SCENE III.
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 7 note
Paris-garden? ye rude slaves,
leave your gaping.
-- 314 --
Within.
Good master porter, I belong to the larder.
Port.
Belong to the gallows, and be hang'd, you
rogue. Is this a place to roar in?—Fetch me a dozen
crab-tree staves, and strong ones; 8 note
these are but
switches to 'em.—I'll scratch your heads: You must
be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes
here, you rude rascals?
Man.
Pray, sir, be patient9 note; 'tis as much impossible
(Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons)
To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep
On May-day morning1 note; which will never be:
We may as well push against Paul's, at 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
(You see the poor remainder) could distribute,
I made no spare, sir.
Port.
You did nothing, sir.
Man.
I am not Sampson, nor 2 notesir Guy, nor Colbrand,
to mow 'em down before me: but, if I spar'd
any, that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or
-- 315 --
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, master Porter?
Port.
I shall be with you presently, good master
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 3 noteMorefields to muster in? or
have we some strange Indian4 note
with the great tool come
to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what
a fry of fornication is at door! O' my christian conscience,
this one christening 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, he5 note should 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
-- 316 --
head, and three times was his nose discharg'd against
me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us.
There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit 9Q0897 near him,
that rail'd upon me 'till her pink'd porringer fell off
her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state.
I miss'd the6 note
meteor 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 the broomstaff with me, I defy'd 'em still;
when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot,
deliver'd such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain
to draw mine honour in, and let 'em with the work:
The devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely.
Port.
These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,
and fight for bitten apples8 note
; that no audience,
-- 317 --
but 9 note
the Tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of
Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. 9Q0898
-- 318 --
I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they
are like to dance these three days; besides the 1 noterunning
banquet of two beadles, that is to come.
Enter the 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 have made a fine hand, fellows.
There's a 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.
Port.
Please your honour,
We are but men; and what so many may do,
-- 319 --
Not being torn a 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
By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
Clap round fines, for neglect: You are lazy knaves;
And 5 note
here ye lie baiting of bumbards, when
Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound;
They are 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 you play these two months.
Port.
Make way there for the princess.
Man.
You great fellow, stand close up, or I'll
make your head ake.
Port.
You i'the camblet, get up o'the rail; I'll
peck you o'er the pales else. 9Q0899
[Exeunt.
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
