DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

[PROLOGUE.]

The style that banish'd Ovid and his book,
And, spite of's laurel made him thunderstrook,
Is banish'd from this scene by us; and here
Cato may come into the theatre.
At our love-tricks none need their eyelids crush,
Chaste vestals may look on without a blush:
Our cheats do take, if they but time beguile,
And all our plot is but to make you smile.
You're welcome then to London, which our show,
Since you mayn't go to that, has brought to you.
Pardon, if we offend you with our noise,
'Tis but an echo of their clamorous voice.

THE LONDON CHANTICLEERS.

SCENE I.

Enter Heath, a broom-man.

Heath. Brooms, maids, brooms! Old boots or shoes! Come, buy my brooms!

You maidens that do cleanse the door,
And make a looking-glass o' th' floor,
That every night prepare the ground,
For Oberon to dance a round,
And do expect Queen Mab for you
Should drop a tester in a shoe,
And would sleep without pinching, come
Quickly to me, and buy a broom,
That will effect the thing you mean;
'Tis a new broom, and will sweep clean.

Come, buy my broom, maids! Maids, did I say? Sure, there are none i' th' city; or, if there be any, they have forsworn my custom. All the brooms I have sold to-day would not sweep half the ground I have gone; and the money I have got will scarce buy ale enough to moisten my mouth after one cry. Sure, all the city are turned dustmen, and the whole corporation are of the company of Grobians. Women sweep their houses with their long coats, and men their shops with their scrubbed beards. There's no use of a besom now but to make rods of and sweep the children's backsides. 'Tis better killing men for eightpence a day, or hanging of 'em for thirteenpence halfpenny apiece, than follow this poor and idle life; 'tis easier canting out, A piece of broken bread for a poor man, than singing, Brooms, maids, brooms: come, buy my brooms! I should e'en go hang myself now if I were worth a halter; but who will spend a groat on't, when he may be hanged at free cost? I'll go rob the sheriff, and not leave him enough to hire an executioner for me; steal the judge's gown, that he may not come to the assizes, and poison the jury, that they may not bring me in guilty.

Enter Bristle.

Bris. Buy a save-all, buy a save-all; never more need. Come, buy a save-all! Buy a comb-brush or a pot-brush; buy a flint, or a steel, or a tinder-box.

Heath. O Bristle, welcome! I perceive by thy merry note, that there's music in thy pocket. What, dost jingle?

Bris. And I perceive by thy heavy countenance thy purse is light. Dost want coin?

Heath. Dost thou doubt that? Dost thou not see I'm sober? Do I swear or kick for asking, if I want money?

Bris. These are infallible signs indeed that thou dost want it.

Heath. I have been up this two hours, and have not visited one alehouse yet.

Bris. Nay, I am fully satisfied; but canst thou want money whilst thou hast fingers to tell it?

Heath. Why, wouldst have 'um made of loadstones, to draw all that comes nigh 'em?

Bris. Canst thou be poor, and have a tongue Nay, then, 'tis pity but thou shouldst be sent to the Mint thyself, and be stamped into farthings, to be bestowed on beggars! I'd dig to the Antipodes with my nails, but I'd find a mine; and, like the cripple, run up Paul's steeple, but I'd get the silver cock.

Heath. He had no legs to break if he had fallen, nor weight enough to crack his neck.

Bris. Nor thou wit enough to be hanged. Thou hadst rather be starved than break open a cupboard, and die a good poor man or an honest beggar, than a rich thief or a gentleman rogue. Thou thinkest it more commendable, I warrant, to be carried in a chair from constable to constable, with a warrant from the churchwardens; that thou art a poor man, and desirest their charity; that thou art willing to work, but art almost starved; hast half a dozen children, the eldest not above three years old, their mother having been dead this eight year; and such pitiful complaints, with as many tears as would drown all the victuals thou eat'st, than ride a mile or two in a cart, with the sheriff attending on thee! Thou believ'st that more may be gotten with a Good your (non-sense) Worship to every Jack than a Sirrah, deliver your purse to the best lord i' th' land; and all this grounded upon that precise axiom, "A little with honesty is better than a great deal with knavery."

Heath. Thanks, good Bristle, for thy counsel. I mean to be as perfect a pickpocket, as good as ever nipped the judge's bung while he was condemning him. Look to thy purse, Bristle, lest I practise on thee first. The fairies can't creep through a lesser keyhole than I. O, for a dead man's hand now! 'Tis as good as poppy-seed to charm the house asleep; it makes 'um as senseless as itself. Come, shall we turn knight-errants? Name the first adventure. Dost thou know no enchanted castle, no golden ladies in distress or imprisoned by some old giant usurer?

Bris. Stay a little, Heath. I have a design in my head that will outgo Don Quixote or Palmerin as far as they did the giants they overcame—a trick that shall load us with money without any fear of th' cart.

Heath. I'll be thy squire, though I fare no better than Sanch Pancha, and am tossed in a blanket.

Bris. Come, follow me. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Nancy Curdwell.

Curd. I have fresh cheese and cream; I have fresh cheese and cream. Heigho! But one suitor yet? Must my sheets lie smooth till I am wrinkled? Nay, then, I see beauty is not a cable-rope, to draw men's hearts after it, nor our mouths a mouse-trap, our tongues a lure, and lips a gin; our hairs are not fishing-lines, nor our noses hooks. These gudgeons will not swallow the bait that hangs there. Nay, we cannot catch these mermen, though our smocks were made of network, and we hung all o'er with looking-glasses. No, no; I see, when these buzzards look after mates, they wink and choose. I think I must have my nose turned into a bill, and write upon it, Here is a house to be let. I am but six-and-twenty years old, and that's young enough to play with a baby. O, how like the picture of Charity should I look with two sucklings at my breast!

Enter Budget, a tinker.

Bud. Have you any work for a tinker? Old brass, old pots, old kettles. I'll mend them all with a tara-tink, and never hurt your metal.—Here she is! Methinks she looks very smug upon me. Now to my 'ration. Most beautiful, fair and virtuous mistress, whose face is a burning-glass, and hath set me on fire. My sugar-plum and stewed-prune lady, whose fine sharp nose, like Cupid's darts, hath pricked me to the heart! Whiter than the curds thou sell'st, softer than the silk thou wearest, milder than the four-shilling beer thou drink'st! Venus, I believe, was a fresh cheese and cream woman, and, letting fall her pail, made the Milky Way, but yet came as far short of thee, my sweet, honey Nancy, as whey of butter-milk or skimmed milk of cream! O, that I were a worm to crawl on that face of thine, or a flea———

Curd. He'd bite me, sure?

Bud. To slip about thy neck. Do not, I pray, tread on me with the foot of disdain, lest thou crush my heart as flat as a pancake.

Curds. Pray, leave off your suit; I have no mind to marry; I'll always live a virgin.

Bud. What, and lead apes in hell? What pity would it be to see you chained to a monkey!

Curds. Or tied to you! [Aside.

Bud. O, do not frown! Each wrinkle is a grave to me, and angry look a death's-head. Do not despise me 'cause I am black and you so white; the moon wears beauty-spots, and the fairest ladies black patches. White petticoats are wrought with black silk, and we put black plums into white puddings.

Curd. But black-and-white ribbons are worn only at burials, never at weddings: and I would be loth my wedding-sheet should be my shroud, and my bed a grave. Therefore, pray, be gone, and come when I send for you.

Bud. Sweet sugar-candy mistress, grant me one thing before you go.

Curd. What is't?

Bud. Give me leave to vouchsafe one kiss on those sweet silken parchment-lips.

Curd. Take your farewell, you shall never kiss 'um again. [Kisses her, and blacks her mouth.

Bud. Thanks, pudding-pie Nancy. [Exit.

Curd. Faugh, how he stinks of smoke! Does he think I'll be his trull, and that he shall smutch my face thus with his charcoal nose? No, I'll see him burnt first! Out upon him, beggar, burnt-arse rogue, devil-tinker! I am afraid his ugly looks have soured my cream, and made all my cheese run to whey; but if he come to me again thus, I'll make him blue as well as black.

Enter Hanna Jenniting.

Jen. Come, buy my pearmains, curious John apples, dainty pippins; come, who buys? who buys?

Curd. O sister Hanna, I wanted you just now; here was a tinker had like to have run away with me in his budget; a copper-nosed rogue, brazen-faced rascal!

Jen. But you were even with him? Nay, you are a whisket! I' faith, I see beards are infectious as well as scabbed lips. Salute your apron, and 'twill tell you who you kissed last.

Curd. He has printed a kiss indeed.

Jen. Was he a suitor? Did he woo you with posnets and skillets, and promise you a kettle next Bartholomew fair? And how did you answer him? Did you say, Fly, brass, the devil's a tinker? Or more mildly tell him you could not settle your affections on him? But come, look sprightly. Somebody will stare so long upon the bright sun of our beauties, till they are blinded with beams. Thou knowest, when my mother died, she left us, beside some stringed pence and a granam's groat, seven suitors, whereof all have forsaken us but Graftwell the gardener; and my mother indeed used to say that I was born to be a gardener's wife, as soon as ever I was taken out of her parsley-bed. But 'tis no matter; let 'um go.

Curd. But I wonder, Hanna, that you, having been an apple-woman so long, cannot get a customer for yourself. You might go off for a queen-apple! Come along; the next chapman shall have us at an easy rate. I have fresh cheese, &c.

Jen. Come, buy pippins. [Exeunt crying.

SCENE III.

Enter Ditty, a ballad-man.

Ditty. Come, new books, new books; newly printed and newly come forth! All sorts of ballads and pleasant books! The Famous History of Tom Thumb and Unfortunate Jack,[239] A Hundred Godly Lessons, and Alas, poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go? The second part of Mother Shipton's Prophecies, newly made by a gentleman of good quality, foretelling what was done four hundred years ago, and A Pleasant Ballad of a bloody fight seen i' th' air, which, the astrologers say, portends scarcity of fowl this year. [Sings a ballad.

Enter Budget.

Bud. Have you the Ballad of the Unfortunate Lover?

Ditty. No, but I have George of Green or Chivy Chase, Collins and the Devil, or Room for Cuckolds; I have anything but that.

Bud. Have you the Coy Maid?

Ditty. I sold that just now; but I have the Ballad of the London 'Prentice, Guy of Warwick, or The Beggar of Bethnal Green.

Bud. What loves-ongs have you? I would have a wooing ballad.

Ditty. I have twenty of them. Look you, here's one, and although I say it myself, as good a one as ever trod upon shoe-leather.

Bud. What is't? Good Ditty, let me hear it.

Ditty. The honest Milkmaid, or I must not wrong my Dame.

Bud. Have you never a one called The honest Fresh Cheese and Cream Woman?

Ditty. I do not remember that; but here is another, you shall hear me sing it.

Once did I love a maiden fair,
Down derry, down, down, down, down derry;
With silver locks and golden hair,
Down derry, &c.;
Her cheeks were like the rose so sweet,
Down derry, &c.;
Like marble pillars were her feet,
Down derry, &c.

How like you this? 'Tis a rare tune, and a very pleasant song.

Bud. I like the song well; but I would have a picture upon it like me.

Ditty. Look you here; here's one as like you as if it had been spit out of your mouth; your nose, eye, lip, chin; sure, they printed it with your face! and the most sweetest ballad that ever I sung—

My love and I to medley,
Upon a time would go:
The boatmen they stood ready,
My love and I to row;
Where we had cakes and prunes,
And many fine things mo;
But now, alas, she has left me:
Fa la, fa lero, lo!

Bud. This is the ballad I'll have. Come, Ditty, thou shalt teach me to sing it, and I'll pay thee at the next good house. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Enter Bristle, like a shoemaker, with Heath, like a butcher.

Heath. Slaughter-calf do you say my name shall be?

Bris. Ay, ay, and mine Vamp.

Heath. And how do I look now? Like one that was begotten under a butcher's stall, I warrant, and born in a slaughter-house? I know there's never a Kill-cow i' th' city becomes a woollen apron better than I do.

Bris. Liker a calf than butcher; yet thy sheep's head will be some token thou cam'st from the Butch Row. Have a care thou dost not forget thyself, and talk of brooms instead of fly-flops, and old boots and shoes instead of calves' skins!

Heath. I am as artificial at the trade as the master o' th' company. I could sell Jupiter, were he a bull again. I am perfectly changed; I never knew Heath the broom-man or the price of a besom, never trafficked with maids o' th' kitchen, or shopboys for old boots and shoes.

Bris. Nor I for new, for all I'm a shoemaker. But to the design. Stand here; this is the road she walks; if thou fail'st, may thy woollen apron be spun into halters to hang thee in, and a stall be thy gibbet. [Exit.

Heath. If I don't act my part well, may I be a changeling indeed, and be begged for the city fool. If she be coy, and by her obstinacy hinder our plot, I'll quarter her out and sell her for cow-beef, make pettitoes of her fingers and trotters of her feet.

Enter Curdwell.

Curd. I have fresh cheese and cream!

Heath. Harmonious voice! The Witney singers are but chattering magpies to this melodious nightingale, and the tabor and pipe but as the scraping on a brass pan to this organ; sure, this is the beauty that I must court. If Cupid be not propitious now, I'll cut my brooms into rods, and whip the peevish boy. Lady (for so your beauty styles you), to whom the snow and swan are black, whether thou art a goddess, and come down to punish men, and make them die with love, or a mortal which excellest all goddesses, pity a wounded heart, which can receive no ease from any thing but those eyes from whom it did receive its wounds. There's no nectar or ambrosia but what thy pail affords; the moon would willingly be that the Welshmen wish it, so thou wouldst give it room amongst thy cheeses. Be not unkind, sweet lady; one cruel look will make this place my slaughter-house, and thee the butcher's butcher.

Curd. I dare not trust you, for all your fair words; men of your profession make it a trade to cheat us.

Heath. I'll be as faithful as thou art fair, and stick as close unto thee as my shirt does to my back on a sweltry sweating day. Come, thou shalt yield, and by yielding conquer me.

Curd. You set upon weak women with your strong compliments, and overcome them, whether they will or no. [He moves.

Heath. Move forward; we'll be contracted at the next alehouse, be married to-morrow, and have half a dozen children the next day. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Enter Welcome, a host.

Wel. Sure, I have slept myself into an owl, and mistake night for day? Can light dawn, and none see the way to my house for a morning's draught? No groats due? Did all my mad lads go sober to bed last night? Such a crime forfeits the city charter. What ho! speak here, sirrah Bung.

Enter Bung.

Bung. By and by! Who calls? O master, good morrow to you.

Wel. Why, it is day with thee too, Bung, and I no owl. Speak, prythee; how long is't since thou couldst grope the tap out?

Bung. O sir, this two hours. I have cut two dozen of toasts, broached a new barrel of ale, washed all the cups and flagons, made a fire i' th' George,[240] drained all the beer out of th' Half-Moon the company left o' the floor last night, wiped down all the tables, and have swept every room. The sun has been up this hour almost.

Wel. Ay, there's an honest soaker; the old blade swills himself i' th' sea all night, and quaffs from th' earth all day, and that makes him have such a ruby face. But what, no customers yet?

Bung. Not one, sir; our old charwoman, Mary, has not called for her morning's draught yet—she that's the tub for all men's snuffs, and devours me more tappings than would serve to make strong waters for an army.

Wel. Sure, all the beer that was drunk yesterday had poppy in't instead of malt; and people are not yet awake, or else they mistake my house for a prison, and my old lattice for grates. Come, Bung, we'll give ourselves handsel; go, fill's a lusty pot of ale. [Exit Bung.] This is a precious varlet, and has tricks enou' to furnish all the tapsters between Charing Cross and Fleet Bridge. The sleights of nicking and frothing he scorns as too common, but supplies that defect with little jugs and great glasses, and where he fears a dissolution, brings up his flagon, begins the king's health, and with that decoy draws on another dozen or two, till the whole royal progeny is gone over. He wished it once as numerous as old Priam's was, and another time had like to have been hanged for praying treason, that there were a hundred kings i' th' land, that men might be forced to drink all their healths for fear of displeasing any.

Re-enter Bung.

Bung. Here, sir, here's a cup of stinging liquor; it is so thick that you may slice it, and came drivelling out as if the loving vessel had been loth to part with it.

Wel. How? 'tis cold; the rogue has put ice into't instead of toast, or else one of's hundred leger wafers the baker dried for him t'other day in's oven, after his bread was drawn, for the yeast of two barrels. [Aside.] You rascal, cheat your master?

Bung. Cry you mercy, good sir; I protest I had forgot who 'twas for, and popped it in before I was aware; but I'll air it for you instantly, if you please.

Wel. No, no, I'll warm't myself, and it shall warm me. Come, here's to all good swallows! So, so, one cup of ale will shroud one better from the cold than all the furs in Russia.

Within. Tapster, where are you? Show's a room here.

Bung. Anon, anon, sir. You are welcome, gentlemen. Please you, walk into th' George; there's a good fire, and no company. [Exit.

Wel. To see what luck a handsel will procure! No sooner the cup out of my mouth but another called for! It seems it stayed at me all this while; a dry, shabby host is more absurd than a dumb Exchange. These are some boon fellows, I know; the rogue is so perfect in his lerry.[241] Ditty and's comrades, perhaps; the rascal can never sing well till he has wetted his whistle at my house. He made me set up the sign o' th' Flying Horse for a Pegasus. Budget the tinker, too, is as good at cracking a pot as any, and Bristle the merriest, cunningest whoreson; he sells his traps twopence dearer, only by giving rules how to bait them—for a Dutch mouse, with butter forsooth, or bacon; and then for a Welsh one, toasted cheese is the best.

Enter Bung again.

Bung. The gentlemen within desire your company.

Wel. What are they?

Bung. The four churchwardens o' th' parish, that never exceed halfpence apiece at a morning's draught, must have a flagon instead of a black-pot, and fire, toast and nutmeg over and above; nay, sometimes a breakfast too.

Wel. And when they mount so high as a penny, drink at Widow Grunt's—she that has an eleven children, and say they are prodigal, merely out of charity to the poor orphan pigs; but at th' hall, on a court-day, can be as drunk as so many tinkers at Banbury, or nurses at a christ'ning! Pox on 'um, tell 'um I am busy with other company.

Bung. Nay, sir, they protest they'll have your jug in.[242]

Wel. They shall have me too then, and for once I'll obey their summons; but let 'um expect to pay for all they call for, and therefore for me. [Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

Enter Gum, a tooth-drawer.

Gum. Have you any corns upon your feet or toes? any teeth to draw? O, for a flood now or a whole year of rain, that every step may be up to the ankles in water, and cover every toe with a corn! May the shoemakers make all their shoes too strait, that they may pinch the sore-toed miser, and at every tread put him in mind of work for the corn-cutter! May the toothache be an hereditary disease, and prove infectious, or so many aldermen be turned into marble that the whole city may get rotten teeth with eating of sugar-plums and sweetmeats at their funerals.

Enter Ditty.

Ditty. The Seven Wise Men of Gotam, a Hundred Merry Tales, Scoggin's Jests, or A Book of Prayers and Graces for Young Children.

Gum. What news-books, Ditty? Any proclamations that they must forfeit all their toes that have no corns, or that they must never eat good victuals that have not the toothache? Are red mufflers and slashed shoes come into fashion? They are as sure signs of the ache of teeth and toes as a red lattice of an alehouse.

Ditty. No, truly, Master Gum, I have none of these books, but I have as good. I have very strange news from beyond seas.

Gum. What is't? Do they want corn-cutters or tooth-drawers? prythee, let's hear it.

Ditty. The King of Morocco has got the black jaundice, and the Duke of Westphalia is sick of the swine-pox with eating bacon; the Moors increase daily, and the King of Cyprus mourns for the Duke of Saxony, that is dead of the stone; and Presbyter John is advanced to Zealand; the sea ebbs and flows but twice in four-and-twenty hours, and the moon has changed but once the last month.

Gum. Hold, hold! here's enough to tire the dove's neck, before she gets home.

Enter Budget.

Bud. Well, I must strike whilst the iron's hot. Good Vulcan, be assistant, and grant that some spark of love may be kindled in her heart, and that I may with my compliments, as with the bellows of rhetoric, blow the coals of good-will, and with my forked arguments stir up the fire of affection in her! I have been filing my nose and anviling down my chin this two days, and yet just now there was scarce room enough for her sweet lips and mine to meet. She calls me Vulcan and Cyclops, and says I shall be hanged up for the sign of the Black Boy. But 'tis no matter. It may be, when she calls me Vulcan, she would have me make her my Venus!

Ditty. Who is this trough that he is about to run away with?

Bud. Well, I'll try both ways.

Ditty. How now, Budget? Can you sing your ballad yet? Come, are you perfect?

Bud. Not yet, Ditty; but is't to the tune o' th' Bleeding Heart, do you say?

Ditty. Ay, ay; but what makes you so pale, Budget? There's a cup of ale at mine host Welcome's will make your nose of another colour.

Bud. O Ditty, there is a nail knocked into my heart! It pricks, it pricks.

Gum. Why, if you can't wrench it out, we'll send for a smith.

Ditty. Has Cupid played the joiner with you, then? Who is't he has fastened to your heart with that nail? What metal is she made of, that you cannot hammer her?

Bud. It is the city's beauty!

Ditty. The city's beauty? who's that? One of my lord major's spaniels?

Gum. I knew a bitch of that name was a very pretty dog, and would fetch and carry as nimbly as any porter in the town.

Bud. What, villain, do you make a puppy of me! I'll kick you into glove-dogs, you mongrels, hell-hounds, whelps! [Kicks them.

Ditty. Hold, good Budget, a jest is but a jest; I spoke but in jest.

Gum. Nor I, indeed, Master Budget.

Bud. Then I kicked you but in jest.

Gum. Ay, ay, sir, we take it so; you must think, if it had been in earnest, though it had been the best man i' th' land, he had kicked his last.

Bud. Had he so, slave?

Gum. Yes, when he had done kicking.

Dit. Good Budget, be pacified, and we'll recompense the injury we have done you with our forwardness to promote your desires and translation out of the circle of love into the wedding-ring.

Bud. Thanks, kind Ditty; walk along with me, and I will show thee the sweet empress of my heart. I am appeased. [Exeunt.

SCENE VII.

Enter Bristle and Jenniting.

Bris. Yes, truly, I am one of the gentle craft, though I have got somewhat of the tailor's trade too; some hangers on—fellow-travellers, that I cannot be rid of, though, are still upon my back: they put me to foul shifts sometimes.

Jen. Then you know Crispianus?

Bris. Yes, he is a saint amongst us, of whose votaries I am one, that each Monday morning liquor his altar with ale, and grease it with bacon.

Jen. So you sacrifice the hog to get the bristles?

Bris. She knows my name, sure. [Aside.] But 'tis no matter for him. Hereafter I'll know no saints but thee; be not therefore unkind, but look with a favourable aspect on him that can expect no bad influence from so benign a star.

Jen. You do but flatter me; I am not so good a one as you make me.

Bris. Now, by Jove, thou art fairer than Calisto (and more like a bear), more divine than Cassiopeia! Do but consider that every sow has a ring, and will not you have one?

Jen. Well, Vamp, you know how to take the length of women's feet.

Bris. Come, my Jenniting, we will have twins every year.

Jen. Such as shall be christened at Saint James' tide, I warrant!

Bris. No, no; two boys and so many wenches, that we will furnish the whole city with herb-women and costermongers of our own progeny; there shall not be an apple-wife in the whole country but she shall be ingrafted into some branch of our family: not a day in the whole year shall pass but some tree of our stock shall be set, till we have enough to plant a wilderness and people it. Go, pack up thy treasure; the time flies too fast, but we'll outstrip it. To-night we'll be at a place some ten miles off, where a house ready-furnished waits for thee, with all things necessary for the celebration of our nuptials. I'll fit thee with a pair of shoes; let's see thy foot. It is of the eighteens; thou shalt have a strapping pair. Make haste.

Jen. Thanks, kind Vamp; all that I have is thine. [Exit.

Bris. I hope so, or else my plot fails me: if Heath speed with Nancy Curds as well as I have with Hanna Jenniting, we shall make quick work with 'um; we shall fledge ourselves before we fly. Let them husband what we leave 'um as well as they can. [Exit.

SCENE VIII.

Enter Heath and Curds.

Heath. Yes, it is a very neat house; 'tis at the, sign of the Bull; 'tis newly covered with calves'-skins, and paved with knuckle-bones. Thou shalt not deny me; we'll be there to-night; and 'tis but three hours' journey. Let me have thy bundles of necessaries an hour hence, and I'll see 'um safe sent before. Thou shalt be the lady o' th' town.

Curds. I have been one in my days, when we kept the Whitson ale, where we danced The Building of London Bridge upon wool-packs[243] and The Hay[244] upon a grass-plat, and when we were aweary with dancing hard, we always went to the cushion dance.

Heath. Ay, we'll have dancing at our wedding too, when the cups of canary have made our heads frisk. O, how we shall foot it, when we can scarce stand, and caper when we are cut in the leg! The first year shall be a leap-year with us.

Curds. What shall we have at our wedding dinner? We'll be sure of a plum-pudding, that shall be the very flower of the feast.

Heath. Then a leg of beef shall walk round the table, like a city captain with a target of lamb before it: a snipe, with his long bill, shall be a serjeant, and a capon carry the drumsticks. Thou shalt be lady-general, and pick out the choicest of every dish for thy life-guard.

Curds. I'll pay them to the full. [Aside.

Heath. Till anon good-bye. [Exit Heath.

Enter Budget, Ditty, Gum.

Ditty. Pox o' thy ugly face! ca'st not sing but thou must cry too? Look, there she is; good Gum, hold my shop a little.

Bud. And mine too.

Gum. Now do I look like one of the pillars in the Exchange. [Exit.

Bud. Sweet lady, smile on me.

Curds. [Aside.] Hissing adders!

Bud. Now merrily:
For if thou frown on me,
Sure I shall die.
Both. Sure I shall die, &c.

Curds. Croaking toads.

Bud. Thy eyes, like a cockatrice,
Kill with a look:
They shine like the sun,
I'd swear on a book.

Curds. Away, screech-owls!

Both. I swear on a book, &c. [Exit Curds.

Bud. Stay, Ditty, she is deaf, and would not hear though Orpheus played, nor be moved though the stones and trees danced.

Ditty. Give me thy letter then—I'll run after her and deliver it myself.

Bud. Prythee, do, kind-hearted Ditty.

Ditty. O, what a nimble Cupid shall I be! Venus herself will mistake me for her boy.

Bud. I'll wait here till thou returnest.

[Exit Ditty.[245]

SCENE IX.

Enter Bristle and Heath.

Bris. What, did she melt easily? Was she pliable?

Heath. O, like cobbler's wax; she stuck to my fingers: I could hardly get her off, and had much ado to persuade her not to undo herself quite. She would have had me gone home and took all; nay, would have robbed her aunt too, but that I should cheat her sufficiently. This will be the best day's work I have done this many a year.

Bris. And yet all my rhetoric could scarce persuade you to be wise.

Heath. I am thy scholar, and thou shalt find I'll prove an apt one. If I am not as perfect at the art as thyself in a short time, may I never be made free, but always steal for others, and be hanged myself.

Bris. Yet still thou owest thy learning unto me; if I had not been thy master, thou might'st have sat at home now with a cup of cold water and thy precious jewel, a contented mind, wishing thou hadst but money enough to pay a forfeit for being drunk, though thy empty pockets forced thee to be sober.

Heath. Come, prythee, leave; I myself do now laugh at my former ignorance. Thou hast infused a new soul into me; thou hast played hocus-pocus with me, I think, and juggled Gusmond or country Tom's legerdemain into me. There's not such a change in all the Metamorphosis.

Bris. And now thou hast[246] bargained with thy whey-faced wench, what hast thou gained by the project? nothing but wit.

Heath. Yes, a silver bodkin and thimble, and as many curds as would serve the court ladies for a twelvemonth, besides the box laden with all the plate and household stuff that her pitchy fingers could stick to in six years' service, with which I believe she now waits for me at the appointed place. What we can't turn into money we will into ale, and drink it out. Mine host Welcome has a cup of blessed lull.[247]

Bris. Away, make haste, we'll empty his cellar to-night, and draw his barrels out into our hogshead.

Heath. I'll outfly the swift. [Exit Heath.

Bris. But scarce outgo an owl. This fellow will I so tutor, that he shall rob Mercury himself, surpass Prometheus, and steal the sun from heaven! Filch away Venus's box of beauty, and pawn it to ladies, not to be redeemed but by the golden apple that Paris gave her! Jupiter's thunder, too, and sell it to besieged towns for granadoes!

Enter Jenniting with a bundle.

O, here comes my precious Hanna, never so lovely as now, when she brings a bundle along with her! That beauty-spot makes her look fair. Come, my sweeting; every minute was an age till thou camest. But why so wrinkled? Those looks do not become a bride.

Jen. Is there no danger of drowning? I am ready to sink every time I think of the water. I cannot choose but quake ever since I was in the ducking-stool.

Bris. Never fear it. Thou shalt be Queen o' th' Thames, and command the waves; be crowned with water-cresses, and enrobed in watered grogerum. The Nymphs shall curl thy hair, and Syrens sing thy nuptials. The sea shall drink thy health, till it spews and purges again, and swell with pride, that it can carry thee.

Jen. These lines are strong enough to hold an anchor.

Bris. Dolphins shall bring musicians on their backs, and spout out cans of beer beyond the conduits on the Mayor's-day.

Jen. We'll have a fish-dinner, too, and the Lady o' th' Lobster shall be Mistress o' th' Feast.

Bris. Yes, yes; and Triton's trumpet shall echo up each mess, while we sound the bottom of our ocean cups, and drown god Neptune in a sea of wine! But let not your sister Nancy hear of it for your ears. She'll raise a tempest will ship-wreck all our hopes; she'll storm louder than the winds. Meet me here two hours hence with all your tacklings. I'll see this bundle shall be safe. The ruddy sky promises a fair gale; if the winds fail us and blow enviously, we'll blast Æolus. [Exeunt.

SCENE X.

Enter Ditty.

Ditty. Well, if ever I carry love-letters again, may they make a love-letter of me; turn my skin to paper, my skull to an inkhorn, and make a pen of my nose; it will be excellent for a fast hand, for it runs continually, and is so moist that it will write without ink! Nay, if ever I thrust myself into wedding businesses again, may a piece of match be my bane; may the bridegroom wring my ears off, hang me in the bride's garter, or drown me in the sack posset; and if he bury me, bestow this threadbare epitaph—

Here lieth Tom Ditty under this stone,
That carried love-letters; reader, go on,—
But stay! wouldst thou know the cause of his death?
Th' long-winded letter put him out of breath.

The next epistle I carry for Budget, he shall carry himself; I'll not be his post, to be her beating-block too. Pox on's kettledrum! 'tis good for nothing but to call the moon out of an eclipse, and he'll serve for nought neither, but a chimney-sweeper's shadow, or bugbear to fright froward children. I'll have some revenge on him, and deliver him up into her hands. If she do not sufficiently punish him, I'll forgive him.

Enter Budget.

Ditty. O, here comes the chimney, the man of soot, the picture of smoke and cinders!

Bud. O Ditty! I see by thy face there's ill news.

Ditty. Ay, pox on't! I was set upon yonder by a company of women, and had like to have been scolded into a cripple for singing Room for Cuckolds t'other day.

Bud. But what said my Nancy? Did she smile, and say that all her denials were maiden's nays? Is she softened, and will she now let me taste her strawberry lips willingly?

Ditty. Yes, and give you cream to 'um too. Why, she is almost mad for you, and has bespoke a place in Bedlam already. If you do not go quickly and recover her, she'll either be turned into a kettle with grief, or melt into bell-metal, that she may be made a posnet of. Nay, and desired me to tell you that if after her transformation she chance ever to come under your hands to be mended, she would desire you to use her gently, and that you should know which was she, she had provided in her will that H. L. may be set on her handle for Nancy Curdwell.

Bud. I will, I will; I'll mend her with sugar-nails and a Naples biscuit-hammer. But is there no way to persuade her to live still a woman? I would be loth to carry my wife at my back, and have one with three legs.

Ditty. If you make haste, you may chance to come before she is quite changed; you may save a leg, perhaps, or an arm of flesh yet; but I believe the most part of her is brass already.

Bud. Good Ditty, go along with me; if she be a pot before I come, I'll weep it full of tears, and then be boiled to death in't. [Exeunt.

SCENE XI.

Enter Gum with the Tinker's budget and Ballad-man's box.

Any old pots or kettles to mend? Will you buy my ballads? or have you any corns on your feet-toes? Nay, I am Jack-of-all-trades now. Three is a perfect number, and so many I have. Nay, Master Tinker, you kicked me to-day; but since you are so light of your heels, I'll make you walk after your budget before you have it. 'T shall be in trouble presently, not to be delivered without a fee. I'll drink as much ale on the kettle as will fill it; the rest o' th' tools shall go for jugs apiece; and then, Master Ditty, I will be merry with your ballads, too. They must be in lavender a little, and soak. If they will but yield me draughts apiece, I care not, and the box shall serve to score on. But stay, had I not better burn it, to bake the toasts and warm the ale? Hang't! 'tis but engaging the books twopence or a groat deeper, and have some three or four bundles of straws like faggots, and 'twill be a-la-mode.

Enter Bristle and Heath with bundles. Gum retires.

Bris. She'll say I am a pretty jewel to run away with her cabinet; but 'tis no matter. This box will make me flourish all the year long.

Gum. So, so; here are companions that will help drink the sea dry: mere gulfs or whirlpools, that suck in all that comes nigh 'um.

Bris. Come, Heath, open thy treasury. What's the first pearl?

Gum. These ale-suckers, too, are a-going to liquor some prize that their lime-twig fingers have seized upon.

Heath. A pair of silver-handled knives. These, I believe, she made when she lived with my Lady May'ress. Next, a pair of white gloves; these she had at the funeral of a dear friend, for whose sake she meant to be buried in 'um herself; and how would Cerberus take it, to see one come to hell with a dog-skin pair of gloves? A silken garter! This, I warrant it, she had at a wedding, and intended to bestow it on her own bridemaid. Then a pair of scissors——

Gum. Sure, these villains have robbed an haberdasher, and stole a box of small-ware. [Aside.

Heath sings.

Come out to the light,
Than which thou'rt more bright:
This box thee no longer shall harbour.
'Tis thou that hast made
Me o' th' triple trade—
A tailor, a sempster, a barber.
With thee I will shave
The barbarian slave,
And trim up the youngsters of Poland,
Make a jump of Aleppo,
Of Friesland a[nd] Joppo,
And a stately brave shirt of Holland.

Gum. [Coming forward.] Well sung of a woodcock. Come, thou must go have thy pipe tuned at mine host Welcome's; thou art like the glass pipe, that will never whistle but when there's water in't.

Heath. Ho, ho! What, furniture for a whole fair upon thy back at once? Dressed up just like the wooden boys on haberdashers' stalls.

Bris. Three strings to thy bow at once? Sure, thou canst not break when thou hast such a triple cord to hold thee.

Gum. A single one, I believe, would spoil your drinking; 'twould tie up your guzzle.

Bris. But how dar'st thou walk abroad before owl-light? Dost think there's no birds stirring still that will spy out these feathers? Come, off with thy box of poetry, the Muses' warehouse, Calliope's Cabinet. 'Tis ominous to have the string about thy neck. If thou art taken with 'um, thou may'st be condemned to make as many wry mouths as the squeaking owner did, when he last strained and vomited 'um out at Smithfield or Pye Corner.

Gum. O, there's no fear of that, though he that these call master had my neck in a slip. These are Ditty's, and these Budget's; they gave 'um me to hold a little; but I'll carry 'um to the Flying Horse, and change 'um for a cup of Helicon, which will in half an hour make me able to repay the paltry rhymes in heroic verse.

Bris. Come, shall we join together? we three are able to sponge up all the ale i' th' city, and raise the price of malt.

Gum. A match; as far as these will go, I'm for you.

Heath. And when they're gone, we'll drink our very shirts out, and then pawn ourselves too. [Exeunt.

SCENE XII.

Enter Jenniting and Curds.

Jen. Was he a butcher, say you?

Curds. Ay, and called me his pretty lamb and his sweetbread; told me he would meet me here two hours ago, and promised me mountains; but bid me I should not tell you on't.

Jen. They are mere rogues, very jugglers; they have cheated us both. Just so did the shoemaker do to me.

Curds. He has got my box of milled sixpences and Harry groats: the gilded scissors that were given me for a New Year's gift, and my bodkin and thimble.

Jen. I would they might both feed upon nothing but rotten apples, and be choked with pears!

Curds. Or a piece of clout be left in the next fresh cheese they eat, and strangle 'um; or a favourable spider drop into the cream, and drown himself, that he may poison them.

Enter Ditty and Budget.

Ditty. 'Slife, lose [not] this opportunity; there she is; on, I say, and I'll be your second. I warrant she had been dead before this time, but that she smelt your breath hard by, or else knew by sympathy that you were coming.

Bud. Did the letter work so strangely on her, are you sure? I would not willingly venture my lips for a kiss, or my eyes for a look.

Ditty. Why, I tell thee she was so nigh a dissolution when I left her, that I thought to have found her in a sand-box, or begged by some vintner to keep bottled wine in, before I could return.

Bud. Well, I'll try, though she squeeze me into verjuice, and stamp my bones into small coal, that they may be twice burnt. [Advances.] O my honeycomb, milksop Nancy, whiter than the powder of chalk, and (like it) able to scour off the dirt of sullied drabs, and paint them with a brightness as glustering as thy own.

Curds. Out, you sooty goblin, besmeared dolt! dost think I'll couple with a negro, to bring forth magpies, half white and half black? Take me for a bee, to knit at the sound of a brass kettle or frying-pan? Bundle of charcoal, furred crock, dost think I'll hang in thy pot-hook arm? Hence, or I'll beat thee worse than the Bridewell crew does hemp!

Ditty. Ay, ay, read him the same lesson you conned me!

Bud. Sweet Mistress Curds, be not so sour. Good Ditty, stop her mouth.

Ditty. Hold, hold, Nancy! He thought all women like pots of ale, and that tinkers might call for 'um as freely as the finest customer; this crab-tree lecture will teach him better manners hereafter.

Jen. Ay, sister, do not foul your mouth any more with the checker-faced scullion; let him go.

Ditty. Come, then, and shake hands; we'll fine him for's sauciness, and his ransom shall be half a dozen at mine host Welcome's. Come, come, you shall be friends, and I'll perfect the reconciliation with a song.

Bud. Half a dozen! We'll score out all the chalk i' th' house, and make the tapster fetch one o' th' city clerks to sum up the reckoning.

Jen. Come, sister, let's go drink sorrows dry; and a woman's anger should be like jack-weights—quickly up and quickly down. [Exeunt.

SCENE XIII.

Enter Welcome.

Wel. Ay, ay, 'tis the rich face that keeps us from poverty. If the tailor's countenance were in fashion now, and all that had fiery faces were counted comets, what a decay would there be amongst our houses of good fellowship. How our cans would rot and jugs grow musty for want of use! I would the whole city were jugs and cans, that they might never be in good case but when they're full of good liquor. I fear this will be a bad year for all of our profession; salt meats are grown out of fashion, and Lent will be forgotten this year, and, for aught I know, the next Papist that's drunk may make the people condemn it for superstition because he uses it. Forbid, thou who ever art patron of good fellowship!

Enter Bung.

Bung. [To some one within.] I'll be with you presently. Master, can you give me a groat and sixpence for a twopence.

Wel. Who is't for?

Bung. For a couple of strangers i' th' King's Head; they have sat preaching this two hours over two cans, and called me rogue and rascal for not giving attendance, and setting a chamber-pot for 'um. They've twopence to pay.

Wel. Then thou'dst have me give 'um eightpence to be gone, ha!

Bung. A groat and twopence for a sixpence, I mean.

Wel. There 'tis; go, be nimble. [Exit Bung.] We have had but small takings to-day; men have got the squincy or stopping of the throat, I think—they drink so slowly. May it turn to the dropsy, that they may never be weary of drinking, but that every draught may but make room for two more! 'Twill never be a good world while there's any but Welsh taverns, such as sell nothing but ale and tobacco; these French and Spanish ones will be the undoing of us all; men are grown such dottrels, that they had rather give five or six shillings to be drunk, like the Spaniard, with canary, or the Frenchman, with claret, than so many pence to be foxed with their own native beer.

Enter Bung.

Bung. O master, master, yonder's Ditty and Budget come in with two doxies! Ditty swears he'll have one of 'um, though she cuckold him the first night, and clap a pair of horns upon his head, that will confine him to his chamber till rutting-time come, and he shed 'um.

Wel. Who are they which they're enamoured so with?

Bung. The one's Nancy Curds and the other Hanna Jenniting; Ditty and Jenniting are agreed already; now, if you'll go promote Budget's suit, and make a conclusion between him and Curds, the wedding will be kept at our house, and we shall, besides the getting by the victuals, put off the barrel of sour beer by and by. [Exit.

Wel. Well said, Bung: the crafti'st knave alive! I should be glad to see both Budget and Ditty in the way of multiplying; all their progeny cannot choose but be friends to the black pot, and will be notable tipplers, I warrant 'um, as soon as they come to the sucking-bottle. I'll go myself and contract 'um. [Exit.

SCENE XIV.

Enter Bristle, Heath, Gum.

Bris. Pox o' the ugly baboon! she has got a face like a Bartholomew Fair baby, and a mouth like the whale that swallowed a whole fleet. Her fingers are rolling-pins, and her arms coal-staves! Hang her, what should women do with money, or anything that's good?

Heath. You say true. If we had let 'um alone, I warrant these boxes had been kept till they were mouldy, visited but once a quarter, and at last bequeathed by will and testament to some silly sober well-wisher of hers in her lifetime.

Bris. One that never drank above four-shilling beer but once at a christening, and then had like to have got a red nose by it, cannot distinguish between a jug and a flagon, never was in an alehouse, knows not what a bush means, nor ever spent above twopence in his life, and that was upon a prayer-book.

Gum. Your tongues, methinks, run very glib; I wonder they do not screek for want of liquor. What, tapster? attendance here.

Bung. Anon, anon, sir; I have it in my hand.

Enter Tapster.

Tap. You're welcome, gentlemen; here's a cup of the best ale in London.

Bris. How? gentlemen? untutored slave, saucy villain! Gentlemen? why, sirrah, do I look like a gentleman? I scorn thy terms, and let this kick put thee in mind of better language.

Bung. Cry you mercy, I mistook you indeed.

Heath. Sirrah, we'll make you know who you mistake; call one of your master's best customers gentleman!

Bung. [To some one outside.] Anon, anon, sir; I'll be with you presently.

Bris. Sirrah, bid your master come in.

[Exit Tapster.

Gum. Come, here's a round to the first inventor of the famous art of drinking.

Bris. No, no; to the first finder out of the noble art of brewing; for we should be forced to drink water else.

Heath. To neither; but to the first most commendable alehouse-keeper that sold three cans for twopence; he is the chief benefactor we have. Come, three cans to his health!

Gum, Bris. A match!

Enter Welcome, Ditty, Budget, Jenniting, Curds.

Wel. Set you merry, my merry, merry lads; what, do the cans dance nimbly?

Heath. Yes, but we want a pipe or two; good mine host, let's have some whiff.

Wel. Here's a musician; honest Ditty and Budget too: if they do not make up the consort, they are very much out of tune.

Ditty. O Gum, have we found you out? my box, you slave!

Bud. And my budget!

Wel. Come, set about, set about, my boon companions.

Bris. A devil on your snout! oatmeal face and tallow-chops, how came you hither with a pox, trow?

Heath. Look here, Bristle, how like shorn sheep they look. Where shall we run? they have cast me into a fit o' th' shaking palsy.

Bris. Come, we'll outface 'um.

Wel. Come, sit down, my jovial boys, and roar. This night we'll suck up all the dew.

Enter Bung, with tobacco.

Bung. Here's a pipe o' th' best tobacco that Christendom affords; it grew under the King of Spain's own window. [To other customers.] By and by; what do you want, sirs? [Exit.

Ditty. And I warrant he used to fling pisspots out on't.

Wel. We'll drink ourselves into fish, and eat ourselves into cormorants; we'll not fast, though it be an eve to a surfeiting gawdy day.

Heath. Is't an eve, say you? pray, what holiday is to-morrow?

Wel. Budget's and Ditty's nuptials. Drink freely; all is paid already, and you are Ditty's guests to-night as well as mine. There sit the brides. You shall not leave my house to-night, that I may be sure of you to-morrow morning at the solemnities; be merry then, and free. I'll pardon you your groats to-morrow, and none shall forfeit but he that is not drunk. [Exit Welcome.

Heath, Bris, Gum. Joy to the brides and bridegrooms!

Ditty. Gentlemen, you may see how quickly a man may be shuffled into a wedding; we liked at first sight, and why should we then defer our joys any longer?

Bud. Like the Spanish, I was beaten into love; but at last have overcome, thanks to mine host, that took my part.

Curds. And I cheated into a bride; he that stole away my box made up the match between you and me.

Bris. Is't so, i' faith? then, mistress bride, pray take this box. You know it, I believe, and me too.

Heath. And you this bundle.

Jen. The thing I was cheated of! Art thou the thief too? O, the very villain!

Curds. Lay hold of 'um, sweet Budget—the slaves that cheated us in a disguise.

Ditty. Come, what's the matter? we'll have no quarrelling to-night; we forgive all.

Gum. Then your books may be freed for eighteen-pence; that's all they are engaged for yet, and the budget but for two shillings.

Ditty, Bud. We forgive most willing.

Ditty. A porter would not have carried 'um so far for the price.

Bris. Here's a health to the brides, then, out of an extinguisher. I'll find 'um in mice-traps, brushes, steel and tinder-box all their lifetime.

Heath. And I with brooms.

Gum. I'll cut their corns for nothing, and draw their teeth for a touch of their lips.

Ditty. Defer that health till to-morrow; in the meanwhile let's have on[e] to the genius of good ale.

Omnes. Begin't, begin't!

Ditty. Submit, bunch of grapes,
To the strong barley ear:
The weak vine no longer
The laurel shall wear.

Bud. Sack and all drinks else,
Desist from the strife,
Ale's th' only aqua vitæ
And liquor of life.

All Tog. Then come, my boon fellows,
Let's drink it around;
It keeps us from th' grave,
Though it lays us o' th' ground.

Bud. Ale's a physician,
No mountebank bragger,
Can cure the chill ague,
Though't be with the stagger.

Ditty. Ale's a strong wrestler,
Flings all it hath met,
And makes the ground slippery,
Though't be not wet.

Omnes. But come, my boon, &c.

Ditty. Ale is both Ceres
And good Neptune too;
Ale's froth was the sea,
From whence Venus grew.

Bud. Ale is immortal,
And be there no stops,
In bonny lads quaffing,
Can live without hops,

Omnes. Then come, my boon fellows,
Let's drink it around,
It keeps us from th' grave,
Though it lays us o' th' ground.

[All drink.

Enter Welcome.

Wel. Well said, my whistling birds; 'tis spring with you all the year long, while the ale flourishes. Come, I have provided a supper will tire your teeth; 'tis but a prologue, though, of to-morrow's feast. I hope your appetites need no provocations. It now waits for you, but will not be ready till you concoct it. Come then, cheer up, my buxom girls; the cakes and posset my wife shall provide, and I'll engage myself to be father to you both. Ditty's ballads and his budget shall be cut out into favours and gloves. [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[239] See Hazlitt's "Handbook," art. Jack. Only a second part is at present known.

[240] It is well known that in our old inns the various rooms had separate names.

[241] The usual burden of a song.

[242] This points to the custom of the landlord, when he joined any guests at a table, contributing a free jug or bottle.

[243] This saying arose from the duty on wool, levied to defray the cost of rebuilding the bridge (Knight's "London," i. 79). Nancy alludes to a dance so called.

[244] A well-known and often-quoted dance. See the poem by N. Breton, in "England's Helicon," 1600, repr. Collier, p. 222.

[245] Although Budget promises to await Ditty's return, he appears to retire to the back of the stage.

[246] Old copy, hast thou.

[247] Ale.

[EPILOGUE.]

Welcome the Host.

Gentlemen and ladies, I am sent to you,
Not to beg cast-by sheets, a shirt or two,
Or clouts for th' teeming women, nor bespeak
Gossips or guests against the christ'ning week:
No off'ring for the married couple. What, then?
Only to bid you welcome, gentlemen,
Before your parting; and for th' women, beg
That, when they travail, you'ld not sit cross-leg.
But when their notes are turn'd to childbirth cries,
You'd cry good speed to their deliveries;
And if our cries have wanted mirth or wit,
There's one more left, We cry you mercy yet!

[THE SHEPHERDS' HOLIDAY.]

EDITION.

The Shepheards Holy-day. A pastorall tragi-Comœdie. Acted before their Majesties at Whitehall by the Queenes Servants. With an Eligie on the death of the most Noble Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby. London, Printed by N. and I. Okes for Iohn Benson.... 1635. 8o.

[This is one of the pieces which Isaac Reed did not retain in the edition of 1780, nor is it in that of 1825. Yet there is no apparent ground for its exclusion.

A piece bearing the same title as Rutter's was written by Sir W. Denny at a later date, and is printed from the original MS. in "Inedited Poetical Miscellanies," 1870.

It seems to be a hypothesis sufficiently plausible to justify a passing notice, in that one of the suppressed printed at the end of the "Private Memoirs of Sir Kinelm Digby," 1827, the intimacy of Digby with a royal personage is described in very warm terms and colours, and that Rutter, who was in Digby's family at one time, may have founded on what came to his ears the episode of Sylvia and Thyrsis in this production.]

[DODSLEY'S PREFACE.]

This author wrote in the reign of Charles the First. He lived with the Earl of Dorset, as tutor to his son, and translated, at the desire of his patron, the Cid of Corneille, a tragi-comedy, in two parts [1640-50, 8o]. It appears, from his dedication of this pastoral to Sir Kenelm Digby, that he lived also with that gentleman for some time, but in what capacity I cannot tell. The plainness and simplicity of this pastoral is commended by Thomas May, author of "The Heir" and "The Old Couple;" and also by Ben Jonson in the following lines—

"I have read
And weigh'd your play; untwisted every thread,
And know the woof and warp thereof; can tell
Where it runs round and even; where so well,
So soft, and smooth it handles, the whole piece,
As it were, spun by nature off the fleece."