What should you do, but knock 'em down by the
dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have
some strange Indian with the great tool come to
court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a
of fornication is at door! On my Christian
conscience, this one christening will beget a
thousand; here will
be father, godfather, and all together.
The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a
fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a
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 pinked
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 succor, which were the hope o' the
she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my
place: at length they came to the broom-
me; I defied 'em still: when suddenly a file of
boys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower
pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in,
and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst
These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,
and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but
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.
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:
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.
We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn a-pieces, we have
An army cannot rule 'em.
As I live,
If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;
And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when
Ye should do service.
Hark! the trumpets sound;
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 ye play these two months.
Make way there for the princess.
You great fellow,
Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache.
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