LANCELOT

May it please your worship: Then to answer punctually. Then J say to'th purpose, Because your Worships vulgar understanding May meet me at the nearest: your son, my master, Or Monsieur Thomas, (for so his travel stile him) Through many foreign plots that virtue meets with, And dangers ( I beseech you give attention) Is at the last arrived To ask your (as the French man calls it sweetly) Benediction, a jour en jour. I ditt'a vou, Monsieur. Your Worship is erroneous, For as I told you, your Son Tom, or Thomas, My Master, and your son is now arrived To ask you, as our language bears it nearest Your quotidian blessing, and here he is in person. Sir, as J speak eight languages, I only Told him you came to ask his benediction, De jour enjour. I say how sir? An't please your worship. I have him here, a rare rogue, good sweet master, Do something of some savour suddenly, That we may eat, and live: I am almost starved, No point manieur, no point devein, no Signieur, Not by the virtue of my languages, Nothing at my old Master's to be hoped for, Oh Signieur du, nothing to line my life with, But cold Pies with a cudgel, till you help us. I hear no stirring any where, no light In any window, it's a night for the nonce Sir. Oh damsel deer, Open the door, and it shall appear, Open the door, Oh gentle squire. Up, up, I warrant you. Be patient sir, be patient: let me bind it. He went far else I will assure your worship on my credit By the faith of a Travellor, and a Gentleman, Your son in found again, the son, the Tom. The old Tom. Next, to consider how he is the old Tom. I would you had seen it handled Last night sir, as we handled it: cap à pe, Footte for leers, and learings; Oh the noise The noise we made. The windows clattering And all the Chambermaids, in such a whobub, One with her smock half off; another in hast With h a serving men hose upon her head. A fellow railing out of a loop hold there And his mouth stopped with dirt. Here one of our heads broke. The gentleman himself young M. Thomas, Environed with his furious Myrmidons The fiery Fiddler, and my self; now singing, Now beating at the door, there parleying, Courting at that window, at the other scalling And all these several noises to two Trenchers, Strung with a bottom of brown thread, which showed and mirable. Nor here sir. Gave we the frolic over: though at length We quit the Ladies Sconce on composition But to the silent streets we turned our furies: A fleeping watchman here we stole the shoes from, There made a noise, at which he wakes, and follows: The streets are dirty, takes a queen hith cold, Hard cheese, and that chokes him of Monday next: Windows, and signs we sent to Erebus; A crew of bawling curs we entertained last, When having let the pigs lose in out parishes, Oh the brave cry we made as high as Algate! Down comes a Constable, and the Sow his Sister Most traitorously tramples upon Authority, There a whole stand of rug gowns routed manly And the Kings peace put flight: a purblind big here Runs me his head into the Admirable Lanthorn, Out goes the light, and all turns to confusion: A Potter rises, to inquire this passion A Boar embossed takes sanctuary in his shop. When twenty dogs rush after, we still cheering Down goes the pots, and pipkins, down the pudding pans, The cream bols cry revenge here, there the candlesticks. Here he comes now himself sir. Will you spoil all again sir. Why, what a devil do you mean? Let me never eat again sir, Nor feel the blessing of another bluecoat If this young Gentleman, sweet Master Thomas Be not as mad as heart can wish: your heart sir, If yesternights discourse: speak fellow Robin And if thou speakest less then truth. Oh deum guin Can you deny, you Beatrice a Constable Last night. Good M. Thomas. We mean not Those civil things you did at M. Valentines The Fiddle, and the fa'las, Pur la mour de dieu Pur me no purs: but pur at that door, out sirrah I'll beat you purblind else, out you eight languages, My blood upon your head. Exit. Lan. Bless my Master: look up sir I beseech you, Up with your eyes to heaven. In her, alas sir, Alas poor gentlewoman, she a hand so heavy To knock you Like a Calf down, or so brave a courage To Beatrice her father? if you could believe sir. One that spits fire as fast as he sometime sir, And changes shapes as often: your son Thomas: Never wonder, if it be not he, straight hang me. J saw his legs, has Boots on Like a Player, Under his wenches clothes: it's he, it's Thomas In his own sisters clothes, sir, and I can wast him. May you be gladder, But not this way sir. Kissing? Why ther's the Boots still sir. I am at my small wits end. Did she never Beatrice you before sir? I think I would sir, But you are so impatient: do's not this show sir, (I do beseech you speak, and speak with judgement, And let the case be equally considered) Far braver in your daughter? in a son now It's nothing, of no mark: every man do's it, But, to beget a daughter, a man maiden That reaches at these high exploits, is admirable: Nay she goes far beyond him: for when durst he, But when he was drunk, do any thing to speak of? This is Sebastian truly. I think she spoke of marriage, I marry Now you go right to work. Do you see now plain? that's Mistress Dorothy, And that's his Mistress. Put up your book sir, We are all undone else. You have utterly undone: clean discharged me, I am for the ragged regiment. Oh pardon me. I know him but too well: eight score I take it Will not keep me from beating, if not killing: I'll give him leave to break a leg, and thank him: You might have saved all this, and sworn a little. What had and oath or two been? or a head broke, Though had been mine, to have satissied the old man? Now it's too late, I take it: Will you be drunk to night, (a less entreaty Has served your turn) and save all yet? not mad drunk, For then you are the devil, yet the drunker, The better for your father still: your state is desperate, And with a desperate cure you must recover it: Do something, do sir: do some drunken thing, Some mad thing, or some any thing to help us. I'th Lodge, alone sir, None but her own attendants. Via. Exit.