TUTCHIM

Then idem with me, I'll bring you to my sister Somerfield. That's true indeed. And what of that. And what of this Sir Oliver, be plain, Summer-fields heir, when should this be, Tut It cannot be, Some ten miles hence I saw the maid last night. Stand close Knight, close, And mark this Captains humour, his name is Puff, A dreams as a walks, and thinks no woman Sees him but is in love with him. Nay good Sir Puff, We have to many mad men already, We will on Sir Ol ver, We will on, let me aloue to touchim, I wonder how my spirit did forbear, To strike him on the face: had this been spoke, Within my Liberties, had died for it. I there, there, that he will never mistrust. Down with the slave. A sirrah, Ex: Face I knew my hands no longer could forbear him, Why did you not strike the Knave, sir Oliver ? But then it was too late. Which I will do. You say very right sir Oliver, very right, I haue't in my noddle i'faith, That's all the fault Old Justices have, when they are at feasts, They will bib hard, they will be fine: Sunburnt Sufficient, foxt, or Columberd now and than, Now could I fit in my charyre at home and nod A drunkard to the stocks, by virtue of, The last statute arely. I am indeed. I do, A light supper quoth you, pray God it be, Pray God I carry it cleanly, I am sure it lies, As heavy in my belly as moult led, Yet lle go see my Sister Sommerfield, I even so late, Night is the mother of wit, as you may see, By Poets or rather Cunstables In their examinations at midnight, Weel lie together without marrying, Save the Curats fees, and the parish a labour, 'Tis a thriving course. Thats true, they fly indeed Like wildgeese, In flocks, one in the breech of another. But the best is a small matter stays them, And so farewell. I say as you say sister, but for the laws, There are so many that men do stand in awe, Of none at all; take heed they steal not you. Who woes a widow with a fair full Moon Shall surely speed, beware of full Moons widow, Will Smalshankes has your daughter no word but mum, My warrant you shall have when time shall come. I my warrant widow. My warrant can stretch far; no more but so, 'Twill serve to catch a knave, or fetch a Do. Then he's a gentleman, for 'tis a true note of a gentleman, to make much of other men's wives, bring him up, a sirrah, makes a much of your Choach men wife, this gear will run a wheels then shortly, A man may make much more of a neither men wife, then a can do of's own. How's this? made her yours sir? per quam regulam, Nay we are lettered sir, as well as you, Red rationem per quam regulam. Sirrah what are you? So am I. Agreed, take each his place, and here the case Argued betwixt them two. Now Throat or never, stretch your self. A man of form Like me but what's your business? You sir Ambo-dexter, A Sumners son, and learnt in Norfolk wiles, Some common bail, or Counter Lawyer, Marry my niece? your half sleeves shall not carry her. Fellows come in there, By this sir you confess you stole my Nee , And I attach you here of felony: Lay hold on him: I'll make my Mittimus, And send him to the Jail; have we no bar Nor clause to hamper you, away with him, Those claws shall claw you to a bar of shame, Where thou shalt show thy Goll, I'll bar your claim, If I be Justice Tutchin. More knavery yet, Lay hands on him, pinion them both, And Guard them hence towards Fleetstreet, come away, On, on I say. Is he gone. Exit Puff. I would a durst a stood to this awhile, Well I shall catch him in a narrow room, Where neither of us can flinch; If I do, I'll make him dance a trenchmoor to my sword, Come I'll along with you to the widow. We will not be outbraved, take my word, Weel not be wronged while I can draw a sword. Exit. A man may make with ease, A Punk, a Child, a Bastard, a Cuckold, of another men wife all at a clap. And that is much I think. Say as I say widow, the wench is gone, But I know whither, stolen she is, well. I know by whom, say as I say widow, I have been drinking hard, why say so too, Old men they can be fine, with small a do, The law is not offended, I had no punk, Nor in and alehouse, have I made me drunk. The statute is not broke, I have the skill, To drink by law, then say as I say still, A hunting Sir Oliver and dryfoot to, Sir Oliver, Will you shame your self, would? You must be short, Why what a word was that to tell a widow? I would that Oak Had been a fire: Forward good sir Oliver, Your Oak is nought: stick not too much to that. Is there never a Trunk or Cubbert for him, Is there never a hold backwards to hide him in. Why say so then, Yet thats almost as ill; go to, speak on. This was somewhat Like: