Chanon Hugh, like Captain Thumbs.
Hug.
Thus as a Beggar in a King's disguise,
Or an old Cross, well sided with a May-pole,
Comes Chanon Hugh, accoutred, as you see,
Disguis'd, Soldado like: Mark his Device:
The Chanon, is that Captain Thum's, was robb'd:
These bloody Scars upon my Face, are Wounds:
This Scarff upon mine Arm, shews 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 Turfe?
Tur.
Sir, I am Turfe, if you would speak with me.
Hug.
With thee, Turfe, if thou beest High Constable.
Tur.
I am both Turfe, Sir, and High Constable.
Hug.
Then, Turfe, or Scurfe, High, or Low Constable:
Know, I was once a Captain at Saint Quintins,
And pa**ing cross the ways over the Countrey,
This Morning, betwixt this and Hamsted-heath,
Was by a Crew of Clowns robb'd, bobb'd, and hurt.
No sooner had I got 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 Turfe; if your Name be Toby Turfe;
Who have let fall (they say) the Hue and Cry:
And you shall answer it afore the Justice.
Tur.
Heaven and Hell, Dogs, Devils, what is this?
Neighbours, was ever Constable thus cross'd?
What shall we do?
Med.
Faith, all go hang our selves:
I know no other way to scape the Law.
Pup.
News, news, O news ——
Tur.
What, hast thou found out Clay?
Pup.
No, Sir, the news is, that I cannot find him.
Hug.
Why do you dally, you damn'd Russet Coat?
You Peasant, nay, you Clown, you Constable;
See that you bring forth the suspected Party,
Or by mine Honour (which I won in Field)
I'll make you pay for it, afore the Justice.
Tur.
Fie, fie: O Wife, I'm 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.
Hug.
I'll lead the way: Thus is the Match put off:
And if my Plot succeed, as I have laid it,
My Captain-ship shall cost him many a Crown.
[They go out.
D. Tur.
So, we have brought our Eggs to a fair Market.
Out on that Villain, Clay: Would he do a Robbery?
I'll ne'er trust smooth-fac'd Tile-man for his sake.
Awd.
Mother, the still Sow eats up all the Draffe.
[They go out.
Pup.
Thus is my Master, Toby Turfe, the Pattern
Of all the painful a'ventures now in Print.
I never could hope better of this match:
This Bride-Ale: For the night before to day,
(Which is within man's memory, I take it,)
At the Report of it, an Ox did speak;
Who dy'd soon after: A Cow lost her Calf:
The Bell-wether was flea'd for't: A fat Hog
Was sing'd, and wash'd, and shaven all over; to
Look ugly 'gainst this day: The Ducks they quak'd;
The Hens too cackled: at the noise whereof,
A Drake was seen to dance a headless round:
The Goose was cut i' the head, to hear it too:
Brave Chant-it-clear, his noble Heart was done;
His Comb was cut: And two or three o' his Wives,
Or fairest Concubines, had their Necks broke,
Ere they would zee this day; To mark the verven
Heart of a Beast, the very Pig, the Pig,
This very morning, as he was a roasting,
Cry'd out his Eyes, and made a show, as he would
Ha' bit in two the Spit; as he would say,
There shall no Roast-meat be this dismal day.
And zure, I think, if I had not got his Tongue
Between my Teeth, and eat it, he had spoke it.
Well, I will in, and cry too; never leave
Crying, until our Maids may drive a Buck
With my salt Tears at the next washing-day.