Tobias. Ay, now.
Wat. To her!—
And harkee, boy, this saying will serve you learn:
"The Queen, her high and glorious majesty!"
Simeon [gravely].
Long live the Queen!
Wat. Maker of golden laws
For baitings! She that cherishes the Borough
And shines upon our pastimes. By the mass!
Thank her for the crowd to-morrow. But for her,
We were a homesick handful of brave souls
That love the royal sport. These mouthing players,
These hookers, would 'a' spoiled us of our beer—
Prentice.
Lying by to catch the gentry at the stairs,—
All pressing to Bear Alley—
Wat. Run 'em in
At stage-plays and show-fooleries on the way.
Stage-plays, with their tart nonsense and their flags,
Their "Tamerlanes" and "Humors" and what not!
My life on't, there was not a man of us
But fared his Lent, by reason of their fatness,
And on a holiday ate not at all!
Tobias [solemnly].
'Tis so; 'tis so.
Wat. But when she heard it told
How lean the sport was grown, she damns stage-plays
O' Thursday. So: Nick gets his turn to growl!
Prentice.
As well as any player.
[With a dumb show of ranting among the Taverners.]
Wat. Players?—Hang them!
I know 'em, I. I've been with 'em.... I was
As sweet a gentlewoman in my voice
As any of your finches that sings small.