Sancti Evangelistζ! Here comes Miles!|
Pre. What news, man, with our new-made Purs'yvant?
Met. A Pursuyvant? would I were, or more pursie,
And had more store of money; or less pursie,
And had more store of breath: you call me Purs'yvant!
But I could never vaunt of any Purse
I had, sin' yo' were my God-fathers and God-mothers,
And ga' me that nick-name.
Pre. What now's the matter?
Met. Nay, 'tis no matter. I ha' been simply beaten.
Hug. What is become o' the Squire, and thy Prisoner?
Met. The lines of Blood, run streaming from my Head,
Can speak what Rule the Squire hath kept with me.
Pre. I pray thee, Miles, relate the manner, how?
Met. Be't known unto you, by these Presents, then,
That I, Miles Metaphor, your Worship's Clerk,
Have e'en been beaten, to an Allegory,
By multitude of hands. Had they been but
Some five or six, I had whip'd 'em all, like Tops
In Lent, and hurl'd 'em into Hoblers-hole;
Or the next Ditch: I had crack'd all their Costards,
As nimbly as a Squirrel will crack Nuts:
And flourished like to Hercules, the Porter,
Among the Pages. But, when they came on
Like Bees about a Hive, Crows about Carrion,
Flies about Sweet-meats; nay, like Water-men
About a Fare: then was poor Metaphor,
Glad to give up the Honour of the Day,
To quit his charge to them, and run away
To save his life, only to tell this news.
Hug. How indirectly all things have fall'n out!
I cannot chuse but wonder what they were,
Rescued your Rival from the keep of Miles:
But most of all I cannot well digest,
The manner how our purpose came to Turfe.
Pre. Miles, I will see that all thy Hurts be drest.
As for the Squires Escape, it matters not:
We have by this means disappointed him;
And that was all the main I aimed at.
But Chanon Hugh, now muster up thy Wits,
And call thy thoughts into the Consistory.
Search all the secret corners of thy Cap,
To find another queint devised drift,
To disappoint her Marriage with this Clay:
Do that, and I'll reward thee jovially.
Hug. Well said, Magister Justice. If I fit you not
With such a new, and well-laid Stratagem,
As never yet your Ears did hear a finer.
Call me, with Lily, Bos, Fur, Sus atq; Sacerdos.
Pre. I hear, there's comfort in thy words yet, Chanon.
I'll trust thy Regulars, and say no more.
Met. I'll follow too. And if the dapper Priest
Be but as cunning, point in his device,
As I was in my lye: My Master Preamble
Will stalk, as led by the Nose with these new Promises,
And fatted with Supposes of fine Hopes.
Act III. Scene VIII.
Turfe, D. Turfe, Lady Tub, Pol-Martin, Awdrey, Puppy.
Ell, Madam, I may thank the Squire your Son:
For, but for him, I had been over-reacht.
D. Tur. Now Heavens Blessing light upon his Heart:
We are beholden to him, indeed, Madam.
Lad. But can you not resolve me where he is?
Nor about what his Purposes were bent?
Tur. Madam, they no whit were concerning me:
And therefore was I less inquisitive.
Lad. Fair Maid, in faith, speak truth, and not dissemble:
Do's he not often come, and visit you?
Awd. His Worship, now and then, please you, takes
To see my Father and Mother: But, for me,
I know my self too mean for his high thoughts
To stoop at, more than asking a light question,
To make him merry, or to pass his time.
Lad. A Sober Maid! call for my Woman, Martin.
Pol. The Maids, and her half-Valentine, have ply'd her
With courtsie of the Bride-Cake, and the Bowle,
As she is laid a while. Lad. O, let her rest!
We will cross o'er to Canterbury, in the interim;
And so make home. Farewel, good Turf, and thy Wife.
I wish your Daughter Joy.
Tur. Thanks to your Ladiship:
Where is John Clay now? have you seen him yet?
D. Tur. No, he has hid himself out of the way,
For fear o' the Hue and Cry.
Tur. What, walks that Shadow
Avore 'un still? Puppy, go seek 'un out,
Search all the corners that he haunts unto,
And call 'un forth. We'll once more to the Church,
And try our vortunes. Luck, Son Valentine:
Where are the Wise Men all of Finsbury?
Pup. Where WiseMen should be; at the Ale, and Bride-
I would this Couple had their Destiny,
Or to be hang'd, or married out o' the way:
[Enter the Neighbours to Turfe.
Man cannot get the mount'nance of an Egg-shell,
To stay his Stomach. Vaith, vor mine own part,
I have zup'd up so much Broth, as would have cover'd
A Leg o' Beef, o'er Head and Ears, i' the Porridge-Pot:
And yet I cannot sussifie wild Nature.
Would they were once dispatch'd, we might to dinner.
I am with Child of a huge Stomach, and long,
Till by some honest Midwife-piece of Beef,
I be deliver'd of it: I must go now,
And hunt out for this Kilbourn Calf, John Clay:
Whom where to find, I know not, nor which way.
Act III. Scene IX.
Chanon Hugh, like Captain Thumbs.
Hus as a Beggar in a King's disguise,
Or an old Cross, well sided with a May-pole,
Comes Chanon Hugh, accoutred, as you see,
Disguis'd, Soldado like: Mark his Device:
The Chanon, is that Captain Thum's, was robb'd:
These bloody Scars upon my Face, are Wounds:
This Scarff upon mine Arm, shews my late Hurts:
And thus am I to gull the Constable.
Now have among you, for a Man at Arms:
Friends, by your leave; which of you is one Turfe?
Tur. Sir, I am Turfe, if you would speak with me.
Hug. With thee, Turfe, if thou beest High Constable.
Tur. I am both Turfe, Sir, and High Constable.
Hug. Then, Turfe, or Scurfe, High, or Low Constable:
Know, I was once a Captain at Saint Quintins,
And passing cross the ways over the Countrey,
This Morning, betwixt this and Hamsted-heath,
Was by a Crew of Clowns robb'd, bobb'd, and hurt.
No sooner had I got my Wounds bound up,
But with much pain, I went to the next Justice,
One Mr. Bramble, here, at Maribone:
And here a Warrant is, which he hath directed
For you, one Turfe; if your Name be Toby Turfe;
Who have let fall (they say) the Hue and Cry:
And you shall answer it afore the Justice.
Tur. Heaven and Hell, Dogs, Devils, what is this?
Neighbours, was ever Constable thus cross'd?
What shall we do?
Med. Faith, all go hang our selves:
I know no other way to scape the Law.
Pup. News, news, O news
Tur. What, hast thou found out Clay?
Pup. No, Sir, the news is, that I cannot find him.