SCENE III. Noife and Tumult within: Enter Porter and his Man. you Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye Rafcals; do take the Court for Paris Garden? ye rude Slaves, 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 Staves, and strong ones; these are but Switches to 'em: I'll fcratch your Heads; you must be seeing Chriftnings? Do you look for Ale and Cakes here, you rude Rascals? Man. Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible, 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 Sampfon, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand, Port. I fhall be with you prefently, good Mr. Puppy. Man. What would you have me do? Port. What fhould you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to Mufter in? Or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great Tool, come to Court, the Women fo befiege us? Blefs me! what a fry of Fornication is at the Door? On my Chriftian-Confcience, this one Chrift ning will beget a thoufand, here will be Father, God-father, and all together, Man. 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 ftand 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 difcharged against me; he stands there like a Mortar-piece to blow us up. There was Haberdasher's Wife of fmall Wit, near him, that rail'd upon me, 'till her pinck'd Porringer fell off her Head, for kindling fuch a combuftion in the State. I mift the Meteor once, and hit that Woman, who cry'd out Clubs, when I might fee from far, fome forty Truncheons draw to her Succour, which were the hope o'th' Strand, where the was quarter'd; they fell on, I made good my Place; at length they came to th' Broom-ftaff to me, I defy'd 'em ftill, when fuddenly a File of Boys behind 'em, loofe fhot, deliver'd fuch a shower of Pibbles, 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 Play-houfe, and fight for bitten Apples, that no Audience but the Tribulation of Tower-Hill, or the Limbs of Lime-House, their dear Brothers, are able to endure. I have fome of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance 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' Suburbs? We shall have Port. And't pleafe your Honour, We are but Men, and what fo many may do, Cham. Cham. As I live, If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all A Marfbalfea fhall hold ye play these two Months. Man. You great Fellow, Stand close up, or I'll make your Head ake. SCENE III. [Exeunt. Enter Trumpets founding; 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 Chriftning Gifts: Then four Noblemen bearing a Canopy, under which the Dutchefs of Norfolk, God-mother, bearing the Child richly habited in a Mantle, &c. Train born by a Lady: Then follows the Marchioness of Dorset, the other God-mother, and Ladies. The Troop pass once about the Stage, and Garter Speaks: Gart. Heaven, From thy endless Goodness fend profperous Life, Flourish. Enter King and Guard. Cran. And to your Royal Grace, and the good Queen, All comfort, joy in this most gracious Lady, May hourly fall upon ye. King. Thank you good Lord Archbishop; Cran. Elizabeth. King. Stand up, Lord; With this Kifs, take my Bleffing: God protect thee, Cran. Amen. King. My noble Goffips, y'have been too Prodigal, Cran. Let me fpeak, Sir, For Heav'n now bids me; and the words I utter, Upon this Land, a thousand thousand Bleffings, In her days every Man fhall eat in fafety, As great in admiration as her felf; So fhall fhe leave her Bleffedness to One, (When Heav'n fhall call her from this cloud of darkness,) Who from the facred Ashes of her Honour Shall Star-like rife, as great in fame as she was, King. Thou fpeakest Wonders. Cran. She thall be to the Happiness of England, To th' Ground, and all the World shall mourn her. Thou haft made me now a Man; never, before To fee what this Child does, and praise my Maker. [Exeunt THE |