PREAMBLE

I conceive you, Sir Hugh; as if your Rhetoric would say, Whereas the Father of her is a Turf, A very superficies of the earth; He aims no higher, then to match in Clay; And there hath pitched his rest. Subtle Sir Hugh, you now are in the wrong, And err with the whole Neighbourhood, I must tell you; For you mistake my name. Justice Preamble I write my self; which with the ignorant Clowns, here (Because of my profession of the Law, And place of the peace) is taken to be Bramble. But all my warrants Sir, do run Preamble: Richard Preamble. You are my learned, and canonic neighbour: I would not have you stray; but the incorrigible Knot-headed beast, the Clowns, or Constables, Still let them graze; eat Salads; chew the Cud: All the Towne-musicke will not move a log. True, true Sir Hugh, here comes Miles Metaphor, My Clarke: He is the man shall carry it, Canon, By my instructions. I love not to keep shadows, or halfe-wits, To foil a business. Metaphor! you have seen A King ride forth in state. Therefore I asked you. have you observed the Messengers of the Chamber? What habits they were in? Well marked; You know not any of them? have you acquaintance with him? To borrow his coat and hour? His coat, I say, is of more authority: Borrow his coat for and hour. I do love To do all things completely, Canon Hugh; Borrow his coat, Miles Metaphor, or nothing. I know your powers of Rhetoric, Metaphor. Fetch him off in a fine figure for his coat I say. Stay my diviner counsel, take your fee; We that take fees, allow them to our counsel; And our prime learned counsel, double fees: There are a brace of Angels to support you In your foot-walke this frost, for fear of falling; Or spraying of a point of Matrimony, When you come at it. I Like your project. Nay, do it quickly, Miles; why shakest thou man? Speak but his name: I'll second thee my self. Squire Tripoli or Tub. Any thing— Keep the peace I charge you. The warrant is directed here to me, From the whole table; wherefore I would pray you Be patient Squire, and make good the peace. He is a Pursy'vant at Arms, Squire Tub. Sir he may take no bail. It is a warrant, In special from the Council, and commands Your personal appearance. Sir, your weapon I must require: And then deliver you A Prisoner to this officer, Squire Tub. I pray you to conceive of me no other, Then as your friend, and neighbour. Let my person Be severed from my office in the fact, And I am clear. Here Purs'yvant, receive him Into your hands; And use him Like a Gentleman. Nay, that must not be told you, till you come Unto the place assigned by his instructions. I'll be the Maidens Convoy to her father, For this time, Squire. I'll see to her. I know not, Canon, but it falls out cross. Nor can I make conjecture by the circumstance Of these events; it was impossible, Being so close, and politicly carried, To come so quickly to the ears of Turf. Oh Priest, had but thy slow delivery Been nimble, and thy lazy Latin tongue, But run the forms over, with that swift dispatch, As had been requisite, all had been well! You Sir will run your counsels out of breath. What news man, with our new made Purs'yvant? What, now's the matter? I pray thee Miles relate the manner, how? Miles, I will see that all thy hurts be dressed. As for the Squires escape, it matters not: We have by this means disappointed him; And that was all the main I aimed at. But Canon Hugh, now muster up thy wits, And call thy thoughts into the Consistory. Search all the secret corners of thy cap, To find another quaint devised drift, To disappoint her marriage with this Clay; Do that, and He reward thee jovially. I hear, there's comfort in thy words yet, Canon. I'll trust thy regulars, and say no more. Keep out those fellows; I'll have none come in, But the High Constable, the man of peace, And the Queens Captain, the brave man of war. Now neighbour Turf, the cause why you are called, Before me by my warrant, but unspecified, Is this; and pray you mark it thoroughly! Here is a Gentleman, and as it seems, Both of good birth, fair speech, and peaceable, Who was this morning robbed here in the wood: You for your partly a man of good report, Of credit, landed, and of fair demeans, And by authority, high Constable; Are notwithstanding touched in this complaint, Of being careless in the Huy and Cry. I cannot choose but grieve a Soldiers lose: And I am sorry too for your neglect, Being my neighbour; this is all I object. Sir, I dare use no partiality: Object then what you please, so it be truth. He speaks but reason And what say you now, neighbour Turf? Faith then I'll pray you, because he is my neighbour, To take a hundred pound, and give him day. Why, if you please, send Metaphor my Clarke. And Turf, I much commend thy willingness; It's argument of thy integrity. Adieu, good Captain. Trust me, neighbour Turf, He seems to be a sober Gentleman: But this distress hath somewhat stirred his patience. And men, you know, in such extremities, Apt not themselves to points of courtesy; I'am glad you have made this end. I'll secure you, neighbour. What Cry is this? I do wonder Your Ladyship comes to know any thing In these affairs. Know you that Sir? All is turned Here to confusion: we have lost our plot; I fear my man is run away with the money, And Clay is found, in whom old Turf is sure To save his stake. The Bride was met in the young Squires hands. None here can tell. If the young Squire can pardon it, I do.