Por.
You'll leave your ^note noise14Q0950
Anon, ye rascals: Do you take the court
For Paris-garden ^note? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

within.
Good Mr. porter, I belong to the larder.

Por.
Belong to the gallows, and be hang'd, you rogue:
Is this a place to roar in? ^note—
Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones;
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 sweep 'em 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 ^note push against Paul's, as stir 'em.

Por.
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.

Por.
You did nothing, sir.

Man.
I am not Sampson, nor sir 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 she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again;
And that I would not for a cow, God save her.

within.
Do you hear, Mr. porter?

Por.
I shall be with you presently,
Good Mr. puppy.—Keep the door close, sirrah.

Man.
What would you have me do?

Por.
What should you do,
But knock 'em down by the dozens?—Is this Morefields,
To muster in? or have we some strange Indian,
Wi'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 christning will
Beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather,
And all together.

Man.
The spoons will be the bigger, sir.
There is a fellow somewhat near the door,
He should be a brazier by his face,
For, o'my conscience, twenty of the dog-days
Now reign in his 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 discharg'd against me;
He stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us.
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 combustion ^note in the state:
I miss'd the 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 the hope o'the Strand where she was quarter'd:
They fell on, I made good my place; at length
They came to the broom-staff wi'me ^note, 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 win the work:
The devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely.

Por.
These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,
And fight for bitten apples; that no audience,
But the sweet tribulation of Tower-hill,
Or the limbs of Lime-house, 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. Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cha.
Mercy o'me, what a ^note 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'the suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from the christning.

Por.
An't please your honour,
We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn a pieces, we have done:
An army cannot rule 'em.

Cha.
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: Y'are lazy knaves;
And here ye lye baiting of bombards, when
Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound;
They're come already from the christening:
Go, break among the prease, and find a way ^note out
To let the troop pass fairly; or I'll find
A Marshalsea, shall hold you play these two months. [Exit Chamberlain.

Por.
Make way there for the princess.

Man.
You great fellow,
Stand close up, or I'll make your head ake.

Por.
You i'the chamblet,
Get up o'the rail, I'll peck you o'er the pales else. [Exeunt, forcing back the Croud.

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