URSULA

Fie vpon't: who would wear out their youth, and prime thus, in roasting of pigs, that had any cooler vocation? Hell's a kind of cold cellar to to, a very fine vault, o'my conscience! what Mooncalf. My chair, you false faucet you; and my morning's draught, quickly, a botle of Ale, to quench me, Rascal. I am all sire, and fat, Nightingale, I shall even melt away to the first woman, a rib again, I am afraid. I do water the ground in knots, as I go, Like a great Garden-pot, you may follow me by the S.S. S. I make. Zekiel? what Zekiel? He promised to be here this morning, I remember. Best take your morning's Due in your belly, Nightingale, come, Mooncalf brings in the Chair. Sir, set it here, did not I bid you should get this chair let out o'the sides, for me, that my hips might play? you'll never think of any thing, till your dame be rumpgall'd; it's well, Changeling: because it can take in your Grasshoppers thighs, you care for no more. Now, you look as you had been in the cor ner o'the Booth, flaying your breech, with a candles end, and set fire o'the Fair. Fill, Stote : fill. Fill again, you unlucky vermin. No, no, I shall even dwindle away to't, ere the Fair be done, you think, now you have heated me? A poor vexed thing I am, I feel my self dropping already, as fast as I can: two stone a sewet aday is my proportion: I can but hold life & soul together, with this (here's to you, Nightingale ) and a whiff of tobacco, at most. Where's my pipe now? not filled? thou errant Incubee. How can I hope, that ever hee'll discharge his place of trust, Tapster, a man of reckoning under me, that remembers no thing I say to him? but look too't, sirrah, you were best, three pence a pipe full, I will have made, of all my whole half pound of tobacco, and a quarter of a pound of Coltsfoot, mixed with it too, to itch it out. I that have dealt so long in the fire, will not be to seek in smoke, now. Then 6. and 20. shillings a barrel I will advance o'my Beer; and fifty shillings a hundred o'my bottle-ale, I ha'told you the ways how to raise it. Froth your cans well i'the filling, at length Rogue, and jog your bottles of the buttock, Sirrah, then skinke out the first glass, ever, and drink with all companies, though you be sure to be drunk; you'll misreckon the better, and be less ashamed on't. But your true trick, Rascal, must be, to be ever busy, and mistake away the bottles and cans, in hast, be before they be half drunk off, and never hear any body call, (if they should chance to mark you) till you have brought fresh, and be able to forswear them. Give me a drink of Ale. Look, who's there, Sirrah? One knocks. five shillings a Pig is my price, at least; if it be a sow-pig, six pence more if she be a great bellied wife, and long for't, six pence more for that. What new Roarer is this? Why dost thou not fetch him drink? and offer him to fit? Bring him a six penny bottle of Ale; they say, a fools handsel is lucky. Yes, and to amble afoot, when the Fair is done, to hear you groan out of a cart, up the heavy hill. For cutting halfpenny purses: or stealing little penny dogs, out o'the Fair. You are one of those horsleaches, that gave out I was dead, in Turn-bull street, of a surfeit of botle ale, and tripes? Well, I shall be meet with your mumbling mouth one day. Hang your self, Hacney-man. Vapours? Never tusk, nor twirl your dibble, good Jordan, I know what you'll take to a very drop. Though you be Captain o'the Roarers, and fight well at the case of pis-pots, you shall not fright me with your Lyon-chap, Sir, nor your tusks, you angry? you are hungry: come, a pigs head will stop your mouth, and stay your stomach, at all times. I, near the fullest passages; and shift'hem often. Enough, talk no more on't: your friendship (Master's) is not now to begin. Drink your draught of Indenture, your sup of Covenant, and away, the Fair fills apace, company begins to come in, and I have never a Pig ready, yet. Come, you are i'your bawdy vain! the best the Fair will afford, Zekiel, if Bawd Whit keep his word; how do the Pigs, Mooncalf ? What Moonecalfe? you Rogue. She calls within. I'll partly you, and your playfellow there, i'the guarded coat, and you sunder not the sooner. Why, you thin lean Polecat you, and they have a mind to be i'their vapours, must you hinder'hem? what did you know Vermin, if they would have lost a cloak, or such a trifle? She comes out with a firebrand. must you be drawing the air of pacification here? while I am tormented, within, i'the fire, you Weasel? I, I, Gamesters, mock a plain plump soft wench of the Suburbs, do, because she's juicy and wholesome: you must have your thin pinched beware, penned up i'the compass of a dogge-collar, (or it'll not do) that looks Like a long laced Conger, set up right, and a green feather, Like fennell i'the Joll on't. Hang them, rotten, roguy Cheaters, I hope to see them plagued one day (poxed they are already, I am sure) with lean play house poultry, that has the boany rumpe, sticking out Like the Ace of Spades, or the point of a Partizan, that every rib of'hem is Like the tooth of a Saw: and will so grate them with their hips, & shoul dears, as (take them altogether) they were as good lie with a hurdle. Marry look off, with a patch o'your face; and a dosen i'your breech, though they be o'scarlet, Sir. I have seen as fine out sides, as either o'yours, bring lousy linings to the Brokers, ere now, twice a week? For your mother, you Rascal, out you Rogue, you hedge bird, you Pimp, you pannier-mans bastard, you. Do you sneer, you dogshead, you Trendle tail ! you look as you were begotten a'top of a Cart in harvesttime, when the whelp was hight and eager. Go, snuff after your brother's bitch, M rs Commodity, that's the Livery you wear, it'll be out at the el bows, shortly. It's time you went to't, for the to'ther remnant. I'll see them poxed first, and piled, and double piled. Dost so, snotty nose? good Lord! are you sniveling? you were engendered on a she-begger, in a bairn, when the bald Thrasher, your Sire, was scarce warm. Do's she so? I'll set you gone. give me my Pig-pan him there a little. I'll scald you hence, and you will not go. O. Curse of hell, that ever I saw these Fiend, o! I have scal dead my leg, my leg, my leg, my leg. I have lost a limb in the service! run for some cream and salad oil, quickly. Are you vnder-pee ring, you Baboun? rip off my hose, and you be men, men, men. O! the pox, why do you put me in mind o'my leg, thus, to make it prick, and shoot? would you have me i'the Hospi tall, afore my time? Is this the good service, Jordan, you'd do me? Hang your vapours, they are stale, and stink Like you, are these the guests o'the game, you promised to fill my pit with all, to day? Ail they? they are all sippers, sippers o'the City, they look as they would not drink off two penn'orth of bottle-ale a amongst them. Are you sure they are such? How now Rascal? what roar you for? old Pimp. 'Slid call your Captain Jordan to her, can you not? I bring her, hang her: heart must I find a common pot for every punque i'your purlews? Let her fell her hood, and buy a sponge, with a pox to her, my vessel, employed Sir. I have but one, and it's the bottom of and old bottle. And honest Proctor, and his wife, are at it, with in, if shee'll stay her time, so. Come, will you bring her in now? and let her talk her turn? What's her husband gone? And you be right Bartholmew -birds, now show your selves so: we are undone for want of fowl i'the Fair, here. Here will be Zekiell Edgworth, and three or four gallants, with him at night, and I have neither Plover nor Quail for them: persuade this be tween you two, to become a Bird o'the game, while I work the velvet woman, within, (as you call her.) Help, help here. Oh, you are a sweet Ranger ! and look well to your walks. Yonder is your Punque of Turnbull, Ramping Ales, has fallen v Pon the poor Gentlewoman within, and pulled her hood over her ears, Alice en ers, beating he Justice's wife. and her hair through it. Peace you foul ramping Jade, you— Thou tripe of Turnebull. You know where you were tawed lately, both lashed, and slashed you were in Bridewell. Oh stay him, stay him, help to cry, Nightingale ; my pan, Enter Trou ble-all. my pan. And please your worship, I am in no fault: A Gentleman stripped him in my Booth, and borrowed his gown, and his hat; and he ran away with my goods, here, for it. Why? would my Booth have broke, if they had fal'ne out in't? Sir? or would their heat have fit'd it? in, you Rogue, and wipe the pigs, and mend the fire, that they fallen not, or I'll both baste and roast you, till your eyes drop out, Like them. (Leave the bottle behind you, and be cursed a while.)