Turfe, Awdrey, Clench, Medlay, Pan, Scriben.
Tur.
Well, I have carried it, and will triumph
Over this Justice, as becomes a Constable;
And a High Constable: next our Saint George,
Who rescued the King's Daughter, I will ride;
Above Prince Arthur.
Cle.
Or our Shore-ditch Duke.
Med.
Or Pancridge Earl.
Pan.
Or Bevis, or Sir Guy,
Who were High Constables both.
Cle.
One of Southampton ——
Med.
The t'other of VVarwick-Castle.
Tur.
You shall work it
Into a Story for me, neighbour Medlay,
Over my Chimney.
Scri.
I can give you, Sir,
A Roman Story of a Petty-Constable,
That had a Daughter, that was call'd Virginia,
Like Mrs. Awdrey, and as young as she;
And how her Father bare him in the business,
'Gainst Justice Appius, a Decemvir in Rome,
And Justice of Assize.
Tur.
That, that good D'ogenes!
A Learned Man is a Chronicle!
Scri.
I can tell you
A thousand, of great Pompey, Cæsar, Trajan,
All the High Constables there.
Tur.
That was their place:
They were no more.
Scr.
Dictator, and High Constable,
Were both the same.
Med.
High Constable was more, though!
He laid di*k Tator by the heels.
Pan.
di*k Toter!
H' was one o' the Waights o' the City: I ha' read o' 'un:
He was a fellow would be drunk, debauch'd ———
And he did zet 'un i' the Stocks indeed:
His name Vadian, and a cunning Toter.
Awd.
Was ever silly Maid thus posted off?
That should have had three Husbands in one day;
Yet (by bad Fortune) am possest of none?
I went to Church to have been wed to Clay;
Then Squire Tub he seiz'd me on the way,
And thought to ha' had me; but he mist his aim:
And Justice Bramble (nearest of the three)
Was well nigh married to me; when by chance,
In rush'd my Father, and broke off that dance.
Tur.
I, Girl, there's ne'er a Justice on 'em all,
Shall teach the Constable to guard his own:
Let's back to Kentish-town, and there make merry;
These news will be glad tidings to my Wife:
Thou shalt have Clay, my wench. That word shall stand.
He's found by this time, sure, or else he's drown'd:
The Wedding-dinner will be spoil'd: make haste.
Awd.
Husbands, they say, grow thick; but thin are
sown.
I care not who it be, so I have one.
Tur.
I? zay you zo? Perhaps you shall ha' none, for
that.
Awd.
Now out on me! what shall I do then?
Med.
Sleep, Mistris Awdrey, dream on proper Men.