ONE.
[Within.] Good master porter, I belong to th’ larder.
PORTER.
Belong to th’ gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones. These are but switches to ’em. I’ll scratch your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?
PORTER’S MAN.
Pray, sir, be patient. ’Tis as much impossible—
Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons—
To scatter ’em as ’tis to make ’em sleep
On May-day morning, which will never be.
We may as well push against Paul’s as stir ’em.
PORTER.
How got they in, and be hanged?
PORTER’S MAN.
Alas, I know not. How gets the tide in?
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot—
You see the poor remainder—could distribute,
I made no spare, sir.
PORTER.
You did nothing, sir.
PORTER’S MAN.
I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
To mow ’em down before me; but if I spared any
That had a head to hit, either young or old,
He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again—
And that I would not for a cow, God save her!
ONE.
[Within.] Do you hear, master porter?
PORTER.
I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.—
Keep the door close, sirrah.
PORTER’S MAN.
What would you have me do?