La. Tub, Pol-Martin, Wispe, Puppy.
Pol.
Madam, to Kentish-Town, we are got at length;
But by the way we cannot meet the Squire:
Not by Inquiry can we hear of him.
Here is Turfe's House, the Father of the Maid.
Lad.
Pol-Martin, see, the streets are strew'd with herbs,
And here hath been a Wedding, Wispe, it seems!
Pray Heaven this Bridal be not for my Son!
Good Martin, knock: knock quickly: Ask for Turfe.
My thoughts misgive me, I am in such a doubt ——
Pol. Who keeps the House here?
Pup. Why, the Door and Walls
Do keep the House.
Pol.
I ask then, who's within?
Pup.
Not you that are without.
Pol.
Look forth, and speak
Into the street here. Come before my Lady.
Pup.
Before my Lady? Lord have mercy upon me:
If I do come before her, she will see
The handsom'st Man in all the Town, pardee!
Now stand I vore her, what zaith velvet she?
Lad.
Sirrah, whose Man are you?
Pup.
Madam, my Masters.
Lad.
And who's thy Master?
Pup.
What you tread on, Madam.
Lad.
I tread on an old Turfe.
Pup.
That Turfe's my Master.
Lad.
A merry fellow! what's thy Name?
Pup.
Ball Puppy
They call me at home: abroad, Hannibal Puppy.
Lad.
Come hither, I must kiss thee, Valentine Puppy.
Wispe! ha' you got you a Valentine?
Wis.
None, Madam:
He's the first stranger that I saw. Lad. To me
He is so, and such. Let's share him equally.
Pup.
Help, help, good Dame. A Rescue, and in time.
Instead of Bills, with Colstaves come; instead of Spears,
with Spits;
Your slices serve for slicing Swords, to save me, and
my Wits:
A Lady, and her woman here, their Huisher eke by side,
(But he stands mute) have plotted how your Puppy to
divide.