Turfe, Clay, Medlay, Clench, To-Pan, Scriben, Puppy.
Tur.
Zon Clay, cheer up, the better leg avore:
This is a veat is once done, and no more.
Cle.
And then 'tis done vor ever, as they say.
Med.
Right! vor a Man ha' his hour, and a Dog his
day.
Tur.
True, Neighbour Medlay, yo' are still In-and-In.
Med.
I would be Mr. Constable, if ch' could win.
Pan.
I zay, John Clay, keep still on his old gate:
Wedding and hanging both go at a rate.
Tur.
Well said, To-Pan: you ha' still the hap to hit
The Nail o' the head at a close: I think there never
Marriage was manag'd with a more avisement,
Than was this Marriage, though I say't, that should not;
Especially 'gain' mine own Flesh and Blood,
My wedded Wife. Indeed my Wife would ha' had
All the young Batchelors and Maids, forsooth,
O' the zix Parishes hereabout: But I
Cry'd none, sweet Sybil: none of that gear, I:
It would lick zalt, I told her, by her leave.
No, three or vour our wise, choice honest neighbours:
Upstantial persons: Men that ha' born Office:
And mine own Family would be enough
To eat our Dinner. What? Dear Meat's a Thief:
I know it by the Butchers, and the Market-volk;
Hum drum I cry. No half-Ox in a Pye:
A man that's bid to Bride-Ale, if he ha' Cake,
And Drink enough, he need not vear his stake.
Cle.
'Tis right: he has spoke as true as a Gun: be-
lieve it.
Tur.
Come, Sybil, come: Did not I tell you o' this?
This Pride, and muster of women would mar all?
Six women to one Daughter and a Mother!
The Queen (God save her) ha' no more her self.
D. Tur.
Why, if you keep so many, Mr. Turfe,
Why should not all present our Service to her?
Tur.
Tur.
Your Service? Good! I think you'll write to
her shortly,
Your very loving and obedient Mother.
Tur.
Come, send your Maids off, I will have 'em sent
Home again, Wife: I love no Trains o' Kent,
Or Christendom, as they say.
Sc.
We will not back,
And leave our Dame.
Med.
Why should her Worship lack
Her Tale of Maids, more than you do of Men?
Tur.
VVhat, mutining, Madge?
Jo. Zend back your
C'lons agen.
And we will vollow.
All.
Else we'll guard our Dame.
Tur.
I ha' zet the Nest of VVasps all on a flame.
D. Tur.
Come, you are such another, Mr. Turfe:
A Clod you should be call'd, of a High Constable:
To let no Musick go afore your Child
To Church, to chear her Heart up this cold Morning.
Tur.
You are for Father Rosin, and his Consort
Of fidling Boys, the great Feates, and the less:
Because you have entertain'd 'em all from Highgate.
To shew your Pomp, you'ld ha' your Daughter and Maids
Dance o'er the Fields like Fairies, to Church, this Frost?
I'll ha' no Rondels, I, i' the Queens Paths;
Let 'un scrape the Gut at home, where they ha' fill'd it
At After-noon.
D. Turfe.
I'll ha' 'em play at Dinner.
Ite.
She is i' th' right, Sir; vor your Wedding-Dinner
Is starv'd without the Musick.
Med. If the Pies
Come not in piping hot, you ha' lost that Proverb.
Tur.
I yield to truth: Wife, are you sussified?
Pan.
A right good Man! when he knows right, he
loves it.
Scri.
And he will know't, and shew't too by his place
Of being High Constable, if no where else.