ACT V. SCENE 4.

The palace yard

Noise and tumult within. Enter PORTER and his MAN

  PORTER. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you
    take the court for Paris garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your
    gaping.
    [Within: Good master porter, I belong to th' larder.]
  PORTER. Belong to th' gallows, and be hang'd, ye rogue! Is
    this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves,
    and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch
    your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look
    for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?
  MAN. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible,
    Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons,
    To scatter 'em as 'tis to make 'em sleep
    On May-day morning; which will never be.
    We may as well push against Paul's as stir 'em.
  PORTER. How got they in, and be hang'd?
  MAN. Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in?
    As much as one sound cudgel of four foot-
    You see the poor remainder-could distribute,
    I made no spare, sir.
  PORTER. You did nothing, sir.
  MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
    To mow 'em down before me; but if I spar'd any
    That had a head to hit, either young or old,
    He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
    Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again;
    And that I would not for a cow, God save her!
    [ Within: Do you hear, master porter?]
  PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.
    Keep the door close, sirrah.
  MAN. What would you have me do?
  PORTER. What should you do, but knock 'em down by th'
    dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some
    strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the
    women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication
    is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening
    will beget a thousand: here will be father, godfather,
    and all together.
  MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow
    somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his
    face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now
    reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line,
    they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three
    times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged
    against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us.
    There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that
    rail'd upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head,
    for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the
    meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out 'Clubs!'
    when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw
    to her succour, which were the hope o' th' Strand, where
    she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place.
    At length they came to th' broomstaff to me; I defied 'em
    still; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot,
    deliver'd such a show'r of pebbles that I was fain to draw
    mine honour in and let 'em win the work: the devil was
    amongst 'em, I think surely.
  PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse
    and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation
    of Tower-hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear
    brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em in Limbo
    Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days;
    besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come.

Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN

  CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here!
    They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,
    As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,
    These lazy knaves? Y'have made a fine hand, fellows.
    There's a trim rabble let in: are all these
    Your faithful friends o' th' suburbs? We shall have
    Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
    When they pass back from the christening.
  PORTER. An't please your honour,
    We are but men; and what so many may do,
    Not being torn a pieces, we have done.
    An army cannot rule 'em.
  CHAMBERLAIN. As I live,
    If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye an
    By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
    Clap round fines for neglect. Y'are lazy knaves;
    And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when
    Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;
    Th' are come already from the christening.
    Go break among the press and find a way out
    To let the troops pass fairly, or I'll find
    A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.
  PORTER. Make way there for the Princess.
  MAN. You great fellow,
    Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache.
  PORTER. You i' th' camlet, get up o' th' rail;
    I'll peck you o'er the pales else. Exeunt