purse, Bristle, lest
I practise on thee first. The fairies can't creep through a
lesser keyhole than I. O, for a dead man's hand now! 'Tis as
good as poppy-seed to charm the house asleep; it makes 'um
as senseless as itself. Come, shall we turn knight-errants?
Name the first adventure. Dost thou know no enchanted castle,
no golden ladies in distress or imprisoned by some old giant
usurer?

BRIS. Stay a little, Heath. I have a design in my head that
will outgo Don Quixote or Palmerin as far as they did the
giants they overcame--a trick that shall load us with money
without any fear of th' cart.

HEATH. I'll be thy squire, though I fare no better than Sanch
Pancha, and am tossed in a blanket.

BRIS. Come, follow me. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ NANCY CURDWELL.

CURD. I have fresh cheese and cream; I have fresh cheese
and cream. Heigho! But one suitor yet? Must my sheets lie
smooth till I am wrinkled? Nay, then, I see beauty is not a
cable-rope, to draw men's hearts after it, nor our mouths a
mouse-trap, our tongues a lure, and lips a gin; our hairs are
not fishing-lines, nor our noses hooks. These gudgeons will not
swallow the bait that hangs there. Nay, we cannot catch these
mermen, though our smocks were made of network, and we hung all
o'er with looking-glasses. No, no; I see, when these buzzards
look after mates, they wink and choose. I think I must have my
nose turned into a bill, and write upon it, _Here is a house
to be let._ I am but six-and-twenty years old, and that's young
enough to play with a baby. O, how like the picture of Charity
should I look with two sucklings at my breast!

_Enter_ BUDGET, _a tinker_.

BUD. Have you any work for a tinker? Old brass, old pots, old
kettles. I'll mend them all with a tara-tink, and never hurt
your metal.--Here she is! Methinks she looks very smug upon me.
Now to my 'ration. Most beautiful, fair and virtuous mistress,
whose face is a burning-glass, and hath set me on fire. My
sugar-plum and stewed-prune lady, whose fine sharp nose, like
Cupid's darts, hath pricked me to the heart! Whiter than the
curds thou sell'st, softer than the silk thou wearest, milder
than the four-shilling beer thou drink'st! Venus, I believe,
was a fresh cheese and cream woman, and, letting fall her pail,
made the Milky Way, but yet came as far short of thee, my
sweet, honey Nancy, as whey of butter-milk or skimmed milk of
cream! O, that I were a worm to crawl on that face of thine, or
a flea------

CURD. He'd bite me, sure?

BUD. To slip about thy neck. Do not, I pray, tread on me with
the foot of disdain, lest thou crush my heart as flat as a
pancake.

CURDS. Pray, leave off your suit; I have no mind to marry; I'll
always live a virgin.

BUD. What, and lead apes in hell? What pity would it be to see
you chained to a monkey!

CURDS. Or tied to you! [_Aside._

BUD. O, do not frown! Each wrinkle is a grave to me, and angry
look a death's-head. Do not despise me 'cause I am black and
you so white; the moon wears beauty-spots, and the fairest
ladies black patches. White petticoats are wrought with black
silk, and we put black plums into white puddings.

CURD. But black-and-white ribbons are worn only at burials,
never at weddings: and I would be loth my wedding-sheet should
be my shroud, and my bed a grave. Therefore, pray, be gone, and
come when I send for you.

BUD. Sweet sugar-candy mistress, grant me one thing before you
go.

CURD. What is't?

BUD. Give me leave to vouchsafe one kiss on those sweet silken
parchment-lips.

CURD. Take your farewell, you shall never kiss 'um again.
[_Kisses her_, _and blacks her mouth_.

BUD. Thanks, pudding-pie Nancy. [_Exit._

CURD. Faugh, how he stinks of smoke! Does he think I'll be his
trull, and that he shall smutch my face thus with his charcoal
nose? No, I'll see him burnt first! Out upon him, beggar,
burnt-arse rogue, devil-tinker! I am afraid his ugly looks have
soured my cream, and made all my cheese run to whey; but if he
come to me again thus, I'll make him blue as well as black.

_Enter_ HANNA JENNITING.

JEN. Come, buy my pearmains, curious John apples, dainty
pippins; come, who buys? who buys?

CURD. O sister Hanna, I wanted you just now; here was a tinker
had like to have run away with me in his budget; a copper-nosed
rogue, brazen-faced rascal!

JEN. But you were even with him? Nay, you are a whisket! I'
faith, I see beards are infectious as well as scabbed lips.
Salute your apron, and 'twill tell you who you kissed last.

CURD. He has printed a kiss indeed.

JEN. Was he a suitor? Did he woo you with posnets and skillets,
and promise you a kettle next Bartholomew fair? And how did
you answer him? Did you say, Fly, brass, the devil's a tinker?
Or more mildly tell him you could not settle your affections
on him? But come, look sprightly. Somebody will stare so long
upon the bright sun of our beauties, till they are blinded
with beams. Thou knowest, when my mother died, she left us,
beside some stringed pence and a granam's groat, seven suitors,
whereof all have forsaken us but Graftwell the gardener; and my
mother indeed used to say that I was born to be a gardener's
wife, as soon as ever I was taken out of her parsley-bed. But
'tis no matter; let 'um go.

CURD. But I wonder, Hanna, that you, having been an apple-woman
so long, cannot get a customer for yourself. You might go off
for a queen-apple! Come along; the next chapman shall have us
at an easy rate. I have fresh cheese, &c.

JEN. Come, buy pippins. [_Exeunt crying._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ DITTY, _a ballad-man_.

DITTY. Come, new books, new books; newly printed and newly
come forth! All sorts of ballads and pleasant books! _The
Famous History of Tom Thumb_ and _Unfortunate Jack_,[239]
_A Hundred Godly Lessons_, and _Alas, poor Scholar, whither
wilt thou go? The second part of Mother Shipton's
Prophecies, newly made by a gentleman of good quality_,
foretelling what was done four hundred years ago, and _A
Pleasant Ballad of a bloody fight seen i' th' air_, which,
the astrologers say, portends scarcity of fowl this year.
[_Sings a ballad._

_Enter_ BUDGET.

BUD. Have you the _Ballad of the Unfortunate Lover_?

DITTY. No, but I have _George of Green_ or _Chivy Chase_,
_Collins and the Devil_, or _Room for Cuckolds_; I have
anything but that.

BUD. Have you the _Coy Maid_?

DITTY. I sold that just now; but I have the _Ballad of the
London 'Prentice_, _Guy of Warwick_, or _The Beggar of Bethnal
Green_.

BUD. What loves-ongs have you? I would have a wooing ballad.

DITTY. I have twenty of them. Look you, here's one, and
although I say it myself, as good a one as ever trod upon
shoe-leather.

BUD. What is't? Good Ditty, let me hear it.

DITTY. _The honest Milkmaid, or I must not wrong my Dame._

BUD. Have you never a one called _The honest Fresh Cheese and
Cream Woman_?

DITTY. I do not remember that; but here is another, you shall
hear me sing it.

_Once did I love a maiden fair,_
_Down derry, down, down, down, down derry;_
_With silver locks and golden hair,_
_Down derry, &c.;_
_Her cheeks were like the rose so sweet,_
_Down derry, &c.;_
_Like marble pillars were her feet,_
_Down derry, &c._

How like you this? 'Tis a rare tune, and a very pleasant song.

BUD. I like the song well; but I would have a picture upon it
like me.

DITTY. Look you here; here's one as like you as if it had been
spit out of your mouth; your nose, eye, lip, chin; sure, they
printed it with your face! and the most sweetest ballad that
ever I sung--

_My love and I to medley,_
_Upon a time would go:_
_The boatmen they stood ready,_
_My love and I to row;_
_Where we had cakes and prunes,_
_And many fine things mo;_
_But now, alas, she has left me:_
_Fa la, fa lero, lo!_

BUD. This is the ballad I'll have. Come, Ditty, thou shalt
teach me to sing it, and I'll pay thee at the next good house.
[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

_Enter_ BRISTLE, _like a shoemaker_, _with_ HEATH, _like_
_a butcher_.

HEATH. Slaughter-calf do you say my name shall be?

BRIS. Ay, ay, and mine Vamp.

HEATH. And how do I look now? Like one that was begotten under
a butcher's stall, I warrant, and born in a slaughter-house?
I know there's never a Kill-cow i' th' city becomes a woollen
apron better than I do.

BRIS. Liker a calf than butcher; yet thy sheep's head will
be some token thou cam'st from the Butch Row. Have a care
thou dost not forget thyself, and talk of brooms instead of
fly-flops, and old boots and shoes instead of calves' skins!

HEATH. I am as artificial at the trade as the master o' th'
company. I could sell Jupiter, were he a bull again. I am
perfectly changed; I never knew Heath the broom-man or the
price of a besom, never trafficked with maids o' th' kitchen,
or shopboys for old boots and shoes.

BRIS. Nor I for new, for all I'm a shoemaker. But to the
design. Stand here; this is the road she walks; if thou
fail'st, may thy woollen apron be spun into halters to hang
thee in, and a stall be thy gibbet. [_Exit._

HEATH. If I don't act my part well, may I be a changeling
indeed, and be begged for the city fool. If she be coy, and by
her obstinacy hinder our plot, I'll quarter her out and sell
her for cow-beef, make pettitoes of her fingers and trotters of
her feet.

_Enter_ CURDWELL.

CURD. I have fresh cheese and cream!

HEATH. Harmonious voice! The Witney singers are but chattering
magpies to this melodious nightingale, and the tabor and pipe
but as the scraping on a brass pan to this organ; sure, this is
the beauty that I must court. If Cupid be not propitious now,
I'll cut my brooms into rods, and whip the peevish boy. Lady
(for so your beauty styles you), to whom the snow and swan are
black, whether thou art a goddess, and come down to punish men,
and make them die with love, or a mortal which excellest all
goddesses, pity a wounded heart, which can receive no ease from
any thing but those eyes from whom it did receive its wounds.
There's no nectar or ambrosia but what thy pail affords; the
moon would willingly be that the Welshmen wish it, so thou
wouldst give it room amongst thy cheeses. Be not unkind, sweet
lady; one cruel look will make this place my slaughter-house,
and thee the butcher's butcher.

CURD. I dare not trust you, for all your fair words; men of
your profession make it a trade to cheat us.

HEATH. I'll be as faithful as thou art fair, and stick as close
unto thee as my shirt does to my back on a sweltry sweating
day. Come, thou shalt yield, and by yielding conquer me.

CURD. You set upon weak women with your strong compliments, and
overcome them, whether they will or no. [_He moves._

HEATH. Move forward; we'll be contracted at the next alehouse,
be married to-morrow, and have half a dozen children the next
day. [_Exeunt._

SCENE V.

_Enter_ WELCOME, _a host_.

WEL. Sure, I have slept myself into an owl, and mistake night
for day? Can light dawn, and none see the way to my house for a
morning's draught? No groats due? Did all my mad lads go sober
to bed last night? Such a crime forfeits the city charter. What
ho! speak here, sirrah Bung.

_Enter_ BUNG.

BUNG. By and by! Who calls? O master, good morrow to you.

WEL. Why, it is day with thee too, Bung, and I no owl. Speak,
prythee; how long is't since thou couldst grope the tap out?

BUNG. O sir, this two hours. I have cut two dozen of toasts,
broached a new barrel of ale, washed all the cups and flagons,
made a fire i' th' George,[240] drained all the beer out of th'
Half-Moon the company left o' the floor last night, wiped down
all the tables, and have swept every room. The sun has been up
this hour almost.

WEL. Ay, there's an honest soaker; the old blade swills himself
i' th' sea all night, and quaffs from th' earth all day, and
that makes him have such a ruby face. But what, no customers
yet?

BUNG. Not one, sir; our old charwoman, Mary, has not called for
her morning's draught yet--she that's the tub for all men's
snuffs, and devours me more tappings than would serve to make
strong waters for an army.

WEL. Sure, all the beer that was drunk yesterday had poppy in't
instead of malt; and people are not yet awake, or else they
mistake my house for a prison, and my old lattice for grates.
Come, Bung, we'll give ourselves handsel; go, fill's a lusty
pot of ale. [_Exit_ BUNG.] This is a precious varlet, and has
tricks enou' to furnish all the tapsters between Charing Cross
and Fleet Bridge. The sleights of nicking and frothing he
scorns as too common, but supplies that defect with little jugs
and great glasses, and where he fears a dissolution, brings up
his flagon, begins the king's health, and with that decoy draws
on another dozen or two, till the whole royal progeny is gone
over. He wished it once as numerous as old Priam's was, and
another time had like to have been hanged for praying treason,
that there were a hundred kings i' th' land, that men might be
forced to drink all their healths for fear of displeasing any.

_Re-enter_ BUNG.

BUNG. Here, sir, here's a cup of stinging liquor; it is so
thick that you may slice it, and came drivelling out as if the
loving vessel had been loth to part with it.

WEL. How? 'tis cold; the rogue has put ice into't instead of
toast, or else one of's hundred leger wafers the baker dried
for him t'other day in's oven, after his bread was drawn, for
the yeast of two barrels. [_Aside._] You rascal, cheat your
master?

BUNG. Cry you mercy, good sir; I protest I had forgot who 'twas
for, and popped it in before I was aware; but I'll air it for
you instantly, if you please.

WEL. No, no, I'll warm't myself, and it shall warm me. Come,
here's to all good swallows! So, so, one cup of ale will shroud
one better from the cold than all the furs in Russia.

WITHIN. Tapster, where are you? Show's a room here.

BUNG. Anon, anon, sir. You are welcome, gentlemen. Please you,
walk into th' George; there's a good fire, and no company.
[_Exit._

WEL. To see what luck a handsel will procure! No sooner the
cup out of my mouth but another called for! It seems it stayed
at me all this while; a dry, shabby host is more absurd than a
dumb Exchange. These are some boon fellows, I know; the rogue
is so perfect in his lerry.[241] Ditty and's comrades, perhaps;
the rascal can never sing well till he has wetted his whistle
at my house. He made me set up the sign o' th' Flying Horse for
a Pegasus. Budget the tinker, too, is as good at cracking a pot
as any, and Bristle the merriest, cunningest whoreson; he sells
his traps twopence dearer, only by giving rules how to bait
them--for a Dutch mouse, with butter forsooth, or bacon; and
then for a Welsh one, toasted cheese is the best.

_Enter_ BUNG _again_.

BUNG. The gentlemen within desire your company.

WEL. What are they?

BUNG. The four churchwardens o' th' parish, that never exceed
halfpence apiece at a morning's draught, must have a flagon
instead of a black-pot, and fire, toast and nutmeg over and
above; nay, sometimes a breakfast too.

WEL. And when they mount so high as a penny, drink at Widow
Grunt's--she that has an eleven children, and say they are
prodigal, merely out of charity to the poor orphan pigs; but at
th' hall, on a court-day, can be as drunk as so many tinkers at
Banbury, or nurses at a christ'ning! Pox on 'um, tell 'um I am
busy with other company.

BUNG. Nay, sir, they protest they'll have your jug in.[242]

WEL. They shall have me too then, and for once I'll obey their
summons; but let 'um expect to pay for all they call for, and
therefore for me. [_Exeunt._

SCENE VI.

_Enter_ GUM, _a tooth-drawer_.

GUM. Have you any corns upon your feet or toes? any teeth to
draw? O, for a flood now or a whole year of rain, that every
step may be up to the ankles in water, and cover every toe with
a corn! May the shoemakers make all their shoes too strait,
that they may pinch the sore-toed miser, and at every tread
put him in mind of work for the corn-cutter! May the toothache
be an hereditary disease, and prove infectious, or so many
aldermen be turned into marble that the whole city may get
rotten teeth with eating of sugar-plums and sweetmeats at their
funerals.

_Enter_ DITTY.

DITTY. _The Seven Wise Men of Gotam_, _a Hundred Merry
Tales_, _Scoggin's Jests_, or _A Book of Prayers and Graces
for Young Children_.

GUM. What news-books, Ditty? Any proclamations that they must
forfeit all their toes that have no corns, or that they must
never eat good victuals that have not the toothache? Are red
mufflers and slashed shoes come into fashion? They are as sure
signs of the ache of teeth and toes as a red lattice of an
alehouse.

DITTY. No, truly, Master Gum, I have none of these books, but I
have as good. I have very strange news from beyond seas.

GUM. What is't? Do they want corn-cutters or tooth-drawers?
prythee, let's hear it.

DITTY. The King of Morocco has got the black jaundice, and the
Duke of Westphalia is sick of the swine-pox with eating bacon;
the Moors increase daily, and the King of Cyprus mourns for the
Duke of Saxony, that is dead of the stone; and Presbyter John
is advanced to Zealand; the sea ebbs and flows but twice in
four-and-twenty hours, and the moon has changed but once the
last month.

GUM. Hold, hold! here's enough to tire the dove's neck, before
she gets home.

_Enter_ BUDGET.

BUD. Well, I must strike whilst the iron's hot. Good Vulcan,
be assistant, and grant that some spark of love may be kindled
in her heart, and that I may with my compliments, as with the
bellows of rhetoric, blow the coals of good-will, and with my
forked arguments stir up the fire of affection in her! I have
been filing my nose and anviling down my chin this two days,
and yet just now there was scarce room enough for her sweet
lips and mine to meet. She calls me Vulcan and Cyclops, and
says I shall be hanged up for the sign of the _Black Boy_. But
'tis no matter. It may be, when she calls me Vulcan, she would
have me make her my Venus!

DITTY. Who is this trough that he is about to run away with?

BUD. Well, I'll try both ways.

DITTY. How now, Budget? Can you sing your ballad yet? Come, are
you perfect?

BUD. Not yet, Ditty; but is't to the tune o' th' _Bleeding
Heart_, do you say?

DITTY. Ay, ay; but what makes you so pale, Budget? There's
a cup of ale at mine host Welcome's will make your nose of
another colour.

BUD. O Ditty, there is a nail knocked into my heart! It pricks,
it pricks.

GUM. Why, if you can't wrench it out, we'll send for a smith.

DITTY. Has Cupid played the joiner with you, then? Who is't he
has fastened to your heart with that nail? What metal is she
made of, that you cannot hammer her?

BUD. It is the city's beauty!

DITTY. The city's beauty? who's that? One of my lord major's
spaniels?

GUM. I knew a bitch of that name was a very pretty dog, and
would fetch and carry as nimbly as any porter in the town.

BUD. What, villain, do you make a puppy of me! I'll kick you
into glove-dogs, you mongrels, hell-hounds, whelps! [_Kicks
them._

DITTY. Hold, good Budget, a jest is but a jest; I spoke but in
jest.

GUM. Nor I, indeed, Master Budget.

BUD. Then I kicked you but in jest.

GUM. Ay, ay, sir, we take it so; you must think, if it had been
in earnest, though it had been the best man i' th' land, he had
kicked his last.

BUD. Had he so, slave?

GUM. Yes, when he had done kicking.

DIT. Good Budget, be pacified, and we'll recompense the injury
we have done you with our forwardness to promote your desires
and translation out of the circle of love into the wedding-ring.

BUD. Thanks, kind Ditty; walk along with me, and I will show
thee the sweet empress of my heart. I am appeased. [_Exeunt._

SCENE VII.

_Enter_ BRISTLE _and_ JENNITING.

BRIS. Yes, truly, I am one of the gentle craft, though I
have got somewhat of the tailor's trade too; some hangers
on--fellow-travellers, that I cannot be rid of, though, are
still upon my back: they put me to foul shifts sometimes.

JEN. Then you know Crispianus?

BRIS. Yes, he is a saint amongst us, of whose votaries I am
one, that each Monday morning liquor his altar with ale, and
grease it with bacon.

JEN. So you sacrifice the hog to get the bristles?

BRIS. She knows my name, sure. [_Aside._] But 'tis no matter
for him. Hereafter I'll know no saints but thee; be not
therefore unkind, but look with a favourable aspect on him that
can expect no bad influence from so benign a star.

JEN. You do but flatter me; I am not so good a one as you make
me.

BRIS. Now, by Jove, thou art fairer than Calisto (and more
like a bear), more divine than Cassiopeia! Do but consider that
every sow has a ring, and will not you have one?

JEN. Well, Vamp, you know how to take the length of women's
feet.

BRIS. Come, my Jenniting, we will have twins every year.

JEN. Such as shall be christened at Saint James' tide, I
warrant!

BRIS. No, no; two boys and so many wenches, that we will
furnish the whole city with herb-women and costermongers of
our own progeny; there shall not be an apple-wife in the whole
country but she shall be ingrafted into some branch of our
family: not a day in the whole year shall pass but some tree
of our stock shall be set, till we have enough to plant a
wilderness and people it. Go, pack up thy treasure; the time
flies too fast, but we'll outstrip it. To-night we'll be at a
place some ten miles off, where a house ready-furnished waits
for thee, with all things necessary for the celebration of our
nuptials. I'll fit thee with a pair of shoes; let's see thy
foot. It is of the eighteens; thou shalt have a strapping pair.
Make haste.

JEN. Thanks, kind Vamp; all that I have is thine. [_Exit._

BRIS. I hope so, or else my plot fails me: if Heath speed with
Nancy Curds as well as I have with Hanna Jenniting, we shall
make quick work with 'um; we shall fledge ourselves before we
fly. Let them husband what we leave 'um as well as they can.
[_Exit._

SCENE VIII.

_Enter_ HEATH _and_ CURDS.

HEATH. Yes, it is a very neat house; 'tis at the, sign of the
Bull; 'tis newly covered with calves'-skins, and paved with
knuckle-bones. Thou shalt not deny me; we'll be there to-night;
and 'tis but three hours' journey. Let me have thy bundles of
necessaries an hour hence, and I'll see 'um safe sent before.
Thou shalt be the lady o' th' town.

CURDS. I have been one in my days, when we kept the Whitson
ale, where we danced _The Building of London Bridge upon
wool-packs_[243] and _The Hay_[244] upon a grass-plat, and
when we were aweary with dancing hard, we always went to the
cushion dance.

HEATH. Ay, we'll have dancing at our wedding too, when the cups
of canary have made our heads frisk. O, how we shall foot it,
when we can scarce stand, and caper when we are cut in the leg!
The first year shall be a leap-year with us.

CURDS. What shall we have at our wedding dinner? We'll be sure
of a plum-pudding, that shall be the very flower of the feast.

HEATH. Then a leg of beef shall walk round the table, like
a city captain with a target of lamb before it: a snipe,
with his long bill, shall be a serjeant, and a capon carry
the drumsticks. Thou shalt be lady-general, and pick out the
choicest of every dish for thy life-guard.

CURDS. I'll pay them to the full. [_Aside._

HEATH. Till anon good-bye. [_Exit_ HEATH.

_Enter_ BUDGET, DITTY, GUM.

DITTY. Pox o' thy ugly face! ca'st not sing but thou must cry
too? Look, there she is; good Gum, hold my shop a little.

BUD. And mine too.

GUM. Now do I look like one of the pillars in the Exchange.
[_Exit._

BUD. _Sweet lady, smile on me._

CURDS. [_Aside._] Hissing adders!

BUD. _Now merrily:_
_For if thou frown on me,_
_Sure I shall die._
BOTH. _Sure I shall die, &c._

CURDS. Croaking toads.

BUD. _Thy eyes, like a cockatrice,_
_Kill with a look:_
_They shine like the sun,_
_I'd swear on a book._

CURDS. Away, screech-owls!

BOTH. _I swear on a book, &c._ [_Exit_ CURDS.

BUD. Stay, Ditty, she is deaf, and would not hear though
Orpheus played, nor be moved though the stones and trees danced.

DITTY. Give me thy letter then--I'll run after her and deliver
it myself.

BUD. Prythee, do, kind-hearted Ditty.

DITTY. O, what a nimble Cupid shall I be! Venus herself will
mistake me for her boy.

BUD. I'll wait here till thou returnest.

[_Exit_ DITTY.[245]

SCENE IX.

_Enter_ BRISTLE _and_ HEATH.

BRIS. What, did she melt easily? Was she pliable?

HEATH. O, like cobbler's wax; she stuck to my fingers: I could
hardly get her off, and had much ado to persuade her not to
undo herself quite. She would have had me gone home and took
all; nay, would have robbed her aunt too, but that I should
cheat her sufficiently. This will be the best day's work I have
done this many a year.

BRIS. And yet all my rhetoric could scarce persuade you to be
wise.

HEATH. I am thy scholar, and thou shalt find I'll prove an apt
one. If I am not as perfect at the art as thyself in a short
time, may I never be made free, but always steal for others,
and be hanged myself.

BRIS. Yet still thou owest thy learning unto me; if I had not
been thy master, thou might'st have sat at home now with a cup
of cold water and thy precious jewel, a contented mind, wishing
thou hadst but money enough to pay a forfeit for being drunk,
though thy empty pockets forced thee to be sober.

HEATH. Come, prythee, leave; I myself do now laugh at my former
ignorance. Thou hast infused a new soul into me; thou hast
played hocus-pocus with me, I think, and juggled Gusmond or
country Tom's legerdemain into me. There's not such a change in
all the Metamorphosis.

BRIS. And now thou hast[246] bargained with thy whey-faced
wench, what hast thou gained by the project? nothing but wit.

HEATH. Yes, a silver bodkin and thimble, and as many curds as
would serve the court ladies for a twelvemonth, besides the box
laden with all the plate and household stuff that her pitchy
fingers could stick to in six years' service, with which I
believe she now waits for me at the appointed place. What we
can't turn into money we will into ale, and drink it out. Mine
host Welcome has a cup of blessed lull.[247]

BRIS. Away, make haste, we'll empty his cellar to-night, and
draw his barrels out into our hogshead.

HEATH. I'll outfly the swift. [_Exit_ HEATH.

BRIS. But scarce outgo an owl. This fellow will I so tutor,
that he shall rob Mercury himself, surpass Prometheus, and
steal the sun from heaven! Filch away Venus's box of beauty,
and pawn it to ladies, not to be redeemed but by the golden
apple that Paris gave her! Jupiter's thunder, too, and sell it
to besieged towns for granadoes!

_Enter_ JENNITING _with a bundle_.

O, here comes my precious Hanna, never so lovely as now, when
she brings a bundle along with her! That beauty-spot makes her
look fair. Come, my sweeting; every minute was an age till thou
camest. But why so wrinkled? Those looks do not become a bride.

JEN. Is there no danger of drowning? I am ready to sink every
time I think of the water. I cannot choose but quake ever since
I was in the ducking-stool.

BRIS. Never fear it. Thou shalt be Queen o' th' Thames, and
command the waves; be crowned with water-cresses, and enrobed
in watered grogerum. The Nymphs shall curl thy hair, and Syrens
sing thy nuptials. The sea shall drink thy health, till it
spews and purges again, and swell with pride, that it can carry
thee.

JEN. These lines are strong enough to hold an anchor.

BRIS. Dolphins shall bring musicians on their backs, and spout
out cans of beer beyond the conduits on the Mayor's-day.

JEN. We'll have a fish-dinner, too, and the Lady o' th' Lobster
shall be Mistress o' th' Feast.

BRIS. Yes, yes; and Triton's trumpet shall echo up each mess,
while we sound the bottom of our ocean cups, and drown god
Neptune in a sea of wine! But let not your sister Nancy hear of
it for your ears. She'll raise a tempest will ship-wreck all
our hopes; she'll storm louder than the winds. Meet me here two
hours hence with all your tacklings. I'll see this bundle shall
be safe. The ruddy sky promises a fair gale; if the winds fail
us and blow enviously, we'll blast Æolus. [_Exeunt._

SCENE X.

_Enter_ DITTY.

DITTY. Well, if ever I carry love-letters again, may they make
a love-letter of me; turn my skin to paper, my skull to an
inkhorn, and make a pen of my nose; it will be excellent for
a fast hand, for it runs continually, and is so moist that
it will write without ink! Nay, if ever I thrust myself into
wedding businesses again, may a piece of match be my bane;
may the bridegroom wring my ears off, hang me in the bride's
garter, or drown me in the sack posset; and if he bury me,
bestow this threadbare epitaph--

_Here lieth Tom Ditty under this stone,_
_That carried love-letters; reader, go on,--_
_But stay! wouldst thou know the cause of his death?_
_Th' long-winded letter put him out of breath._

The next epistle I carry for Budget, he shall carry himself;
I'll not be his post, to be her beating-block too. Pox on's
kettledrum! 'tis good for nothing but to call the moon out
of an eclipse, and he'll serve for nought neither, but a
chimney-sweeper's shadow, or bugbear to fright froward
children. I'll have some revenge on him, and deliver him up
into her hands. If she do not sufficiently punish him, I'll
forgive him.

_Enter_ BUDGET.

DITTY. O, here comes the chimney, the man of soot, the picture
of smoke and cinders!

BUD. O Ditty! I see by thy face there's ill news.

DITTY. Ay, pox on't! I was set upon yonder by a company of
women, and had like to have been scolded into a cripple for
singing _Room for Cuckolds_ t'other day.

BUD. But what said my Nancy? Did she smile, and say that all
her denials were maiden's nays? Is she softened, and will she
now let me taste her strawberry lips willingly?

DITTY. Yes, and give you cream to 'um too. Why, she is almost
mad for you, and has bespoke a place in Bedlam already. If you
do not go quickly and recover her, she'll either be turned into
a kettle with grief, or melt into bell-metal, that she may be
made a posnet of. Nay, and desired me to tell you that if after
her transformation she chance ever to come under your hands to
be mended, she would desire you to use her gently, and that you
should know which was she, she had provided in her will that H.
L. may be set on her handle for Nancy Curdwell.

BUD. I will, I will; I'll mend her with sugar-nails and a
Naples biscuit-hammer. But is there no way to persuade her to
live still a woman? I would be loth to carry my wife at my
back, and have one with three legs.

DITTY. If you make haste, you may chance to come before she is
quite changed; you may save a leg, perhaps, or an arm of flesh
yet; but I believe the most part of her is brass already.

BUD. Good Ditty, go along with me; if she be a pot before I
come, I'll weep it full of tears, and then be boiled to death
in't. [_Exeunt._

SCENE XI.

_Enter_ GUM _with the Tinker's budget and Ballad-man's_
_box_.

Any old pots or kettles to mend? Will you buy my ballads?
or have you any corns on your feet-toes? Nay, I am
Jack-of-all-trades now. Three is a perfect number, and so many
I have. Nay, Master Tinker, you kicked me to-day; but since
you are so light of your heels, I'll make you walk after your
budget before you have it. 'T shall be in trouble presently,
not to be delivered without a fee. I'll drink as much ale on
the kettle as will fill it; the rest o' th' tools shall go for
jugs apiece; and then, Master Ditty, I will be merry with your
ballads, too. They must be in lavender a little, and soak. If
they will but yield me draughts apiece, I care not, and the box
shall serve to score on. But stay, had I not better burn it,
to bake the toasts and warm the ale? Hang't! 'tis but engaging
the books twopence or a groat deeper, and have some three or
four bundles of straws like faggots, and 'twill be _a-la-mode_.

_Enter_ BRISTLE _and_ HEATH _with bundles_. GUM
_retires_.

BRIS. She'll say I am a pretty jewel to run away with her
cabinet; but 'tis no matter. This box will make me flourish all
the year long.

GUM. So, so; here are companions that will help drink the sea
dry: mere gulfs or whirlpools, that suck in all that comes nigh
'um.

BRIS. Come, Heath, open thy treasury. What's the first pearl?

GUM. These ale-suckers, too, are a-going to liquor some prize
that their lime-twig fingers have seized upon.

HEATH. A pair of silver-handled knives. These, I believe, she
made when she lived with my Lady May'ress. Next, a pair of
white gloves; these she had at the funeral of a dear friend,
for whose sake she meant to be buried in 'um herself; and how
would Cerberus take it, to see one come to hell with a dog-skin
pair of gloves? A silken garter! This, I warrant it, she had at
a wedding, and intended to bestow it on her own bridemaid. Then
a pair of scissors----

GUM. Sure, these villains have robbed an haberdasher, and stole
a box of small-ware. [_Aside._

HEATH _sings_.

_Come out to the light,_
_Than which thou'rt more bright:_
_This box thee no longer shall harbour._
_'Tis thou that hast made_
_Me o' th' triple trade--_
_A tailor, a sempster, a barber._
_With thee I will shave_
_The barbarian slave,_
_And trim up the youngsters of Poland,_
_Make a jump of Aleppo,_
_Of Friesland a[nd] Joppo,_
_And a stately brave shirt of Holland._

GUM. [_Coming forward_.] Well sung of a woodcock. Come, thou
must go have thy pipe tuned at mine host Welcome's; thou art
like the glass pipe, that will never whistle but when there's
water in't.

HEATH. Ho, ho! What, furniture for a whole fair upon thy back
at once? Dressed up just like the wooden boys on haberdashers'
stalls.

BRIS. Three strings to thy bow at once? Sure, thou canst not
break when thou hast such a triple cord to hold thee.

GUM. A single one, I believe, would spoil your drinking;
'twould tie up your guzzle.

BRIS. But how dar'st thou walk abroad before owl-light? Dost
think there's no birds stirring still that will spy out
these feathers? Come, off with thy box of poetry, the Muses'
warehouse, Calliope's Cabinet. 'Tis ominous to have the string
about thy neck. If thou art taken with 'um, thou may'st be
condemned to make as many wry mouths as the squeaking owner
did, when he last strained and vomited 'um out at Smithfield or
Pye Corner.

GUM. O, there's no fear of that, though he that these call
master had my neck in a slip. These are Ditty's, and these
Budget's; they gave 'um me to hold a little; but I'll carry
'um to the Flying Horse, and change 'um for a cup of Helicon,
which will in half an hour make me able to repay the paltry
rhymes in heroic verse.

BRIS. Come, shall we join together? we three are able to sponge
up all the ale i' th' city, and raise the price of malt.

GUM. A match; as far as these will go, I'm for you.

HEATH. And when they're gone, we'll drink our very shirts out,
and then pawn ourselves too. [_Exeunt._

SCENE XII.

_Enter_ JENNITING _and_ CURDS.

JEN. Was he a butcher, say you?

CURDS. Ay, and called me his pretty lamb and his sweetbread;
told me he would meet me here two hours ago, and promised me
mountains; but bid me I should not tell you on't.

JEN. They are mere rogues, very jugglers; they have cheated us
both. Just so did the shoemaker do to me.

CURDS. He has got my box of milled sixpences and Harry groats:
the gilded scissors that were given me for a New Year's gift,
and my bodkin and thimble.

JEN. I would they might both feed upon nothing but rotten
apples, and be choked with pears!

CURDS. Or a piece of clout be left in the next fresh cheese
they eat, and strangle 'um; or a favourable spider drop into
the cream, and drown himself, that he may poison them.

_Enter_ DITTY _and_ BUDGET.

DITTY. 'Slife, lose [not] this opportunity; there she is; on,
I say, and I'll be your second. I warrant she had been dead
before this time, but that she smelt your breath hard by, or
else knew by sympathy that you were coming.

BUD. Did the letter work so strangely on her, are you sure? I
would not willingly venture my lips for a kiss, or my eyes for
a look.

DITTY. Why, I tell thee she was so nigh a dissolution when I
left her, that I thought to have found her in a sand-box, or
begged by some vintner to keep bottled wine in, before I could
return.

BUD. Well, I'll try, though she squeeze me into verjuice, and
stamp my bones into small coal, that they may be twice burnt.
[_Advances._] O my honeycomb, milksop Nancy, whiter than the
powder of chalk, and (like it) able to scour off the dirt of
sullied drabs, and paint them with a brightness as glustering
as thy own.

CURDS. Out, you sooty goblin, besmeared dolt! dost think I'll
couple with a negro, to bring forth magpies, half white and
half black? Take me for a bee, to knit at the sound of a brass
kettle or frying-pan? Bundle of charcoal, furred crock, dost
think I'll hang in thy pot-hook arm? Hence, or I'll beat thee
worse than the Bridewell crew does hemp!

DITTY. Ay, ay, read him the same lesson you conned me!

BUD. Sweet Mistress Curds, be not so sour. Good Ditty, stop her
mouth.

DITTY. Hold, hold, Nancy! He thought all women like pots of
ale, and that tinkers might call for 'um as freely as the
finest customer; this crab-tree lecture will teach him better
manners hereafter.

JEN. Ay, sister, do not foul your mouth any more with the
checker-faced scullion; let him go.

DITTY. Come, then, and shake hands; we'll fine him for's
sauciness, and his ransom shall be half a dozen at mine host
Welcome's. Come, come, you shall be friends, and I'll perfect
the reconciliation with a song.

BUD. Half a dozen! We'll score out all the chalk i' th' house,
and make the tapster fetch one o' th' city clerks to sum up the
reckoning.

JEN. Come, sister, let's go drink sorrows dry; and a woman's
anger should be like jack-weights--quickly up and quickly down.
[_Exeunt._

SCENE XIII.

_Enter_ WELCOME.

WEL. Ay, ay, 'tis the rich face that keeps us from poverty. If
the tailor's countenance were in fashion now, and all that had
fiery faces were counted comets, what a decay would there be
amongst our houses of good fellowship. How our cans would rot
and jugs grow musty for want of use! I would the whole city
were jugs and cans, that they might never be in good case but
when they're full of good liquor. I fear this will be a bad
year for all of our profession; salt meats are grown out of
fashion, and Lent will be forgotten this year, and, for aught I
know, the next Papist that's drunk may make the people condemn
it for superstition because he uses it. Forbid, thou who ever
art patron of good fellowship!

_Enter_ BUNG.

BUNG. [_To some one within._] I'll be with you presently.
Master, can you give me a groat and sixpence for a twopence.

WEL. Who is't for?

BUNG. For a couple of strangers i' th' King's Head; they have
sat preaching this two hours over two cans, and called me rogue
and rascal for not giving attendance, and setting a chamber-pot
for 'um. They've twopence to pay.

WEL. Then thou'dst have me give 'um eightpence to be gone, ha!

BUNG. A groat and twopence for a sixpence, I mean.

WEL. There 'tis; go, be nimble. [_Exit_ BUNG.] We have had but
small takings to-day; men have got the squincy or stopping of
the throat, I think--they drink so slowly. May it turn to the
dropsy, that they may never be weary of drinking, but that
every draught may but make room for two more! 'Twill never be
a good world while there's any but Welsh taverns, such as sell
nothing but ale and tobacco; these French and Spanish ones will
be the undoing of us all; men are grown such dottrels, that
they had rather give five or six shillings to be drunk, like
the Spaniard, with canary, or the Frenchman, with claret, than
so many pence to be foxed with their own native beer.

_Enter_ BUNG.

BUNG. O master, master, yonder's Ditty and Budget come in with
two doxies! Ditty swears he'll have one of 'um, though she
cuckold him the first night, and clap a pair of horns upon his
head, that will confine him to his chamber till rutting-time
come, and he shed 'um.

WEL. Who are they which they're enamoured so with?

BUNG. The one's Nancy Curds and the other Hanna Jenniting;
Ditty and Jenniting are agreed already; now, if you'll go
promote Budget's suit, and make a conclusion between him and
Curds, the wedding will be kept at our house, and we shall,
besides the getting by the victuals, put off the barrel of sour
beer by and by. [_Exit._

WEL. Well said, Bung: the crafti'st knave alive! I should be
glad to see both Budget and Ditty in the way of multiplying;
all their progeny cannot choose but be friends to the black
pot, and will be notable tipplers, I warrant 'um, as soon as
they come to the sucking-bottle. I'll go myself and contract
'um. [_Exit._

SCENE XIV.

_Enter_ BRISTLE, HEATH, GUM.

BRIS. Pox o' the ugly baboon! she has got a face like a
Bartholomew Fair baby, and a mouth like the whale that
swallowed a whole fleet. Her fingers are rolling-pins, and her
arms coal-staves! Hang her, what should women do with money, or
anything that's good?

HEATH. You say true. If we had let 'um alone, I warrant these
boxes had been kept till they were mouldy, visited but once a
quarter, and at last bequeathed by will and testament to some
silly sober well-wisher of hers in her lifetime.

BRIS. One that never drank above four-shilling beer but once
at a christening, and then had like to have got a red nose by
it, cannot distinguish between a jug and a flagon, never was in
an alehouse, knows not what a bush means, nor ever spent above
twopence in his life, and that was upon a prayer-book.

GUM. Your tongues, methinks, run very glib; I wonder they do
not screek for want of liquor. What, tapster? attendance here.

BUNG. Anon, anon, sir; I have it in my hand.

_Enter_ TAPSTER.

TAP. You're welcome, gentlemen; here's a cup of the best ale in
London.

BRIS. How? gentlemen? untutored slave, saucy villain!
Gentlemen? why, sirrah, do I look like a gentleman? I scorn thy
terms, and let this kick put thee in mind of better language.

BUNG. Cry you mercy, I mistook you indeed.

HEATH. Sirrah, we'll make you know who you mistake; call one of
your master's best customers gentleman!

BUNG. [_To some one outside._] Anon, anon, sir; I'll be with
you presently.

BRIS. Sirrah, bid your master come in.

[_Exit_ TAPSTER.

GUM. Come, here's a round to the first inventor of the famous
art of drinking.

BRIS. No, no; to the first finder out of the noble art of
brewing; for we should be forced to drink water else.

HEATH. To neither; but to the first most commendable
alehouse-keeper that sold three cans for twopence; he is the
chief benefactor we have. Come, three cans to his health!

GUM, BRIS. A match!

_Enter_ WELCOME, DITTY, BUDGET, JENNITING,
CURDS.

WEL. Set you merry, my merry, merry lads; what, do the cans
dance nimbly?

HEATH. Yes, but we want a pipe or two; good mine host, let's
have some whiff.

WEL. Here's a musician; honest Ditty and Budget too: if they do
not make up the consort, they are very much out of tune.

DITTY. O Gum, have we found you out? my box, you slave!

BUD. And my budget!

WEL. Come, set about, set about, my boon companions.

BRIS. A devil on your snout! oatmeal face and tallow-chops, how
came you hither with a pox, trow?

HEATH. Look here, Bristle, how like shorn sheep they look.
Where shall we run? they have cast me into a fit o' th' shaking
palsy.

BRIS. Come, we'll outface 'um.

WEL. Come, sit down, my jovial boys, and roar. This night we'll
suck up all the dew.

_Enter_ BUNG, _with tobacco_.

BUNG. Here's a pipe o' th' best tobacco that Christendom
affords; it grew under the King of Spain's own window. [_To
other customers._] By and by; what do you want, sirs? [_Exit._

DITTY. And I warrant he used to fling pisspots out on't.

WEL. We'll drink ourselves into fish, and eat ourselves into
cormorants; we'll not fast, though it be an eve to a surfeiting
gawdy day.

HEATH. Is't an eve, say you? pray, what holiday is to-morrow?

WEL. Budget's and Ditty's nuptials. Drink freely; all is paid
already, and you are Ditty's guests to-night as well as mine.
There sit the brides. You shall not leave my house to-night,
that I may be sure of you to-morrow morning at the solemnities;
be merry then, and free. I'll pardon you your groats to-morrow,
and none shall forfeit but he that is not drunk. [_Exit_
WELCOME.

HEATH, BRIS, GUM. Joy to the brides and bridegrooms!

DITTY. Gentlemen, you may see how quickly a man may be shuffled
into a wedding; we liked at first sight, and why should we
then defer our joys any longer?

BUD. Like the Spanish, I was beaten into love; but at last have
overcome, thanks to mine host, that took my part.

CURDS. And I cheated into a bride; he that stole away my box
made up the match between you and me.

BRIS. Is't so, i' faith? then, mistress bride, pray take this
box. You know it, I believe, and me too.

HEATH. And you this bundle.

JEN. The thing I was cheated of! Art thou the thief too? O, the
very villain!

CURDS. Lay hold of 'um, sweet Budget--the slaves that cheated
us in a disguise.

DITTY. Come, what's the matter? we'll have no quarrelling
to-night; we forgive all.

GUM. Then your books may be freed for eighteen-pence; that's
all they are engaged for yet, and the budget but for two
shillings.

DITTY, BUD. We forgive most willing.

DITTY. A porter would not have carried 'um so far for the price.

BRIS. Here's a health to the brides, then, out of an
extinguisher. I'll find 'um in mice-traps, brushes, steel and
tinder-box all their lifetime.

HEATH. And I with brooms.

GUM. I'll cut their corns for nothing, and draw their teeth for
a touch of their lips.

DITTY. Defer that health till to-morrow; in the meanwhile let's
have on[e] to the genius of good ale.

OMNES. Begin't, begin't!

DITTY. _Submit, bunch of grapes,_
_To the strong barley ear:_
_The weak vine no longer_
_The laurel shall wear._

BUD. _Sack and all drinks else,_
_Desist from the strife,_
_Ale's th' only aqua vitæ_
_And liquor of life._

ALL TOG. _Then come, my boon fellows,_
_Let's drink it around;_
_It keeps us from th' grave,_
_Though it lays us o' th' ground._

BUD. _Ale's a physician,_
_No mountebank bragger,_
_Can cure the chill ague,_
_Though't be with the stagger._

DITTY. _Ale's a strong wrestler,_
_Flings all it hath met,_
_And makes the ground slippery,_
_Though't be not wet._

OMNES. _But come, my boon, &c._

DITTY. _Ale is both Ceres_
_And good Neptune too;_
_Ale's froth was the sea,_
_From whence Venus grew._

BUD. _Ale is immortal,_
_And be there no stops,_
_In bonny lads quaffing,_
_Can live without hops,_

OMNES. _Then come, my boon fellows,_
_Let's drink it around,_
_It keeps us from th' grave,_
_Though it lays us o' th' ground._

[_All drink._

_Enter_ WELCOME.

WEL. Well said, my whistling birds; 'tis spring with you all
the year long, while the ale flourishes. Come, I have provided
a supper will tire your teeth; 'tis but a prologue, though, of
to-morrow's feast. I hope your appetites need no provocations.
It now waits for you, but will not be ready till you concoct
it. Come then, cheer up, my buxom girls; the cakes and posset
my wife shall provide, and I'll engage myself to be father to
you both. Ditty's ballads and his budget shall be cut out into
favours and gloves. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[239] See Hazlitt's "Handbook," art. Jack. Only a second part is at present known.

[240] It is well known that in our old inns the various rooms had separate names.

[241] The usual burden of a song.

[242] This points to the custom of the landlord, when he joined any guests at a table, contributing a free jug or bottle.

[243] This saying arose from the duty on wool, levied to defray the cost of rebuilding the bridge (Knight's "London," i. 79). Nancy alludes to a dance so called.

[244] A well-known and often-quoted dance. See the poem by N. Breton, in "England's Helicon," 1600, repr. Collier, p. 222.

[245] Although Budget promises to await Ditty's return, he appears to retire to the back of the stage.

[246] Old copy, _hast thou_.

[247] Ale.