METAPHOR

Sir that I have: King Edward our late Liege, and sovereign Lord: And have set down the pomp. Yes; Minor Coats. Unto the Guard, a Dragon, and a Greyhound, For the supporters of the Arms. Here's one dwells In Maribone. The Taberd of his office, I will call it, Or the Coat-Armour of his place: and so Insinuate with him by that Trope—. Metaph. goes out. What is his name? Squire Tub, I do arrest you In the Queens Majesties name, and all the Counsels. I am a Purs'yvant, see, by my Coat else. Do you hear friend? Do you serve this Gentleman? Nay, pray you Sir, I meant no harm in truth: But this good Gentleman is arrested. You say Sir very true, you must obey. And honest Gentleman, in faith! I am Sir (pray you do not look so terribly) A Purs'yvant. My name Sir— Miles Metaphor; And Justice Preambles Clarke. No faith, Sir, would I might never stir from you, In is made a Purs'yvant against my will. Put up Your frightful Blade; and your dead-doing look, And I shall tell you all. My Master, Justice Bramble, hearing your Master, The Squire Tub, was coming on this way, With Mrs. Awdrey, the high Constables Daughter; Made me a Purs'yvant: and gave me warrant To arrest him, so that he might get the Lady, With whom he is gone to Pancridge, to the Vicar, Not to her Father's. This was the device, Which I beseek you, do not tell my Master. I thank you, for your gentle admonition. Pray you, let me call you Godfather hereafter. And as your Godson Metaphor I promise, To keep my Master's privities, sealed up In the valleys of my trust, locked close for ever, Or let me be trussed up at Tiburne shortly. A Pursuivant? would I were, or more pursy, And had more store of money; or less pursy, And had more store of breath: you call me Pursyvant! But, I could never vant of any purse I had, since you were my Godfathers, and Godmothers, And ga'me that nickname. Nay, it's no matter. I have been simply beaten. The lines of blood, ran streaming from my head, Can speak what rule the Squire hath kept with me. Be't known unto you, by these presents, then, That I Miles Metaphor, your worships Clarke: Have ene been beaten, to and Allegory, By multitude of hands. Had they been but Some five or six, In had whipped them all, Like tops In Lent, and hurled them into Hoblers -hold; Or the next ditch: I had cracked all their costards, As nimbly as a Squirrel will crack nuts: And flourished Like to Hercules, the Porter Among the Pages. But, when they came on Like Bees about a Hive, Crows about carrion, Flies about sweet meats; nay, Like watermen About a Fare: then was poor Metaphor Glad to give up the honour of the day, To quit his charge to them, and run away To save his life, only to tell this news. I'll follow too. And if the dapper Priest Be but as cunning, point in his de vise, As I was in my lie: my Master Preamble Will stalk, as led by the nose with these new promises, And fatted with supposes of fine Hope's. If I prove not As just a Carrier as my friend Tom Long was, Then call me his curtal, change my name of Miles, To Guile's, Wile's, Pile's, Bile's, or the foulest name You can devise, to crambe with, for ale. Oh super-dainty Canon! Vicar in cóney, Make no delay, Miles, but a way. And bring the wench, and money. O for a Pad-horse, Packhorse, or a Post-horse, To bear me on his neck, his back, or his croup! I am as weary with running, as a Mil-horse That hath led the Mill once, twice, thrice about, After the breath hath been out of his body. I could get up upon a pannier, a panel, Or, to say truth, a very Packsaddle, Till all my honey were turned into gall; And I could it in the seat no longer, O the legs of a lackey now, or a footman, Who is the Surbater of a Clarke currant, And the confounder of his treslesse dormant. But who have we here, just in the neck? Lie? how? He strikes up his heals. I lie not yet in my throat. Yes, I did know you too late. Basket. Basket, the Great— Lubber— I should say Lover, of the Squire his Master. Then Basket put thy smiter up, and hear; I dare not tell the truth to a drawn sword. I know not what they mean; but Constable Turf Sends here his key; for moneys in his cubbard Which he must pay the Captain, that was robbed This morning. Smell you nothing? As my mouth. Do you not smell a rat? I tell you truth, I think all's knavery: For the Canon whispered Me in the ear, when Turf had gi'n me his key, By the same token to bring Mrs. Awdrey, As sent for thither; and to say John Clay Is found, which is indeed to get the wench Forth for my Master, who is to be married, When she comes there: The Canon has his rules Ready, and all there to dispatch the matter. Your worship shall dispose of Metaphor, Through all his parts, ene from the sole of the head, To the crown of the foot, to manage of your service. But shall I have half the money Sir, in faith? Then, if I make not, Sir, the cleanliest scuse To get her hither, and be then as careful To keep her for you, as't were for my self: Down of your knees, and pray that honest Miles May break his neck ere he get over two stile. Thank you good Hannibal Puppy; I shall fit The leg of your commands, with the straight buskin's Of dispatch presently. Come gentle Mistress, will you please to walk? Let not the mouse of my good meaning, Lady, Be snaped up in the trap of your suspicion, To lose the tail there, either of her truth, Or swallowed by the Cat of misconstruction. Here are two bags, there's fifty pound in each. Is this my Lady bright?