What, in a passion, Turfe?
Tur. I, good Squire Tub.
Were never honest Varmers thus perplext?
Tub. Turfe, I am privy to thy deep unrest:
The Ground of which springs from an idle plot,
Cast by a Suitor, to your daughter Awdrey ——
And thus much, Turfe, let me advertise you;
Your daughter Awdrey, met I on the way,
With Justice Bramble in her company:
Who means to marry her at Pancridge-Church.
And there is Canon Hugh, to meet them ready:
Which to prevent, you must not trust delay;
But winged speed must cross their sly intent:
Then hie thee, Turfe, haste to forbid the Banes.
Tur. Hath Justice Bramble got my daughter Awdrey?
A little while shall he enjoy her, zure.
But O, the Hue and Cry! that hinders me:
I must pursue that, or neglect my Journey:
I'll e'en leave all, and with the patient Ass,
The over-laden Ass, throw off my burden,
And cast mine Office; pluck in my large Ears
Betimes, lest some dis-judge 'em to be Horns:
I'll leave to beat it on the broken hoof,
And ease my pasterns. I'll no more High Constables.
Tub. I cannot chuse but smile, to see thee troubled
With such a bald, half-hatched circ*mstance!
The Captain was not robb'd, as is reported;
That Trick the Justice craftily deviz'd,
To break the marriage with the Tile-man, Clay.
The Hue and Cry was meerly counterfeit:
The rather may you judge it to be such,
Because the Bridegroom was describ'd to be
One of the Thieves, first in the Velony.
Which, how far 'tis from him, your selves may guess:
'Twas Justice Bramble's vetch, to get the wench.
And is this true, Squire Tub?
Believe me, Turfe,
As I am a Squire: or less, a Gentleman.
I take my Office back, and my Authority,
Upon your Worship's words. Neighbours, I am
High Constable again: where's my zon Clay?
He shall be zon yet, wife, your meat by leisure:
Draw back the Spits.
That's done already, Man.
I'll break this Marriage off: and afterward,
She shall be given to her first betroth'd.
Look to the meat, wife: look well to the roast.
I'll follow him aloof, to see the event.
Dame, Mistriss, though I do not turn the Spit,
I hope yet the Pig's Head.
Come up, Jack-sauce:
It shall be serv'd in to you.
No, no Service;
But a Reward for Service.
I still took you
For an unmannerly Puppy: Will you come,
And vetch more Wood to the Vier, Mr. Ball?
I Wood to the Vier: I shall p*ss it out first:
You think to make me e'en your Ox or Ass,
Or any thing. Though I cannot right my self
On you, I'll sure revenge me on your meat.