A Tale of a Tub ACT 2. SCENE 6.

Hilts, Tub, Metaphore.

Hil.
You mean to make a Hoiden, or a Hare
O' me, t' hunt Counter thus, and make these doubles:
And you mean no such thing as you send about?
Where's your Sweet-heart now, I marle?

Tub.
Oh, Hilts!

Hil.
I know you of old! ne'er halt afore a Criple.
Will you have a Cawdle? where's your Grief, Sir? Speak?

Met.
Do you hear, Friend? Do you serve this Gen-
tleman?

Hil.
How then, Sir? what if I do? Peradventure yea:
Peradventure nay; what's that to you, Sir? Say?

Met.
Nay, pray you, Sir, I meant no harm in truth:

But this good Gentleman is arrested.

Hil.
How?
Say me that again.

Tub.
Nay, Basket, never storm;
I am arrested here, upon command
From the Queens Council; and I must obey.

Met.
You say, Sir, very true, you must obey.
An honest Gentleman, in faith!

Hil.
He must?

Tub.
But that which most tormenteth me, is this,
That Justice Bramble hath got hence, my Awdrey.

Hil.
How? how? stand by a little, Sirrah, you,
With the Badge o' your Breast. Let's know, Sir, what
you are?

Met.
I am, Sir, (pray you do not look so terribly)
A Purs'yvant.

Hil.
A Purs'yvant? Your Name, Sir?

Met.
My Name, Sir ——

Hil.
What is't? speak? Met. Miles Metaphor;
And Justice Preamble's Clerk.

Tub.
What says he?

Hil. Pray you,
Let us alone. You are a Purs'yvant?

Met.
No, faith, Sir, would I might never stir from you,
I' is made a Purs'yvant against my Will.

Hil.
Ha! and who made you one? tell true, or my Will
Shall make you nothing instantly.

Met.
Put up
Your frightful Blade; and your dead-doing look,
And I shall tell you all.

Hil.
Speak then the truth,
And the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Met.
My Master, Justice Bramble, hearing your Master,
The Squire Tub, was coming on this way,
With Mrs. Awdrey, the High Constable's Daughter;
Made me a Purs'yvant: and gave me Warrant
To arrest him, so that he might get the Lady,
With whom he is gone to Pancridge, to the Vicar,
Not to her Fathers. This was the Device,
Which I beseech you, do not tell my Master.

Tub.
O wonderful! well Basket, let him rise:
And for my free Escape, forge some Excuse.
I'll post to Paddington, t' acquaint old Turfe,
With the whole business, and so stop the Marriage.

Hil.
Well, bless thee: I do wish thee Grace to keep
Thy Masters Secrets, better, or be hang'd.

Met.
I thank you for your gentle admonition.
Pray you, let me call you God-father hereafter.
And as your God-son Metaphore, I promise,
To keep my Masters Privities, seal'd up
I' the Vallies o' my trust, lock'd close for ever,
Or let me be truss'd up at Tiburne shortly.

Hil.
Thine own Wish, save, or choak thee: Come
away.