TURF

What's that, makes you'all so merry, and loud, Sirs, would? I could have herd you to my privy walk. I think in conzience, He do' zay true? Who is't do thwart one, would? Who D'oge? my D'ogenes? a great Writer, marry! Hee'll vace me down, me my self sometime, That verse goes upon veete, as you and I do: But I can give one the hearing; zit me down; And laugh at one; and to my self conclude, The greatest Clerks, are not the wisest men Ever. Here they' are both! What Sirs, disputin, And holdin Arguments of verse, and prose? And no green thing afore the Door, that shows, Or speaks a wedding? Feet, vrom my mouth, D'oge? Leave your 'zurd uppinions: And get me in some boughs. You take up 'dority still, to vouch against me. All the twelve smocks i'the house, zur, are your Authors. Get some fresh hay then, to lay underfoot: Some Holly and Ivy, to make vine the posts: Is't not Son Valentines day? and Mrs. Awdrey, Your young Dame to be married? I wonder Clay Should be so tedious: He's to play Son Valentine! And the Clown sluggard's not come from Kilborne yet? Yes, and warrant worship too; my neighbour Medlay. A Midlesex Clown and one of Finsbury: They were the first Colon's of the kingdom here: The Primitory Colon's; my D'ogenes says. Where's D'ogenes, my Writer now? What were those You told me, D'ogenes, were the first Colon's OF the Country? that the Roman brought in here? Why so, I thank you heartily, good D'ogenes, you have zertified me. I had rather be and ancient Colon, (as they zay) a Clown of Midlesex: A good rich Farmer, or high Constable. I'd play hun 'gaine a Knight, or a good Squire; Or Gentleman of any other County In the Kingdom. Zee, who is here: John Clay Zonne Valentine, and Bridegroom! have you zeene Your Valentine-Bride yet, since you came? John Clay? What? wispes'o' your wedding day, zonne? This is right Originous Clay: and Clay of Kilborne too! I would have had boots of this day, zure, zonne John. And his new shamois Doublet too with points; I Like that yet: and his long sawsedge-hose, Like the Commander of four smoking Tile-kills, Which he is Captain of; Captain of Kilborne: Clay with his hat turned up, of the leere side, too: As if he would leap my Daughter yet ere night, And spring a new Turf to the old house: Look, and the wenches have not vound un out; And do parzent un, with a van of Rosemary, And Baize; to will a Bow-pot, trim the head Of my best vore-horse: we shall all have Bride-laces, Or points, I zee; my Daughter will be valiant; And prove a very Marry Anbry in the business. A Tale of a Tub, Sir; a mere tale of a Tub. Lend it no ear I pray you: The Squire Tub Is a fine man, but he is too fine a man, And has a Lady Tub too to his Mother: I'll deal with none of these vine silken Tubs. John Clay, and Cloath-breech for my money, and Daughter. Here comes another old Boy too, warrant his colours Enter Father Rosin. Will stroke down my wives udder of purses, empty Of all her milk money, this Winter Quarter; Old Father Rosin, the chief Minstrel here: Chief Minstrel too of High gate: she has hired him And all, his two Boys for a day and a half, And now they come for Ribbanding, and Rosemary; Give them enough Girls, give them enough, and take it Out in his tunes anon. Wee'll all be jovy this day, warrant son Valentine. My sweet son John is sake. Son John shall bid us welcome all, this day: Wee'll zerve under his colours: Lead the troop John, And Puppy; see the Bells ring. Press all noises Of Finsbury, in our name; D'ogenes Scriben Shall draw a score of warrants warrant the business. Do's any wight parzent his Majesties person, This Hundred, above the high Constable? Use our Authority then, to the utmost on't. ZOnne Clay, cheer up, the better leg avore: This is a veat is once done, and no more. True neighbour Medlay, you are still In-and-In. Well said To-Pan: you have still the hap to hit The nail of the head at a close: I think there ne for Marriage was managed with a more advisement, Then was this marriage, though I say't, that should not; Especially again 'mine own flesh, and blood; My wedded Wife. Indeed my Wife would have had All the young Bachelors and Maids, forsooth, OF the zixe Parishes hereabout: But I Cried none, sweet Sybil: none of that gear, I: It would lick zalt, I told her, by her leave. No, three, or voure our wise, choice honest neighbours: Vpstantiall persons: men that have born office: And mine own Family, would be enough To eat our dinner. What? Dear meat's a thief: I know it by the Butchers, and the Mercat-volke; Hum drum I cry. No halfe-Oxe in a Pie: A man that's bid to Bride-ale, if he have cake, And drink enough, he needs not veare his stake. Come Sybil, come: Did not I tell you of this? This pride, and muster of women would mar all? Six women to one Daughter, and a Mother! The Queen (God save her) have no more her self. Your service? good! I think you'll write to her shortly, Your very loving and obedient Mother. Come, send your Maids off, I will have them sent Home again wife: I love no trains of Kenned, Or Christendom, as they say. What, mutinin Madge? I have zet the nest of wasps all on a flame. You are for Father Rosin, and his consort Of fiddling Boys, the great Feats, and the less: Because you have entertained them all from High-gate. To show your pomp, you'd have your Daughter, and Maids Dance over the fields Like Faies, to Church this frost? I'll have no rondels, I, in the Queens paths; Let one scrape the Gut at home, where they have filled it At afternoon. I yield to truth: wife are you sussified? I charge you in the Queens name, keep the peace. Gentleman, I'am here for fault, high Constable— I pray you Sir put up Your weapons; do, at my request: For him, On my authority, he shall lie by the heals, Verbatim continent, and I live. 'Treat me not. It is in vain. If he lie not by the heals, I'll lie there for 'hun. I'll teach the Him, To carry a tongue in his head, to his subperiors. Breach of man! He is my chattel, mine own hired goods: And if you do abet one in this matter, I'll clap you both by the heals, ankle to ankle. Nay, pray you Sir, be not angry; but content: My man shall make you, what amends you'll ask 'hun. No, I assure you on my Constableship, I do not know 'hun. As Fortune mend me, now, or any office Of a thousand pound, if I know what to zay, Would I were dead; or vaire hanged up at Tiburne, If I do know what course to take; or how To turn my self; just at this time too, now, My Daughter is to bemarried: I'll but go To Pancridge Church, hard by, and return instantly, And all my Neighbourhood shall go about it. Nay, good Sir stay. Neighbours! what think you of this? I mean, what kind of men? Nay, but with patience, Sir, we that are Officers Must 'quire the special marks, and all the tokens Of the despected parties, or perhaps—else, Be never the never of our purpose in 'prehending them. Can you tell, what 'parrell any of them wore? Peace, and be nought: I think the woman be phrensick. Passion of me, undone! What should a man zay? who should he trust In these days? Hark you John Clay, if you have Done any such thing, tell troth, and shame the Devil. Here's a Bride-ale indeed! Ah zonne John, zonne Clay! I little thought you would have proved a piece Of such false mettle. Well Neighbours, I do charge you to assist me With 'hun to Paddington. Be he a true man, so: The better for 'hun. I will do mine office, And he were my own begotten a thousand times. PAssion of me, was ever man thus crossed? All things run Arsie-Varsie; upside down. High Constable! Now by our Lady of Uvalsingham. I had rather be marked out Tom Scavinger. And with a shovel make clean the high ways, Then have this office of a Constable, And a high Constable! The higher charge It brings more trouble, more vexation with it. Neighbours, good neighbours, 'vize me what to do: How we shall bear us in this Huy and Cry. We cannot find the Captain; no such man Lodged at the Lion, nor came thither hurt. The morning we have spent in privy search; And by that means the Bride-ale is differed; The Bride, she's left alone in Puppy's charge; The Bridegroom goes under a pair of sureties; And held of all as a respected person. How should we bussle forward? give some counsel, How to bestir our stumps in these cross ways. Oh you mean warrens, neighbour, do you not? Too well, too well; would I had never known them. We good Vree-holders cannot live in quiet, But every hour new purcepts, Huy's and Cry's, Put us to requisitions night and day: What should a man zay, should we leave the zearch? I am in danger, to reburse as much As he was robbed on; I, and pay his hurts, If I should vollow it, all the good cheer That was provided; for the wedding dinner Is spoiled, and lost. O there are two what pigs, A zindging by the vi r: Now by Saint Tomy, Too good to eat, but on a wedding day; And then, a Goose will bid you all, Come cut me. Zun Clay, zun Clay (for I must call thee so) Be of good comfort; take my Muckinder; And dry thine eyes. If thou be'st true, and honest; And if thou findest thy conscience clear vrom it, Pluck up a good heart, wee'll do well enough. If not, confess a truths name. But in faith I durst be sworn upon all holy books, John Clay would never commit a Robbery On his own head. But how unhappily it comes to pass! Just on the wedding day! I cry me mercy: I had almost forgotten the Huy and Cry: Good neighbour Pan, you are the Third-burrow, And D'ogenes Scriben, you my learned Writer, Make out a new purcept—Lord, for thy goodness, I had forgotten my Daughter, all this while; The idle knave hath brought no news from her. Here comes the sneaking Puppy; What's the news? My heart! my heart! I fear all is not well, Some things mishap, that he is come without her. What of John Clay? For luck sake speak, Puppy, what hath he lost? Where is she? what's become of her, I pray thee? What talkest thou of the servingman? where's Awdrey? 'Od'socks! my woman, what shall we do now? This was your pomp of Maids. I told you on't. Six Maids to vollow you, and not leave one To wait upon your Daughter: I zaid, Pride Would be paid one day, her old vi' pence, wife. Now, villains both! o that same Huy and Cry! O neighbours! o that cursed servingman! Clay's first missed. Oh maids! Oh wife! But John Clay, where's he? How! fled for veare, zay ye? will he slip us now? We that are sureties, must require 'hun out. How shall we do to find the servingman? Cocks bodikins! we must not loose John Clay: Awdrey, my daughter Awdrey too! let us zend To all the towns, and zeeke her; but alas, The Huy and Cry, that must be looked unto. I good Squire Tub. Were never honest Varmers thus perplexed. Hath Justice Bramble God my daughter Awdrey? A little while, shall he enjoy her, zure. But Oh the Huy and Cry! that hinders me: I must prusue that, or neglect my journey: I'll ene leave all: and with the patient Ass, The overladen Ass, throw off my burden, And cast mine office; pluck in my large ears Betimes, lest some dis-judge them to be horns: I'll leave to Beatrice it on the broken hoof, And ease my pasterns. I'll no more High Constables. And is this true Squire Tub? I take my office back: and my authority, Upon your worships words. Neighbours, I am High Constable again: where's my zonne Clay? He shall be zonne, yet, wife, your meat by leisure: Draw back the spits. I'll break this marriage off: and afterwards, She shall be given to her first betrothed. Look to the meat, wife: look well to the rost. Well, I have carried it, and will triumph Over this Justice, as becomes a Constable; And a high Constable: next our Saint George, Who rescued the Kings Daughter, I will ride; Above Prince Arthur. You shall work it Into a story for me, neighbour Medlay, Over my Chimney. That, that good D'ogenes! A learned man is a Chronikell! That was their place: They were no more. I, Girl, there's never a Justice on them all, Shall teach the Constable to guard his own: Let's back to Kentish -Town, and there make merry; These news will be glad tiding to my wife: Thou shalt have Clay, my wench. That word shall stand. He's found by this time, sure, or else he's drowned: The wedding dinner will be spoiled: make haste. I? zay you so? Perhaps you shall have none, for that. Well Madam, I may thank the Squire your son: For, but for him, I had been overreached. Madam, they no whit were concerning me: And therefore was I less inquisitive. Thanks to your Ladyship, Where is John Clay now? have you seen him yet? What, walks that shadow Avore'un still? Puppy go seek one out, Search all the corners that he haunts unto, And call one forth. Wee'll once more to the Church, And try our vortunes. Luck, son Valentine: Where are the wisemen all of Finzbury? Sir, I am Turf, if you would speak with me. I am both Turf, Sir, and High Constable. Heaven, and Hell, Dogs, Devils, what is this? Neighbours, was ever Constable thus crossed? What shall we do? What, hast thou found out Clay? Fie, fie; Oh wife, In am now in a fine pickle. He that was most suspected is not found; And which now makes me think, he did the deed, He thus absents him, and dares not be seen. Captain, my innocence will plead for me. Wife, I must go, needs, whom the Devil drives: Pray for me wife, and daughter; pray for me. I do defy 'hun, so shall she do too. I pray your worships favour, let me have hearing. I do convesse, 'twas told me such a velonie, An't not disgriev'd me a little when 'twas told me, Warrant I was going to Church, to marry Awdrey: And who should marry her, but this very Clay, Who was charged to be the chief thief of hun all. Now I (the halter stick me, if I tell, Your worships any leazins did forethink one The truest man, till he waz run away. I thought, I had had one as zure as in a zaw-pit, Or in mine Oven. Nay, in the Towne-pound. I was za sure of hun: I'd have gi'n my life for one, Till he did start. But now, I zee one guilty, Az var as I can look at one. Would you have more? Yes, I do know, I vurst must vee a Returney, And then make legs to my great man of Law, To be of my counsel, and take trouble-vees, And yet zay nothing warrant me, but devise All district means, to ransackle me of my money. A Pest'lence prick the throats of hun. I do know hun As well az I waz in their bellies, and brought up there. What would you have me do? what would you ask of me? I put it Ene to your worships bitterment, hab, nab. I shall have a chance of the dice for't, I hope, let them ene run: And Where will you have it paid? Yes, we who not him? Whom shall I send for't? But, my integrity shall be my self still: Good Mr. Metaphor, give my wife this key; And do but whisper it into her hand: (She knows it well enough) bid her, by that Deliver you the two zealed bags of silver, That lie in the corner of the cupboard, stands At my bedside, they' are viftie pound a piece; And bring them to your Master. You stood my friend: I thank your Justice-worship; pray you be Prezent anon, at tendering of the money, And zee me have a discharge: Warrant I have no craft In your Law quiblins. Why dost thou bawl so Puppy? Speak, what ails thee? Puppy! wilt thou go with me? My man speaks of some lose. Where's Justice Brambles Clarke? Had he the money that I sent for? Why Awdrey? who sent for her? He lied. I am cozened, robbed, undone: your man's a Thief, And run away with my Daughter, Mr. Bramble, And with my money. My money is my Daughter; and my Daughter She is my money, Madam. John Clay age'n! nay, then — set Cock a hoop: I have lost no Daughter, nor no money, Justice. John Clay shall pay. I'll look to you now John. Vaith out it must, as good at night, as morning. I am ene as vull as a Pipers bag with joy, Or a great Gun upon carnation day! I could weep Lions tears to see you John. It's but two viftie pounds I have ventured for you: But now I have you, you shall pay whole hundred. Run from your Burroughs, son: faith ene be hanged. And you once earth your self, John, in the bairn, I have no Daughter warrant you: Who did verret 'hun. I am now resolved, Who shall have my Daughter. He best deserves her. Here comes the Vicar. Canon Hugh, we have vound John Clay again! the matter's all come round. My Daughter Awdrey married, And she not know of it! Is he a man? So me thinks; I dare not touch her She is so fine: yet I will say, God bless h . Bring forth the man, And you are quit: But otherwise, your word Binds you to make amends for all his lose, And think your self befriended, if he take it Without a farther suit, or going to law. Come to a composition with him, Turf: The Law is costly, and will draw on charge.