SCENE V.
Enter Ancient, crying Brooms, and after him severally, four Souldiers, crying other things. Boroskie and Gent, over the Stage observing them.
I. SONG.
Anc. Broom, Broom, the bonnie Broom,
Come buy my Birchen Broom,
I'th' Wars we have no more room,
Buy all my bonnie Broom,
For a kiss take two;
If those will not do,
For a little, little pleasure,
Take all my whole treasure:
If all these will not do't,
Take the Broom-man to boot.
Broom, Broom, the bonnie Broom.
II. SONG.
1 Soul. The Wars are done and gone,
And Souldiers now neglected, Pedlers are,
Come Maidens, come alone,
For I can show you handsome, handsome ware;
Powders for, for the head,
And drinks for your bed,
To make ye blith and bonney.
As well in the night we Souldiers can fight,
And please a young wench as any.
2 Soul. I have fine Potato's,
Ripe Potato's.
III. SONG.
3 Soul. Will ye buy any Honesty, come away,
I sell it openly by day,
I bring no forced light, nor no Candle
To cozen ye; come buy and handle:
This will shew the great man good,
The Tradesman where he swears and lyes,
Each Lady of a noble bloud,
The City dame to rule her eyes:
Ye are rich men now: come buy, and then
I'le make ye richer, honest men.
IV. SONG.
4 Sol. Have ye any crackt maiden-heads, to new leach or mend?
Have ye any old maiden-heads to sell or to change?
Bring 'em to me with a little pretty gin,
I'le clout 'em, I'le mend 'em, I'le knock in a pin,
Shall make 'em as good maids agen,
As ever they have been.
Bor. What means all this, why do y'sell Brooms Ancient?
Is it in wantonness, or want?
An. The only reason is,
To sweep your Lordships conscience: here's one for the nonce.
Gape Sir, you have swallowed many a goodlier matter—
The only casting for a crazie conscience.
3 Sol. Will your Lordship buy any honestie? 'twill be worth your mony.
B[o]r. How is this?
3 Sol. Honestie my Lord, 'tis here in a quill.
An. Take heed you open it not, for 'tis so subtle,
The least puffe of wind will blow it out o'th' Kingdom.
2 Sol. Will your Lordship please to taste a fine Potato?
'Twill advance your wither'd state.
Anc. Fill your honour full of most noble itches,
And make Jack dance in your Lordships breeches.
1 Sol. If your Daughters on their beds.
Have bow'd, or crackt their maiden-heads;
If in a Coach with two much tumbling,
They chance to crie, fie, fo, what fumbling;
If her foot slip, and down fall she,
And break her leg 'bove the knee,
The one and thirtieth of Februarie let this be ta'ne,
And they shall be arrant maids again.
Bor. Ye are brave Souldiers; keep your wantonness,
A winter will come on to shake this wilfulness.
Disport your selves, and when you want your mony— [Exit.
Anc. Broom, Broom, &c. [Exeunt Singing.