Enter two or three Servants.
By this, sir, you confess you stole my niece,
And I attach you here of felony.
Lay hold on him! I'll make my mittimus,
And send him to the gaol; have we no bar
Nor clause to hamper you? away with him,
Those claws shall claw you to a bar of shame,
Where thou shalt show thy goll[428]. I'll bar your claim,
If I be Justice Tutchin.
Throat. Hands off, you slaves!
O, favour my jerkin, though you tear my flesh.
I set more store by that: my Audita
Querela shall be heard, and with a Certiorari
I'll fetch her from you with a pox.
Enter Beard.
Beard. What's here to do? is all the world in arms?
More tumults, brawls, and insurrections?
Is blood the theme, whereon our time must treat?
Throat. Here's Beard your butler: a rescue, Beard; draw.
Beard. Draw I not so: my blade's as ominously drawn
Unto the death of nine or ten such grooms,
As is a knife unsheath'd, with th' hungry maw,
Threat'ning the ruin of a chine of beef:
But for the restless toil it took of late,
My blade shall sleep awhile.
Throat. Help.
Beard. Stop thy throat.
And hear me speak, whose bloody characters
Will show I have been scuffling. Briefly thus:
Thy wife, your daughter, and your lovely niece,
Is hurri'd now to Fleet Street: the damn'd crew
With glaves and clubs have rapt her from these arms.
Throat, thou art bobb'd; although thou bought'st the heir,
Yet hath the slave made a re-entry.
Jus. Tut. Sirrah, what are you?