And that in Smithveld. Charty! I ne'er read o' hun,

In the old Fabian's chronicles; nor I think
In any new: he may be a giant there,
For aught I know.

Scri. You should do well to study Records, fellow Ball, both law and poetry. Pup. Why, all's but writing and reading, is it, Scriben?

An it be any more, it is mere cheating,

zure,

Vlat cheating; all your law and poets too. Pan. Master high constable comes.

Enter Turfe.

Pup. I'll zay't afore hun.

Turfe. What's that makes you all so merry and loud, sirs, ha?

I could have heard you to my privy walk. Clench. A contrevarsie 'twixt your two learned men here:

Hannibal Puppy says that law and poetry Are both flat cheating; all's but writing and reading,

He says, be't verse or prose.

Turfe. I think in conzience,

He do zay true: who is't do thwart 'un, ha?

Med. Why, my friend Scriben, an it please your worship.

Turfe. Who, D'oge, my D'ogenes? a great writer, marry!

He'll vace me down, [sirs], me myself sometimes,

That verse goes upon veet, as you and I

do:

All the twelve smocks in the house, zure, are your authors.

Get some fresh hay then, to lay under foot;

Some holly and ivy to make vine the posts:

Is't not Zon Valentine's day, and Mistress Awdrey,

Your young dame, to be married? [Exit Puppy.] I wonder Clay

Should be so tedious; he's to play Son Valentine:

And the clown sluggard's not come fro' Kilborn yet!

Med. Do you call your son-in-law clown, an't please your worship?

Turfe. Yes, and vor worship too, my neighbour Medlay,

A Middlesex clown, and one of Finsbury.

They were the first colons of the kingdom here,

The primitory colons, my Diogenes says, Where's D'ogenes, my writer, now? What were those

You told me, D'ogenes, were the first colons

Of the country, that the Romans brought in here?

Scri. The coloni, sir; colonus is an inhabitant,

A clown original: as you'd say, a farmer, A tiller of the earth, e'er since the Ro

dance

On this day, zure; and who can dance in boots?

No, I got on my best straw-coloured stockings,

And swaddled them over to zave charges, I. Turfe. And his new chamois doublet too with points!

I like that yet: and his long sausage-hose, Like the commander of four smoking tilekilns,

Which he is captain of, captain of Kilborn; Clay with his hat turned up o' the leer side too,1

As if he would leap my daughter yet ere night,

And spring a new Turfe to the old

house!

contending parties in the dialogue are Velvetbreeches and Cloth-breeches, the representatives of the court and country. The superiority throughout is adroitly given to the latter.

• Press all noises.] See vol. i. p. 426 a.

A Room in Justice Preamble's House. Enter Canon Hugh and Justice Preamble.

Hugh. So you are sure, sir, to prevent them all,

And throw a block in the bridegroom's way, John Clay,

That he will hardly leap o'er.

Pre. I conceive you,

Sir Hugh; as if your rhetoric would say,
Whereas the father of her is a Turfe,
A very superficies of the earth;

He aims no higher than to match in clay,
And there hath pitched his rest.

Hugh. Right, Justice Bramble ;

You have the winding wit, compassing all. Pre. Subtle Sir Hugh, you now are in the wrong,

And err with the whole neighbourhood, I must tell you,

For you mistake my name, Justice Preamble I write myself; which, with the ignorant clowns here,

Hugh. He will do it ad unguem,1 Miles Metaphor! he is a pretty fellow.

Pre. I love not to keep shadows or halfwits

To foil a business.-Metaphor, you have

seen

A king ride forth in state."

Met. Sir, that I have:

King Edward, our late liege and sovereign lord;

And have set down the pomp.

Pre. Therefore I asked you.

Have you observed the messengers of the chamber,

What habits they were in?

Met. Yes, minor coats,

Unto the guard, a dragon and a greyhound,3

For the supporters of the arms.

Pre. Well marked!
You know not any of them?
Met. Here's one dwells

Bramble:

Pre. Have you acquaintance with him, To borrow his coat an hour? Hugh. Or but his badge,

"Twill serve; a little thing he wears on his breast.

Pre. His coat, I say, is of more authority: Borrow his coat for an hour. I do love To do all things completely, Canon Hugh; Borrow his coat, Miles Metaphor, or nothing.

Met. The taberd of his office I will call it,

Or the coat-armour of his place; and so Insinuate with him by that trope.

VII., a prince of the house of Tudor, in memory of their descent from Cadwallader, gave from his first accession the red or rouge dragon (when he also constituted Rouge Dragon pursuivant), for the dexter supporter of his arms, with the greyhound of the house of York on the left."

Pre. I know

Your powers of rhetoric, Metaphor. Fetch him off

In a fine figure for his coat, I say.

[Exit Metaphor. Hugh. I'll take my leave, sir, of your worship too,

Because I may expect the issue anon. Pre. Stay, my diviner counsel, take your fee:

We that take fees allow them to our counsel;

And our prime learned counsel double fees.

There are a brace of angels to support

you

In your foot-walk this frost, for fear of falling,

Or spraying of a point of matrimony,
When you come at it-

Hugh. In your worship's service:
That the exploit is done, and you possest
Of Mistress Awdrey Turfe.-

Pre. I like your project.

[Exit. Hugh. And I, of this effect of two to one; It worketh in my pocket 'gainst the squire And his half bottom here, of half a piece, Which was not worth the stepping o'er the stile for:

His mother has quite marred him, Lady Tub,

She's such a vessel of fæces: all dried earth,

Terra damnata! not a drop of salt
Or petre in her !! all her nitre is gone.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.-Totten Court.
Before Lady Tub's House.
Enter Lady Tub and Pol Martin.

Lady T. Is the nag ready, Martin ? call the squire.

This frosty morning we will take the air About the fields; for I do mean to be Somebody's Valentine in my velvet gown, This morning, though it be but a beggar

man.

Why stand you still, and do not call my son?

1

Not a drop of salt

Or petre in her ] The quibble, such as it is, may possibly escape the reader; the poet means she had nothing of her husband's temper, who was Sir Peter Tub.-WHAL.

Pol. Madam, if he had couched with

the lamb,

He had no doubt been stirring with the lark:

But he sat up at play, and watched the cock

Till his first warning chid him off to rest. Late watchers are no early wakers, madam: But if your ladyship will have him called-

Lady T. Will have him called ! where

fore did I, sir, bid him

Be called, you weazel vermin of an huisher? You will return your wit to your first stile Of Martin Polecat, by these stinking tricks, If you do use them. I shall no more call

Was ever such a fulmart for an huisher
To a great worshipful lady as myself!
Who, when I heard his name first, Martin
Polecat,

A stinking name, and not to be pronounced
In any lady's presence without a reverence;2
My very heart e'en yearned, seeing the
fellow

Young, pretty, and handsome; being then, I say,

A basket-carrier, and a man condemned To the saltpetre works; made it my suit To Master Peter Tub, that I might change it;

And call him, as I do now, by Pol Martin, To have it sound like a gentleman in an office,

And made him mine own foreman, daily

waiter.

And he to serve me thus ! ingratitude Beyond the coarseness yet of any clownage, Shewn to a lady !—

Re-enter Pol Martin.

What now, is he stirring? Pol. Stirring betimes out of his bed, and ready.

Lady T. And comes he then?

Pol. No, madam, he is gone.
Lady T. Gone! whither? Ask the porter
where's he gone.

Pol. I met the porter, and have asked
him for him;

He says he let him forth an hour ago.

Lady T. An hour ago! what business could he have

So early. Where is his man, grave Baskethilts,

His guide and governor?

Pol. Gone with his master,

Lady T. Is he gone too! O, that same surly knave

Is his right-hand; and leads my son amiss. He has carried him to some drinking match or other.

Pol Martin, I will call you so again, I am friends with you now — go, get your horse and ride

To all the towns about here, where his haunts are,

And cross the fields to meet, and bring me word;

He cannot be gone far, being a-foot.
Be curious to inquire him; and bid Wispe,
My woman, come and wait on me. [Exit
Pol.] The love

We mothers bear our sons we have bought with pain,

Makes us oft view them with too careful eyes,
And overlook them with a jealous fear,
Out-fitting mothers.

Enter Dido Wispe.

Lady T. How now, Wispe! have you A Valentine yet? I am taking the air to choose one.

Wispe. Fate send your ladyship a fit one then.

Lady T. What kind of one is that?
Wispe, A proper man

To please your ladyship.

Lady T. Out of that vanity

That takes the foolish eye! any poor creature,

Whose want may need my alms or courtesy,

I rather wish: so Bishop Valentine
Left us example to do deeds of charity;
To feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit
The weak and sick; to entertain the poor,
And give the dead a Christian funeral :
These were the works of piety he did
practise,

And bade us imitate; not look for lovers,
Or handsome images to please our senses.→
I pray thee, Wispe, deal freely with me now
We are alone, and may be merry a little :

Thou art none of the court glories, nor the wonders

For wit or beauty in the city; tell me, What man would satisfy thy present fancy, Had thy ambition leave to choose a Valentine,

Within the queen's dominion, so a subject? Wispe. You have given me a large scope,

madam, I confess,

And I will deal with your ladyship sincerely; I'll utter my whole heart to you. I would have him

The bravest, richest, and the properest man A tailor could make up; or all the poets, With the perfumers. I would have him such

As not another woman but should spite me; Three city ladies should run mad for him, And country madams infinite.

Lady T. You would spare me, And let me hold my wits?

Wispe. I should with you, For the young squire my master's sake, dispense

A little, but it should be very little.
Then all the court-wives I'd have jealous
of me,

As all their husbands jealous too of them ;1
And not a lawyer's puss of any quality,
But lick her lips for a snatch in the term-
time.

Lady T. Come,

Let's walk; we'll hear the rest as we go on: You are this morning in a good vein, Dido; Would I could be as merry! My son's absence

Troubles me not a little, though I seek These ways to put it off; which will not help :

Care that is entered once into the breast, Will have the whole possession ere it rest. [Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE 1.-The fields near Pancras. Enter, in procession, with ribands, rosemary and bay, Turfe, Clay, Medlay, Clench, To-Pan, Scriben, and Puppy with the bride-cake, as going to church. Turfe. Zon Clay, cheer up, the better leg avore,

1 As all their husbands jealous of them.] I have inserted too, which helps out the measure and makes the sentiment rather clearer than before.-WHAL.