—Well, this won’t do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright appear, to talk obligingly:—perhaps the Song does not please her: you Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion?
1 Man. Yes, Sir, Several, Robin—Hark how the Waters fall, fall, fall!
Sir Cred. How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting.
1 Man. No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent Ballad that begins—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade! Sings.
Sir Cred. Ay, ay, that, we’ll have that,—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade,— Sings. That’s excellent! Oh, now the Windows open, now, now shew your capering Tricks. Vaulting. They all play again.
[Enter Roger] and a Company of Fellows as out of Sir Patient’s House, led on by Abel a precise Clerk, all armed with odd Weapons.
Abel. Verily, verily, here be these Babes of Perdition, these Children of Iniquity.
Rog. A pox of your Babes and Children, they are Men, and Sons of Whores, whom we must bang confoundedly, for not letting honest godly People rest quietly in their Beds at Midnight.
Sir Cred. Who’s there?
Rog. There, with a Pox to you; cannot a Right-worshipful Knight, that has been sick these Twenty Years with taking Physick, sleep quietly in his own House for you; and must we be rais’d out of our Beds to quiet your Hell-pipes, in the Devil’s name?