Lanthorn, Filcher, Sharkwel.
WEll, Luck and Saint Bartholmew; out with the
sign of our Invention, in the name of Wit, and
do you beat the Drum the while; all the Fowl i' the
Fair, I mean all the Dirt in Smithfield, (that's one of Ma-
ster Little-wit's Carwhitchets now) will be thrown at our
Banner to day, if the matter do's not please the Peo-
ple. O the Motions, that I Lanthorn Leatherhead have
Pod was a
Master of Mo-
tions before
him.
given light to, i' my time, since my Ma-
ster Pod died! Jerusalem was a stately
thing; and so was Ninive, and the City
of Norwich, and Sodom and Gomorrah;
with the rising o' the Prentises, and pul-
ling down the Bawdy Houses there upon Shrove-Tues-
day; but the Gunpowder-plot, there was a get-penny! I
have presented that to an eighteen or twenty Pence
Audience, nine times in an Afternoon. Your home-
born Projects prove ever the best, they are so easie and
familiar; they put too much Learning i' their things
now o'days: and that I fear will be the spoil o' this.
Little-wit? I say, Mickle-wit! if not too mickle! look
to your gathering there, Goodman Filcher.
Fil.
I warrant you, Sir.
Lan.
And there come any Gentlefolks, take two
Pence apiece, Sharkwell.
Sha.
I warrant you, Sir, three Pence, an' we can.