A Tale of a Tub ACT 3. SCENE 6.

Turfe, Awdrey, Clench, Medlay, Pan, Scriben.

Tur.
Well, I have carried it, and will triumph
Over this Justice, as becomes a Constable;
And a High Constable: next our Saint George,
Who rescued the King's Daughter, I will ride;
Above Prince Arthur.

Cle.
Or our Shore-ditch Duke.

Med.
Or Pancridge Earl.

Pan.
Or Bevis, or Sir Guy,
Who were High Constables both.

Cle.
One of Southampton ——

Med.
The t'other of VVarwick-Castle.

Tur.
You shall work it
Into a Story for me, neighbour Medlay,
Over my Chimney.

Scri.
I can give you, Sir,
A Roman Story of a Petty-Constable,

That had a Daughter, that was call'd Virginia,
Like Mrs. Awdrey, and as young as she;
And how her Father bare him in the business,
'Gainst Justice Appius, a Decemvir in Rome,
And Justice of Assize.

Tur.
That, that good D'ogenes!
A Learned Man is a Chronicle!

Scri.
I can tell you
A thousand, of great Pompey, Cæsar, Trajan,
All the High Constables there.

Tur.
That was their place:
They were no more.

Scr.
Dictator, and High Constable,
Were both the same.

Med.
High Constable was more, though!
He laid Dick Tator by the heels.

Pan.
Dick Toter!
H' was one o' the Waights o' the City: I ha' read o' 'un:
He was a fellow would be drunk, debauch'd ———
And he did zet 'un i' the Stocks indeed:
His name Vadian, and a cunning Toter.

Awd.
Was ever silly Maid thus posted off?
That should have had three Husbands in one day;
Yet (by bad Fortune) am possest of none?
I went to Church to have been wed to Clay;
Then Squire Tub he seiz'd me on the way,
And thought to ha' had me; but he mist his aim:
And Justice Bramble (nearest of the three)
Was well nigh married to me; when by chance,
In rush'd my Father, and broke off that dance.

Tur.
I, Girl, there's ne'er a Justice on 'em all,
Shall teach the Constable to guard his own:
Let's back to Kentish-town, and there make merry;
These news will be glad tidings to my Wife:
Thou shalt have Clay, my wench. That word shall stand.
He's found by this time, sure, or else he's drown'd:
The Wedding-dinner will be spoil'd: make haste.

Awd.
Husbands, they say, grow thick; but thin are
sown.
I care not who it be, so I have one.

Tur.
I? zay you zo? Perhaps you shall ha' none, for
that.

Awd.
Now out on me! what shall I do then?

Med.
Sleep, Mistris Awdrey, dream on proper Men.