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To have this young one made a christian.
Noife and tumult within: Enter Porter and his man. Port. Ou'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals; do you take the Court for Paris Garden? ye rude flaves, leave your gaping.
Within. Good Mr. Porter, I belong to th' larder. Port. Belong to the gallows and be hang'd, ye rogue: is this a place to roar in fetch me a dozen crab-tree ftaves, and ftrong ones; 4 these are but fwitches. To 'em. I'll fcratch your heads; you must be feeing chriftnings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rafcals?
Man. Pray Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible (Unless we swept them from the door with cannons) To fcatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em fleep On May-day morning; which will never be : We may as well push against Paul's, as ftir 'em. Port. How got they in, and be hang'd? Man. Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in? As much as one found cudgel of four foot (You see the poor remainder) could diftribute, I made no fpare, Sir.
Port. You did nothing, Sir.
Man. I am not Sampson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand, to mow 'em down before me; but if I fpar'd any that had a head to hit, either young or old, he or fhe, cuckold or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to fee a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God fave her.
4 Thefe are but switches to 'em.] To what, or whom? We should point it thus,..
Thefe are but faitubes.—To 'em.
i.e. bave at you, as we now fay. He fays this as he turns upon the mob...
Within. Do you hear, Mr. Porter?
Keep the door clofe, firrah.
Man. What would you have me do?
Port. What fhould you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? is this Morefields to mufter in? or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great tool come to Court, the women fo befiege us? blefs me! what a fry of fornication is at the door? on my christian confcience, this one chriftning will beget a thousand; here will be father, god-father, and all together.
Man. The fpoons will be the bigger, Sir. There is a fellow fomewhat near the door, he should be a brafier by his face; for, o' my confcience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nofe; all that ftand 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 nofe difcharged againft me; he ftands there like a mortar-piece to
blow us up. There was a haberdasher's wife of
fmall wit near him, that rail'd upon me 'till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling fuch a combuftion in the state. I mift the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cry'd out, Clubs! when I might fee from far fome forty truncheoneers, draw to her fuccour ; 5 which were the hope of the ftrand, where fhe was quarter'd. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to th' broomftaff with me, I defy'd 'em ftill; when fuddenly a file of boys behind 'em deliver'd fuch a fhower of pibbles, loose shot, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the work; the devil was a mongst 'em, I think, furely.
5 Which were the hope of the ftrand,] i. e. fuch as, by another metaphor, he might have called the flower. But the Oxford Editor, in an ill humour, degrades them to the forlorn hope; and this is called emending.
Port. These are the youths that thunder at a playhoufe; and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the Tribulation of Tower-Hill, or the limbs of Limehoufe, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have fome of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; befides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come.
Enter Lord Chamberlain.
Cham. Mercy o' me! what a multitude are here? They grow ftill too; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair. Where are thefe 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'th' fuburbs? we shall have
Port. Please your Honour,
We are but men; and what fo many may do,
Cham. As I live,
If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all'
Man. You great fellow, ftand close up, or I'll make your head ake.
Port. You i'th' camblet, get up o'th' rail, I'll peck you o'er the pales else.
Changes to the Palace.
Enter Trumpets founding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his Marshal's Ataff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great ftanding bowls for the chrifining gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Dutchess of Norfolk, god-mother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, &c. Train born by a lady: then follows the Marchioness of Dorset, the other god-mother, and ladies. The Troop pass once about the ftage, and Garter speaks.
And ever happy, to the high and mighty.
Gart. Heav'n, from thy endless goodness fend long life,
Flourish. Enter King and Guard.
Cran. And to your royal Grace, and the good
My noble partners and my self thus pray;
King. Thank you, good lord Archbishop:
With this kifs take my bleffing: God protect thee,
King. My noble goffips, y'have been too prodigal,. I thank you heartily: fo fhall this lady, When he has fo much English.
Cran. Let me fpeak, Sir;
(For Heav'n now bids me) and the words I utter, Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth..
This royal Infant, (heaven ftill move about her}
Shall ftill be doubled on her. Truth fhall nurse her:
"She fhall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her;
"Her foes shake, like a field of beaten corn, "And hang their heads with forrow. Good grows with her.
"In her days, ev'ry man fhall eat in safety,
"As great in admiration as her self ;
(When heav'n fhall call her from this cloud of darknefs)
"Who from the facred afhes of her honour
"Shall far-like rife, as great in fame as fhe was,
"And fo ftand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Love, Truth, Terrour,
"That were the fervants to this chofen infant,
66 Shall be, and make new nations. He fhall flourish, And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches