Timorous and Dullman take their Places on a long Bench placed behind the Table, to them Whimsey and Whiff, they seat themselves, then Boozer and two or three more; who seat themselves: Then enter two, bearing a Bowl of Punch and a great Ladle or two in it; the rest of the Stage being fill’d with People.
Whiff. Brothers, it hath often been mov’d at the Bench, that a new Punch-Bowl shou’d be provided, and one of a larger Circumference; when the Bench sits late about weighty Affairs, oftentimes the Bowl is emptied before we end.
Whim. A good Motion; Clerk, set it down.
Clerk. Mr. Justice Boozer, the Council has order’d you a Writ of Ease, and dismiss your Worship from the Bench.
Booz. Me from the Bench, for what?
Whim. The Complaint is, Brother Boozer, for drinking too much Punch in the time of hearing Tryals.
Whiff. And that you can neither write nor read, nor say the Lord’s Prayer.
Tim. That your Warrants are like a Brewer’s Tally, a Notch on a Stick; if a special Warrant, then a couple. Gods zoors, when his Excellency comes he will have no such Justices.
Booz. Why, Brother, though I can’t read my self, I have had [Dalton’s Country-Justice] read over to me two or three times, and understand the Law. This is your Malice, Brother Whiff, because my Wife does not come to your Warehouse to buy her Commodities,—but no matter, to show I have no Malice in my Heart, I drink your Health.—I care not this, I can turn Lawyer, and plead at the Board. Drinks, all pledge him, and hum.
Dull. Mr. Clerk, come to the Tryals on the Dockett. Clerk reads.