A Tale of a Tub ACT 1. SCENE 4.

Clay. [To them.

Cla.
No wusse. Che lighted, I, but now i' the yard:
Puppy ha' scarce unswadled my legs yet.

Tur.
What? wispes o' your Wedding-day, zon?
This is right
Originous Clay: and Clay o' Kilborn too!
I would ha' had Boots o' this day, zure, zon John.
Cla.

Cla.
I did it to save charg es: we mun dance,
O' this day, zure: and who can dance in boots?
No, I got on my best straw-coloured stockins,
And swaddel'd 'em over to zave Charges; I.

Tur.
And his new Shamois Doublet too with Points:
I like that yet: and his long Sawsedge-hose,
Like the Commander of Four smoaking Tile-kills,
Which he is Captain of: Captain of Kilborn:
Clay with his Hat turn'd up o' the leer side too:
As if he would leap my Daughter yet e'er night,
And spring a new Turfe to the old House.
Look, and the Wenches ha' not vound 'un out,
And do parzent un with a Van of Rosemary,
And Bays, to vill a Bow-pot, trim the Head
Of my best Vore-horse; we shall all ha' Bride-laces,
Or Points, I zee; my Daughter will be valiant,
And prove a very Mary Anbry i' the business.

Cle.
They zaid your Worship had sur'd her to Squire Tub
Of Totten-Court here; all the Hundred rings on't.
Tur. A Tale of a Tub, Sir, a meer Tale of Tub.
Lend it no Ear I pray you: The Squire Tub
Is a fine Man, but he is too fine a Man,
And has a Lady Tub too to his Mother:
I'll deal with none o' those vine silken Tubs.
John Clay, and Cloth-breech for my Money and Daughter.
Here comes another old Boy too, vor his Colours

[Enter Father Rosin.

Will stroak down my Wives Udder of Purses, empty
Of all her Milk-money, this Winter Quarter:
Old Father Rosin, the chief Minstrel here:
Chief Minstrel too of Highgate: she has hir'd him
And all, his two Boys for a day and a half,
And now they come for Ribbanding, and Rosemary:
Give 'em enough Girls, gi' 'em enough, and take it
Out in his Tunes anon.

Cle.
I'll ha' Tom Tiler,
For our John Clay's sake, and the Tile-kills, zure.

Med.
And I the jolly Joyner, for mine own sake.

Pan.
I'll ha'the joviall Tinker for To-Pan's sake.

Tur.
We'll all be jovy this day, vor son Valentine.
My sweet son John's sake.

Scri. There's another reading now:
My Mr. reads it Son, and not Sin Valentine.

Pup.
Nor Zim: And he is i'the right. He is high Constable.
And who should read above 'un, or avor 'hun?

Tur.
Son John shall bid us welcome all, this day:
We'll zerve under his colours: Lead the troop John,
And Puppy, see the Bells ring. Press all noises
Of Finsbury, in our name; D'ogenes Scriben
Shall draw a score of warrants vor the business.
Do's any wight perzent hir Majesties person,
This Hundred, 'bove the high Constable? All. No, no.

Tur.
Use our Authority then, to the utmost on't.