Ben Jonson - Bartholomew Fayre Act 4. Scene 6 lyrics

Trouble-all, Knockhum, Whit, Quarlous, Edgworth, Bristle, Waspe, Haggise, Justice, Busy, Pure-craft. BY what Warrant do's it say so? Kno. Ha! mad Child o' the Pye-pouldres, art thou there? fill us a fresh Kan, Urs, we may drink together. Tro. I may not drink without a Warrant, Captain. Kno. 'Slood, thou'll not stale without a Warrant, shortly. Whit, Give me Pen, Ink and Paper. I'll draw him a Warrant presently. Tro. It must be Justice Overdoo's? Kno. I know, Man, Fetch the Drink, Whit. Whi. I pre dee now, be very brief, Captain; for de new Ladies stay for dee. Kno. O, as brief as can be, here 'tis already. Adam Overdoo. Tro. Why, now, I'll pledge you, Captain. Kno. Drink it off. I'll come to thee, anon, again. Qua. Well, Sir. You are now discharg'd: beware of being spi'd hereafter. [Quarlous to the Cut-purse. Edg. Sir, will it please you, enter in here, at Ursla's; and take part of a Silken Gown, a Velvet Petticoat, or a wrought Smock; I am promis'd such: and I can spare any Gentleman a moiety. Qua. Keep it for your Companions in beastliness, I am none of 'em, Sir. If I had not already forgiven you a greater trespa**, or thought you yet worth my beating, I would instruct your manners, to whom you made your offers. But go your ways, talk not to me, the Hangman is only fit to discourse with you; the hand of Beadle is too merciful a punishment for your Trade of life. I am sorry I employ'd this Fellow; for he thinks me such: Fascinus quos inquinat, æquat. But, it was for sport. And would I make it serious, the getting of this License is nothing to me, without other circumstances concur. I do think how impertinently I labour, if the word be not mine, that the ragged Fellow mark'd: And what advantage I have given Ned Win-wife in this time now, of working her, though it be mine. He'll go near to form to her what a debauch'd Raskal I am, and fright her out of all good conceit of me: I should do so by him, I am sure, if I had the opportunity. But my hope is in her temper, yet; and it must needs be next to de- spair, that is grounded on any part of a Womans dis- cretion. I would give by my troth, now, all I could spare (to my Cloathes, and my Sword) to meet my tatter'd Sooth-sayer again, who was my judge i' the question, to know certainly whose word he has damn'd or sav'd. For, till then, I live but under a Reprieve. I must seek him. Who be these? Wasp with the Officers. Was. Sir, you are a welsh Cuckold, and a prating Runt, and no Constable. Bri. You say very well. Come put in his Leg in the middle Roundel, and let him hole there. Was. You stink of Leeks, Metheglyn, and Cheese. You Rogue. Bri. Why, what is that to you, if you sit sweetly in the Stocks in the mean time? if you have a mind to stink too, your Breeches sit close enough to your bum. Sit you merry, Sir. Qua. How now, Numps? Was. It is no matter, how; pray you look off. Qua. Nay, I'll not offend you, Numps. I thought you had sat there to be seen. Was. And to be sold, did you not? pray you mind your business, an' you have any. Qua. Cry you mercy, Numps. Do's your Leg lie high enough? Bri. How now, Neighbour Haggise, what says Justice Overdoo's Worship to the other offenders? Hag. Why, he says just nothing, what should he say? Or where should he say? He is not to be found, Man. He ha' not been seen i' the Fair, here, all this live-long day, never since seven a Clock i' the Morning. His Clerks know not what to think on't. There is no Court of Pie-poulders yet. Here they be return'd. Bri. What shall be done with 'em, then? in your dis- cretion? Hag. I think we were best put 'em in the Stocks in discretion (there they will be safe in discretion) for the valour of an hour, or such a thing, till his Worship come. Bri. It is but a hole matter if we do, Neighbour Hag- gise, come, Sir, here is company for you, heave up the Stocks. [As they open the Stocks, Wasp puts his Shooe on his Hand, and slips it in for his Leg. Was. I shall put a trick upon your welsh diligence, perhaps. Bri. Put in your Leg, Sir. Qua. What, Rabby Busy! is he come? [They bring Busy, and put him in. Bus. I do obey thee, the Lyon may roar, but he cannot bite. I am glad to be thus separated from the Heathen of the Land, and put a part in the Stocks for the Holy Cause. Was. What are you, Sir? Bus. One that rejoyceth in his Affliction, and sit- teth here to prophesie the Destruction of Fairs and May-games, Wakes and Whitson-ales, and doth sigh and groan for the reformation of these abuses. Was. And do you sigh and groan too, or rejoyce in your affliction? Jus. I do not feel it, I do not think of it, it is a thing without me: Adam, thou art above these battries, these contumelies. In te manca ruit fortuna, as thy Friend Ho- race says; thou art one, Quem neque pauperies, neque mors, neque vincula terrent. And therefore as another Friend of thine says, (I think it be thy Friend Persius) Non te qusiveris extra. Qua. What's here! a Stoick i' the Stocks? the Fool is turn'd Philosopher. Bus. Friend, I will leave to communicate my Spirit with you, if I hear any more of those superstitious Relicks, those Lists of Latin, the very Rags of Rome, and Patches of Popery. Was. Nay, an' you begin to quarrel, Gentlemen, I'll leave you. I ha' paid for quarrelling too lately: look you, a device, but shifting in a Hand for a Foot. God b' w' you. [He gets out. Bus. Wilt thou then leave thy Brethren in tribulation? Was. For this once, Sir. Bus. Thou art a halting Neutral; stay him there, stop him, that will not endure the heat of Persecution. Bri. How now, what's the matter? Bus. He is fled, he is fled, and dares not sit it out. Bri. What, has he made an escape, which way? fol- low, Neighbour Haggise. Pur. O me! in the Stocks! have the wicked pre- vail'd? Bus. Peace religious Sister, it is my Calling, comfort your self, an extraordinary Calling, and done for my better standing, my surer standing, hereafter. Tro. By whose Warrant, by whose Warrant, this? [The Mad-man enters. Qua. O, here's my Man, dropt in, I look'd for. Jus. Ha! Pur. O good Sir, they have set the faithful here to be wonder'd at; and provided holes for the holy of the Land. Tro. Had they Warrant for it? shew'd they Justice Overdoo's Hand? if they had no Warrant, they shall an- swer it. Bri. Sure you did not lock the Stocks sufficiently, Neighbour Toby! Hag. No! see if you can lock 'em better. Bri. They are very sufficiently lock'd, and truly, yet some thing is in the matter. Tro. True, your Warrant is the matter that is in que- stion, by what Warrant? Bri. Mad Man, hold your Peace, I will put you in his room else, in the very same hole, do you see? Qua. How! is he a Mad-man! Tro. Shew me Justice Overdoo's Warrant, I obey you. Hag. You are a mad Fool, hold your Tongue. Tro. In Justice Overdoo's name, I drink to you, and here's my Warrant. [Shews his Can. Jus. Alas poor Wretch! how it earns my Heart for him! Qua. If he be mad, it is in vain to question him. I'll try though. Friend, there was a Gentlewoman, shew'd you two names, some hour since, Argalus and Palemon, to mark in a Book, which of 'em was it you mark'd? Tro. I mark no name, but Adam Overdoo, that is the name of names, he only is the sufficient Magistrate; and that name I reverence, shew it me. Qua. This Fellow's mad indeed: I am further off now, than afore. Jus. I shall not breath in peace, till I have made him some amends. Qua. Well, I will make another use of him, is come in my head: I have a Nest of Beards in my Trunk; one something like his. Bri. This mad fool has made me that I know not whether I have lock'd the Stocks or no, I think I lock'd 'em. [The Watch-men come back again. The mad-man fights with 'em, and they leave open the Stocks. Tro. Take Adam Overdoo in your mind, and fear no- thing. Bri. 'Slid, madness it self, hold thy peace, and take that. Tro. Strikest thou without a Warrant? take thou that. Bus. We are delivered by miracle; Fellow in Fet- ters, let us not refuse the means, this madness was of the Spirit: The malice of the Enemy hath mock'd it self. Pur. Mad do they call him! the World is mad in error, but he is mad in truth: I love him o' the sudden, (the cunning Man said all true) and shall love him more and more. How well it becomes a Man to be mad in truth! O, that I might be his yoke-fellow, and be mad with him, what a many should we draw to mad- ness in truth, with us! Bri. How now! all scap'd? where's the Woman? it is Witchcraft! Her Velvet Hat is a Witch, o' my Con- science, or my Key! t' one. The Mad-man was a De- vil, and I am an Ass; so bless me, my Place, and mine Office. [The Watch missing them are affrighted.