Ben Jonson - Bartholomew Fayre Act 2. Scene 2 lyrics

Leatherhead, Trash, Justice, Urs'la, Moon-calf, Nightingale, Costermonger, Pa**engers. THE Fair's pestlence dead methinks; People come not abroad to day, what ever the matter is. Do you hear, Sister Trash, Lady o' the Basket? sit farther with your Ginger-bread progeny there, and hinder not the prospect of my Shop, or I'll ha' it proclaim'd i' the Fair, what stuff they are made on. Tra. Why, what stuff are they made on, Brother Leather-head? nothing but what's wholsome, I a**ure you. Lea. Yes, stale Bread, rotten Eggs, musty Ginger, and dead Hony, you know. Jus. I! have I met with enormity so soon? Lea. I shall mar your Market, old Jone. Tra. Mar my Market, thou too-proud Pedler? do thy worst, I defie thee, I, and thy Stable of Hobby- Horses. I pay for my Ground, as well as thou dost, and thou wrong'st me for all thou art parcel-Poet, and an Ingineer. I'll find a Friend shall right me, and make a Ballad of thee, and thy Cattle all over. Are you puft up with the pride of your Wares? your Arsedine? Lea. Go too, old Jone, I'll talk with you anon; and take you down too, afore Justice Overdoo, he is the Man must charm you, I'll ha' you i' the Pie-pouldres. Tra. Charm me? I'll meet thee Face to Face, afore his Worship, when thou dar'st: and though I be a lit- tle crooked o' my body, I'll be found as upright in my dealing as any Woman in Smithfield; I, charm me? Jus. I am glad to hear my name is their terror, yet this is doing of Justice. Lea. What do you lack? what is't you buy? what do you lack? Rattles, Drums, Halberts, Horses, Babies o' the best? Fiddles o' th' finest? [Enter Cost. Cos. Buy any Pears, Pears, fine, very fine Pears. Tra. By any Ginger-bread, guilt Ginger-bread! Nig. Hey, now the Fairs a filling! O, for a Tune to startle The Birds o' the Booths here billing: Yearly with old Saint Barthle! The Drunkards they are wading, The Punques, and Chapmen trading; Who'ld see the Fair without his lading? Buy any Ballads; new Ballads? Urs. Fie upon't: who would wear out their youth, and prime thus, in roasting of Pigs, that had any cooler vocation? Hell's a kind of cold Cellar to't, a very fine Vault, o' my Conscience! what Moon-calf. Moo. Here, Mistriss. Nig. How now Ursla? in a heat, in a heat? Urs. My Chair, you false Faucet you; and my Morn- ings draught, quickly, a Bottle of Ale, to quench me, Raskal. I am all fire, and fat, Nightingale, I shall e'en melt away to the first Woman, a Rib again, I am afraid. I do water the Ground in knots, as I go, like a great Garden-pot; you may follow me by the S.S. I make. Nig. Alas, good Urs, was Zekiel here this morn- ing? Urs. Zekiel? what Zekiel? Nig. Zekiel Edgworth, the civil Cut-purse, you know him well enough; he that talks bawdy to you still: I call him my Secretary. Urs. He promis'd to be here this morning, I re- member. Nig. When he comes, bid him stay: I'll be back again presently. [Moon-calf brings in the Chair. Urs. Best take your morning Dew in your Belly, Nightingale: come, Sir, set it here; did not I bid you should get this Chair let out o' the sides, for me, that my Hips might play? you'll never think of any thing, till your Dame be rump-gall'd; 'tis well, Changeling: be- cause it can take in your Gra**-hoppers Thighs, you care for no more. Now you look as you had been i' the corner o' the Booth, fleaing your Breech with a Candles end, and set fire o' the Fair. Fill, Stote: fill. Jus. This Pig-woman do I know, and I will put her in, for my second enormity; she hath been before me, Punk, Pinnace, and Bawd, any time these two and twen- ty years upon Record i' the Pie-poudres. Urs. Fill again, you unlucky Vermine. Moo. 'Pray you be not angry, Mistriss, I'll ha' it wi- den'd anon. Urs. No, no, I shall e'en dwindle away to't, e'er the Fair be done: you think, now you ha' heated me? A poor vex'd thing I am, I feel my self dropping already, as fast as I can: two Stone a Sewet a day is my propor- tion: I can but hold Life and Soul together, with this (here's to you, Nightingale) and a whiff of Tabacco, at most. Where's my Pipe now? not fill'd? thou errant Incubee. Nig. Nay, Ursla, thou'lt gall between the Tongue and the Teeth, with fretting, now. Urs. How can I hope that ever he'll discharge his place of trust, Tapster, a Man of reckoning under me, that remembers nothing I say to him? but look too't, Sirrah, you were best, three Pence a Pipe full, I will ha' made, of all my whole half Pound of Tabacco, and a quarter of a Pound of Coltsfoot, mixt with it too, to eech it out. I that have dealt so long in the fire, will not be to seek in smoke, now. Then six and twenty Shillings a Barrel I will advance o' my Beer, and fifty Shillings a hundred o' my Bottle-Ale; I ha' told you the ways how to raise it. Froth your Cans well i' the filling, at length Rogue, and jog your Bottles o' the bu*tock, Sirrah, then skink out the first Gla**, ever, and drink with all Companies, though you be sure to be drunk; you'll mis-reckon the better, and be less asham'd on't. But your true trick, Raskal, must be, to be ever busie, and mis-take away the Bottles and Cans, in haste, before they be half drunk off, and never hear any body call, (if they should chance to mark you) till you ha' brought fresh, and be able to forswear 'em. Give me a drink of Ale. Jus. This is the very Womb, and Bed of enormity! gross as her self! this must all down for enormity, all, every whit on't. [One knocks. Urs. Look, who's there, Sirrah? five Shillings a Pig is my Price, at least; if it be a Sow-pig, six Pence more; if she be a great bellied Wife, and long for't, six Pence more for that. Jus. O tempora! O mores! I would not ha' lost my dis- covery of this one grievance, for my place, and worship o' the Bench, how is the poor abus'd here! well, I will fall in with her, and with her Moon-calf, and win out wonders of enormity. By thy leave, goodly Wo- man, and the fatness of the Fair: oily as the King's Con- stables Lamp, and shining as his Shooing-horn! hath thy Ale vertue, or thy Beer strength? that the Tongue of Man may be tickled? and his Palate pleas'd in the Morn- ing? let thy pretty Nephew here, go search and see. Urs. What new Roarer is this? Moo. O Lord! do you not know him, Mistris? 'tis mad Arthur of Bradley, that makes the Orations. Brave Ma- ster, old Arthur of Bradley, how do you? welcome to the Fair; when shall we hear you again, to handle your matters? with your Back again a Booth, ha? I ha' bin one o' your little disciples, i' my days! Jus. Let me drink, Boy, with my Love, thy Aunt, here; that I may be eloquent: but of thy best, lest it be bitter in my Mouth, and my words fall foul on the Fair. Urs. Why dost thou not fetch him Drink? and offer him to sit? Moo. Is't Ale, or Beer? Master Arthur? Jus. Thy best, pretty stripling, thy best; the same thy Dove drinketh, and thou drawest on Holy-days. Urs. Bring him a six Penny Bottle of Ale; they say, a Fools hansel is lucky. Jus. Bring both, Child. Ale for Arthur, and Beer for Bradley. Ale for thine Aunt, Boy. My disguise takes to the very wish and reach of it. I shall by the benefit of this discover enough, and more: and yet get off with the reputation of what I would be. A certain midling thing, between a Fool and a Madman.