SIR HUGH

Now of my faith, old Bishop Valentine, You' have brought us nipping weather: Februere Does cut and shear; your day, and diocese Are very cold. All your Parishioners; As well your Layicks, as your Quiristers, Had needs to keep to their warm Fether-beds, If they be sped of loves: this is no season, To seek new Makes in; though Sir Hugh of Pancrace, Be hither come to Totten, on intelligence, To the young Lord of the Manor, Squire Tripoli, On such and errand as a Mistress is. What, Squire! I say? The Vicar of Pancrace, Squire Tub! wa' hoh! He knows my lure is from his Love: fair Awdrey, Th'high Constables Daughter of Kentish Town, here Mr. Tobias Turf. He has waked me, And hour before I would, Sir. And my duty, To the young worship of Totten-Court, Squire Tripoli; Who hath my heart, as I have his: your Mrs. Is to be made away from you, this morning, Saint Valentines day: there are a knot of Clowns, The counsel of Finsbury, so they are y-styl'd, Met at her Father's; all the wise o'th' hundred; Old Basi' Clench of Hamsted, petty Constable; In-and-In Medlay, Cooper of Islington, And Headborough; with loud To-Pan the Tinker, Or Mettall-man of Belsise, the Thirdborough: And D'ogenes Scriben, the great Writer of Chalcot. Sir to conclude in counsel, A Husband, or a Make for Mrs. Awdrey; Whom they have named, and pricked down, Clay of Kilborne, A tough young fellow, and a Tile-maker. You know his nature, and describe it well; I'll leave him to your fashioning. I thank you Squires-worship, Most humbly (for the next, for this I am sure of.) The Squire goes off. Oh for a Choir of these voices, now, To chime in a men pocket, and cry chink! One does not chirp: it makes no harmony. Grave Justice Bramble, next must contribute; His charity must offer at this wedding: I'll bid more to the Basin, and the Bride-ale; Although but one can bear away the Bride. I smile to think how Like a Lottery These Weddings are. Clay hath her in possession; The Squire he Hope's to circumvent the Tile-Kill: And now, if Justice Bramble do come off, It's two to one but Tub may lose his bottom. Right Justice Bramble; You have the winding wit, compassing all. The Beetle and Wedges will, where you will have them. He will do't and unguem, Miles Metaphor: He is a pretty fellow. Or but his badge, It'll serve: A little thing he wears on his breast. I'll take my leave Sir of your worship too: Because I may expect the issue anon. In your worships service; That the exploit is done, and you possessed Preamble goes out. Of Mrs. Awdrey Turf — And I, of this effect of two to one; It works in my pocket, against the Squire, And his half bottom here, of half a piece: Which was not worth the stepping over the style for: His Mother has quite marred him: Lady Tub, She's such a vessel of faeces: all dried earth! Terra damnatam, not a drop of salt! Or Peeter in her! All her Nitre is gone. What should have been, that never loved the Friar; But thus you see th'old Adage verified, Multam cadunt inter —you can guess the rest. Many things fallen between the cup, and lip: And though they touch, you are not sure to drink. You lacked good fortune, we had done out parts: Give a man fortune, throw him in the Sea. The properer man, the worse luck: Stay a time; Tempus edax —In time the stately Ox, &c. Good counsels lightly never come too late. Spur a free horse, hee'll run himself to death. Sancti Evangelistae! Here comes Miles! How indirectly all things have fallen out! I cannot choose bat wonder what they were Rescued your rival from the keep of Miles: But most of all I cannot well digest, The manner how our purpose came to Turf. Well said Magister Justice. If I fit you not With such a new, and well-laid stratagem, As never yet your ears did hear a finer, Call me, with Lily, Bos, Fur, Sus, at que Sacerdos. Thus as a beggar in a Kings disguise, Or and old Cross well sided with a Maypole. Comes Canon Hugh, accoutered as you see Disguised Soldado Like: mark his devise: The Canon, is that Captain Thum's, was robbed: These bloody scars upon my face are wounds; This scarf upon mine arm shows my late hurts: And thus am I to gull the Constable. Now have among you, for a man at arms: Friends by your leave, which of you is one Turf? With thee Turf, if thou be'st High Constable. Then Turf, or Scurf, high, or low Constable, Know, I was once a Captain at Saint Quintins, And passing cross the ways over the countrey' This morning betwixt this and Hamsted -Heath, Was by a crew of Clowns robbed, bobbed, and hurt. No sooner had I God my wounds bound up, But with much pain, I went to the next Justice, One Mr. Bramble here, at Maribone: And here a warrant is, which he hath directed For you one Turf; if your name be Toby Turf; Who have let fallen (they say) the Huy, and Cry: And you shall answer it afore the Justice. Why do you dally, you damed russet coat, You Peasant, nay you Clown, you Constable; See that you bring forth the suspected party, Or by mine honour (which I wone in field) I'll make you pay for it, afore the Justice. I'll led the way: Thus is the match put off, And it my plot succeed, as I have laid it, My Captainship shall cost him many a crown. This is not all; I can allege far more, And almost urge him for and accessory. Good Mr Justice gi'me leave to speak, For I am Plaintiff. Let not neighbourhood Make him secure, or stand on privilege. This more: and which is more, then he can answer, Beside his letting fallen the Huy, and Cry He does protect the man, charged with the felony, And keeps him hid I hear, within his house, Because he is affied unto his Daughter. Yes, I will have Sir what the Law will give me. You gave your word to see him safe, forth coming; I challenge that: But, that is forfeited; Beside, your carelessness in the pursuit, Argues your slackness, and neglect of duty, Which ought be punished with severity. I ask the restitution of my money; And will not bore one penny of the sum: Four score, and five pound. I ask, beside, Amendment for my hurts; my pain, and suffering Are lose enough for me, Sir, to fit down with, I'll put it to your worship; what you award me, I'll take; and give him a general release. Saint Valentines day, I will, this very day, Before Sun set: my bound is forfeit else. Faith, I am a stranger Here in the country: Know you Canon Hugh, The Vicar of Pancrace? I'll make him my Attorney to receive it, And give you a discharge. Come hither Miles, bring by that token, too, Fair Awdrey; say her father sent for her: Say Clay is found, and waits at Pancrace Church, Where I attend to marry them in haste. For (by this means) Miles I may say't to thee, Thy Master must to Awdrey married be. But not a word but mum: go get thee gone; Be wary of thy charge, and keep it close. Now Sir, I see you meant but honestly; And, but that business calls me hence away, I would not leave you, till the sun were lower. But Mr. Justice, one word, Sir, with you. By the same token, is your Mistress sent for By Metaphor your Clarke, as from her Father. Who when she comes, I'll marry her to you, Unwitting to this Turf, who shall attend Me at the parsonage. This was my plot: Which I must now make good; turn Canon, again, In my square cap. I humbly take my leave. What shall we do then Justice? And what's become of her? Yes, and I dispatched them. Why married them. As they desired; But now. No harm, I hope. She was so brave, I knew her not, I swear; And yet I married her by her own name. But she was so disguised, so Ladylike; I think she did not know her self the while! I married them as a mere p re of strangers: And they gave out themselves for such. But says Dido so? Come in then, I'll dispatch you. A good supper Would not be lost, good company, good discourse; But above all where wit hath any source. Cover her, they say: And keep her warm Sir: Mrs. Awdrey Turf, Last night did draw him for her Valentine; Which chance, it hath so taken her Father, and Mother, (Because themselves drew so, on Valentine is Eve Was thirty year) as they will have her married To day by any means; they have sent a Messenger To Kilborne, post, for Clay; which when I knew, I posted with the Like to worshipful Tripoli, The Squire of Totten: and my advice to cross it. Where is your Governor Hilts? Basquet must do it. Bilk? what's that? A fine device! In private. Lend it your ear; I will not trust the air with it; Or scarce my Shire; my Cassock shall not know it; If I thought it did, I'll burn it. Then Harken, and receive it. This it's Sir, do you relish it? So, you are sure Sir to prevent them all; And throw a block in the Bridegrooms way, John Clay, That he will hardly leap over. Sir I thank you for't. That your good worship, would not let me run Longer in error but would take me up thus— Oh bone Deus! have you seen the Like? Here was, Hodge hold thine ear, fair, while I strike. Body of me, how came this gear about? What is become o'the Squire, and thy Prisoner? Is Metaphor returned yet? Is't worth it? They whisper. Hilts enters, and walks by, making him self ready. Let's hear it first.