Ben Jonson - A Tale of a Tub ACT 4. SCENE 1. lyrics

Preamble, Hugh, Turfe, Metaphore. Pre. Keep out those fellows; I'll ha none come in, But the High Constable, the Man of Peace, And the Queens Captain, the brave Man of War. Now, Neighbour Turfe, the Cause why you are call'd Before me, by my Warrant, but unspecified, Is this; and pray you mark it thoroughly! Here is a Gentleman, and, as it seems, Both of good Birth, fair Speech, and peaceable, Who was this morning robb'd here in the Wood: You, for your part, a man of good Report, Of Credit, Landed, and of fair Demeans, And by Authority, High Constable; Are, notwithstanding, touch'd in this Complaint, Of being careless in the Hue and Cry. I cannot chuse but grieve a Soldiers loss; And I am sorry too for your neglect, Being my Neighbour: this is all I object. Hug. This is not all; I can alledge far more, And almost urge him for an Accessary. Good Mr. Justice, gi' me leave to speak, For I am Plaintiff. Let not Neighbourhood Make him secure, or stand on privilege. Pre. Sir, I dare use no partiality: Object then what you please, so it be truth. Hug. This more: and which is more than he can answer, Beside his letting fall the Hue and Cry, He doth protect the Man charg'd with the Felony, And keeps him hid, I hear, within his House, Because he is affied unto his Daughter. Tur. I do defie 'un, so shall she do too. I pray your Worship's Favour, le' me have hearing. I do convess, 'twas told me such a Velony, And't not disgriev'd me a little, when 'twas told me, Vor I was going to Church, to marry Awdrey: And who should marry her, but this very Clay, Who was charg'd to be the chief Thief o' 'un all. Now I (the Halter stick me, if I tell Your Worships any Leazins) did fore-think 'un The truest Man, till he waz run away. I thought I had had 'un as zure as in a Zaw-pit, Or i' mine Oven: Nay, i' the Town-pound. I was za sure o' 'un, I'ld ha' gi'n my life for 'un, Till he did start. But now I zee 'un guilty, As var as I can look at 'un. Would you ha' more? Hug. Yes, I will have, Sir, what the Law will give me. You gave your word to see him safe, forth-coming; I challenge that: But that is forfeited; Beside, your carelessness in the pursuit, Argues your slackness, and neglect of duty, Which ought be punish'd with severity. Pre. He speaks but reason, Turfe. Bring forth the Man, And you are quit: But otherwise, your word Binds you to make amends for all his loss, And think your self be-friended, if he take it, Without a farther Suit, or going to Law. Come to a Composition with him, Turfe: The Law is costly, and will draw on charge. Tur. Yes, I do know, I vurst mun vee a Returney, And then make Legs to my great Man o' Law, To be o' my counsel, and take trouble-vees, And yet zay nothing vor me, but devise All district means, to ransackle me o' my money. A Pest'lence prick the throats o' 'un. I do know 'un As well az I was i' their Bellies, and brought up there. What would you ha' me do? what would you ask of me? Hug. I ask the restitution of my money; And will not bate one penny o' the sum: Fourscore and five pound, I ask, besides Amendment for my hurts; my pain and suffering Are loss enough for me, Sir, to sit down with; I'll put it to your Worship; what you award me, I'll take; and gi' him a general Release. Pre. And what say you now, neighbour Turfe? Tur. I put it E'en to your Worship's bitterment, hab, nab. I shall have a chance o' the dice for't, I hope, let 'em e'en run: And —— Pre. Faith, then I'll pray you, 'cause he is my neighbour, To take a hundred pound, and give him day. Hug. Saint Valentine's day, I will, this very day, Before Sun set: my Bond is forfeit else. Tur. Where will you ha' it paid? Hug. Faith, I am a stranger Here i' the Countrey: Know you Chanon Hugh, The Vicar of Pancras? Tur. Yes, we who not him? Hug. I'll make him my Attorney to receive it, And give you a Discharge. Tur. Whom shall I send for't? Pre. Why, if you please, send Metaphor, my Clerk. And Turfe, I much commend thy willingness; It's argument of thy integrity. Tur. But my Integrity shall be my zelf still: Good Mr. Metaphor, give my Wife this Key; And do but whisper it into her Hand: (She knows it well enow) bid her, by that, Deliver you the two zeal'd Bags o' Silver, That lie i' the corner o' the Cup-board, stands At my bed-side, they're vifty pound a piece; And bring 'em to your Master. Met. If I prove not As just a Carrier as my Friend, Tom Long, was, Then call me his Curtall, change my name of Miles, To Guile's, Wile's, Pile's, Bile's, or the foulest name You can devise, to cramb with, for Ale. Hug. Come hither, Miles, bring by that token too, Fair Awdrey; say, her Father sent for her: Say, Clay is found, and waits at Pancras-Church, Where I attend to marry them in haste. For, (by this means) Miles, I may say't to thee, Thy Master must to Awdrey married be. But not a word but mum: go get thee gone; Be wary of thy charge, and keep it close. Met. O super-dainty Chanon! Vicar in cóney, Make no delay, Miles, but away. And bring the Wench, and Money. Hug. Now, Sir, I see you meant but honestly; And, but that business calls me hence away, I would not leave you till the Sun were lower. But, Mr. Justice, one word, Sir, with you. By the same token, is your Mistris sent for By Metaphore, your Clerk, as from her Father. Who when she comes, I'll marry her to you, Unwitting to this Turfe, who shall attend Me at the Parsonage. This was my plot: Which I must now make good; turn Chanon again, In my Square Cap. I humbly take my leave. Pre. Adieu, good Captain. Trust me, neighbour Turfe, He seems to be a sober Gentleman: But this distress hath somewhat stirr'd his patience. And Men, you know, in such Extremities, Apt not themselves to points of Courtesie; I'm glad you ha' made this end. Tur. You stood my Friend: I thank your Justice-worship; pray you be Prezent anon, at tendring o' the Money, And zee me have a discharge: Vor I ha' no craft I' your Law Quiblins. Pre. I'll secure you, neighbour. The Scene interloping. Medlay, Clench, Pan, Scriben. Med. Indeed there is a woundy luck in names, Sirs, And a main Mystery, an' a Man knew where To vind it. My God-sires Name, I'll tell you, Was In-and-In sh**tle, and a Weaver he was, And it did fit his Craft: for so his sh**tle Went in, and in still; this way, and then that way. And he nam'd me, In-and-In Medlay: which serves A Joyners Craft, bycause that we do lay Things in and in, in our work. But, I am truly Architectonicus Professor, rather: That is, (as one would zay) an Architect. Cle. As I am a Varrier, and a Visicary: Horse-Smith of Hamsted, and the whole Town Leach — Med. Yes, you ha' done woundy Cures, Gossip Clench. Cle. An' I can zee the Stale once, through a Urine-hole, I'll give a shrewd guess, be it Man or Beast. I cur'd an Ale-wife once, that had the Staggers Worse than five Horses, without rowelling. My God-phere was a Rabian, or a Jew, (You can tell, D'oge!) They call'd 'un Doctor Rasi. Scr. One Rasis was a great Arabick Doctor. Cle. He was King Harry's Doctor, and my God-phere. Pan. Mine was a merry Greek, To-Pan, of Twyford: A jovial Tinker, and a stopper of Holes; Who left me Metal-man of Belsise, his Heir. Med. But what was yours, D'oge? Scr. Vaith, I cannot tell, If mine were kyrsin'd, or no. But zure he had A kyrsin Name, that he left me, Diogenes. A mighty learned Man, but pest'lence poor. Vor h' had no House, save an old Tub, to dwell in, (I vind that in Records) and still he turn'd it I' the Wind's Teeth, as't blew on his back-side, And there they would lie rowting one at other, A Week sometimes. Med. Thence came A Tale of a Tub; And the virst Tale of a Tub, old D'ogenes Tub. Scr. That was avore Sir Peter Tub, or his Lady. Pan. I, or the Squire their Son, Tripoli Tub. Cle. The Squire is a fine Gentleman! Med. He is more: A Gentleman and a half; almost a Knight; Within zix Inches: That's his true measure. Cle. Zure you can gage 'un. Med. To a streak, or less: I know his D'ameters, and Circumference: A Knight is six Diameters; and a Squire Is vive, and zomewhat more: I know't by compa**, And skale of Man. I have upo' my Rule here, The just perportions of a Knight, a Squire; With a tame Justice, or an Officer rampant, Upo' the Bench, from the High Constable Down to the Headborough, or Tithing-man; Or meanest Minister o' the Peace. God save 'un. Pan. Why, you can tell us by the Squire, Neighbour, Whence he is call'd a Constable, and whaffore. Med. No, that's a Book-case: Scriben can do that. That's writing and reading, and Records. Scr. Two words, Cyning and Staple, make a Constable: As we'd say, a hold, or stay for the King. Cle. All Constables are truly John's for the King, What ere their Names are, be they Tony, or Roger. Med. And all are sworn, as vingars o'one hand, To hold together 'gainst the breach o' the Peace; The High Constable is the Thumb, as one would zay, The hold-fast o' the rest. Pan. Pray luck he speed Well i' the business, between Captain Thums, And him. Med. I'll warrant 'un for a Groat; I have his measures here in Rithmetique, How he should bear 'un self in all the Lines Of's Place and Office; Let's zeek 'un out.