SCENE VII.
The Palace-Yard.
Noise and tumult within: Enter Porter and his man.
Port.
You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals; do
you take the Court for 3 noteParis-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; 4 note
these are but
switches to 'em. I'll scratch your heads; you must
be seeing christnings? do you look for ale and cakes
here, you rude rascals?
Man.
Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible,
Unless we swept them from the door with cannons,
To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep
On May-day morning; which will never be.
We may as well push against Paul's, as stir 'em.
Port.
How got they in, and be hang'd?
Man.
Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot,
-- 486 --
You see the poor remainder, could distribute,
I made no spare, Sir.
Port.
You did nothing, Sir.
Man.
I am not Sampson, nor 5 noteSir Guy, nor Colebrand,
to mow 'em down before me; but if I spar'd
any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or
she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to
see a chine again; and that I would not for a cow,
God save her.
Within.
Do you hear, Mr. Porter?
Port.
I shall be with you presently, good Mr. Puppy.
—Keep the door close, sirrah.
Man.
What would you have me do?
Port.
What should you do, but knock 'em down
by the dozens? Is this 6 noteMorfields to muster in? or
have we some strange Indian with the great tool come
to Court, the women so besiege us? Bless me! what
a fry of fornication is at the door? on my christian
conscience, this one christning will beget a thousand;
here will be father, god father, and all together.
Man.
The spoons will be the bigger, Sir. There
is a fellow somewhat near the door, he * noteshould be a
brasier by 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 up.
There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him,
that rail'd upon me 'till her pink'd porringer fell off
her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state.
-- 487 --
I mist the * notemeteor once, and hit that woman, who
cry'd out, Clubs! when I might see from far some
forty truncheoneers draw to her succour; which were
7 notethe hope of the strand, where she was quarter'd.
They fell on; I made good my place; at length they
came to th' broomstaff with me, I defy'd 'em still;
when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em deliver'd such
a shower of pebbles, loose shot, that I was fain to
draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the Work; the
devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely.
Port.
These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,
and fight for bitten apples; that no audience
but 8 notethe 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 † noterunning
banquet of two beadles, that is to come.
Enter Lord Chamberlain.
Cham.
Mercy o' me! what a multitude are here?
They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,
As if we kept a fair. Where are these porters;
These lazy knaves?—Ye've made a fine hand, fellows.
There's a trim rabble let in; are all these,
Your faithful friends o'th' suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt left for the ladies,
When they pass back from th' christning?
Port.
Please your honour,
We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn in pieces, we have done.
An army cannot rule 'em.
Cham.
As I live,
If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
-- 488 --
By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
Clap round fines for neglect. Y'are lazy knaves;
And 9 notehere ye lie baiting of bumbards, when
Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound;
Th'are come already from the christning.
Go break among the press, and find a way out
To let the troop pass fairly; or I'll find
A Marshalsea, shall hold you play these two months.
Port.
Make way for the Princess.
Man.
You great fellow, stand close up, or I'll make
your head ake.
Port.
You i'th' camblet, get up o' th' rail; I'll pick
you o'er the pales else.
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
