BOTS

We want tools, Gentlemen, to furnish the trade: they wear out day and night, they wear out till no mettle be left in their back; we hear of two or three new Wenches are come up with a Carrier, and your old Goshawk here is flying at them. We have meats of all sorts of dressing; we have stewed meat for your Frenchmen, pretty light picking meat for your Italian, and that which is rotten roasted, for Done Spaniardo. We have Poulterers beware for your sweet bloods, as Dove, Chickin, Duck, Teale, Woodcock, and so forth: and Butchers meat for the Citizen: yet Muttons fallen very bade this year. Pox a your old face, give it the badge of all scurvy faces, a Masque. Some Cambricke for my old Lady. A word, I pray, there is a waiting Gentlewomon of my Ladies: her name is Ruyna, says she's your Kinswoman, and that you should be one of her Ants. If it please you to bestow the poor labour of your legs at any time, I will be your convoy thither? Do you hear? the naked troth is: my Lady hath a young Knight, her son, who loves you, you're made, if you lay hold vpont: this Jewel he sends you. Do? they shall all do if Bots sets upon them once, she was as if she had professed the trade, squeamish at first, at last I showed her this Jewel, said, a Kuight sent it her. Copper, Copper, I go a fishing with these baits. Dam me if— The twenty crowns, sir. Who the pox should come along with you but Bots? Here's a hight day towards: but zounds, this is the life out of which a Soldier sucks sweetness, when this Ar tillery goes off roundly, some must drop to the ground: Can non, Demy-cannon, Saker, and Basalisk. So, so: Must I venture first upon the breach? to you all, Gallants: Bots sets upon you all. There's no casting over board yet. Graybeard, Goats pizzle: it's a health, have this in your guts, or this, there: I will sing a bawdy song, sir, be cause your vergis face is melancholy, to make liquour go down glib: will you fallen on your maribones, and pledge this health, it's to my Mistress, a whore? Cap, I'll teach you. Zounds, who dare? This will make you cast em up better. Pipe with a pox, sir, then, or I'll make your blood dance— Is't Shrovetuesday, that these Ghosts walk. I, sir? sometime a figure, sometime a cipher, as the State has occasion to cast up her accounts: I'm a Soldier. Bots is my name, Bots is known to this Company. A Gentlewoman, my Mother. Me? Sirrr. Gentlemen, Gentlemen, whither will you drag us? You will answer this. I am what I seem, Sir, one of Fortune's Bastards, a Soldier, and a Gentleman, and am brought in here with Master Constables band of Billmen, because they face me down that I live (Like those that keep Bowling-alleys) by the sins of the people, in being a Squire of the body. Yes, sir, that degree of scurvy Squires, and that I am maintained by the best partly that is commonly in a woman, by the worst players of those parts, but I am known to all this company. In most of your hottest Services in the Low-con tries: at the Groin I was wounded in this thigh, and halted vpon't, but it's now found. In Cleueland I missed but little, having the bridge of my nose broken down with two great stones, as I was scaling a Fort: I would been tried, Sir, too, in Gelderland, and scaped hardly there from being blown up at a Breach: I was fired, and lay i'th Surgeons hands for't, till the fallen of the leaf following. No Soldier, sir? I hope these are Services that your proudest Commanders do venture upon, and never come off sometime. I wish to be tried at no other weapon. No, your bravest whores have the worst noses. Your Grace sees I'm found yet, & no Bullets hit me. A very honest woman, as I'm a Soldier, a pox Bots you. Is there any Gentleman here, that knows not a Whore, and is he a hair the worse for that? I do but traverse to spy advantage how to arm my self. Nay what art thou prithee? A Thief, no, I defy the calling, I am a Soldier, have born Arms in the Field, been in many a hight Skyr mish, yet come off found. Old Bawd, do not discredit me, seem not to know me. Pox ruin her nose for't, and I be not revenged for this—um ye Bitch. Beseech your Grace. Twenty crowns? we'li share, and I'll be your pully to draw her on.