A Tale of a Tub ACT 3. SCENE 8.

Turfe, D. Turfe, Lady Tub, Pol-Martin, Awdrey, Puppy.

Tur.
Well, Madam, I may thank the Squire your Son:
For, but for him, I had been over-reacht.

D. Tur.
Now Heavens Blessing light upon his Heart:
We are beholden to him, indeed, Madam.

Lad.
But can you not resolve me where he is?
Nor about what his Purposes were bent?

Tur. Madam, they no whit were concerning me:
And therefore was I less inquisitive.

Lad.
Fair Maid, in faith, speak truth, and not dissemble:
Do's he not often come, and visit you?

Awd.
His Worship, now and then, please you, takes
pains
To see my Father and Mother: But, for me,

I know my self too mean for his high thoughts
To stoop at, more than asking a light question,
To make him merry, or to pass his time.

Lad.
A Sober Maid! call for my Woman, Martin.

Pol.
The Maids, and her half-Valentine, have ply'd her
With courtsie of the Bride-Cake, and the Bowle,
As she is laid a while.

Lad.
O, let her rest!
We will cross o'er to Canterbury, in the interim;
And so make home. Farewel, good Turf, and thy Wife.
I wish your Daughter Joy.

Tur.
Thanks to your Ladiship:
Where is John Clay now? have you seen him yet?

D. Tur.
No, he has hid himself out of the way,
For fear o' the Hue and Cry.

Tur.
What, walks that Shadow
Avore 'un still? Puppy, go seek 'un out,
Search all the corners that he haunts unto,
And call 'un forth. We'll once more to the Church,
And try our vortunes. Luck, Son Valentine:
Where are the Wise Men all of Finsbury?

Pup.
Where WiseMen should be; at the Ale, and Bride-Cake.
I would this Couple had their Destiny,
Or to be hang'd, or married out o' the way:

[Enter the Neighbours to Turfe.

Man cannot get the mount'nance of an Egg-shell,
To stay his Stomach. Vaith, vor mine own part,
I have zup'd up so much Broth, as would have cover'd
A Leg o' Beef, o'er Head and Ears, i' the Porridge-Pot:
And yet I cannot sussifie wild Nature.
Would they were once dispatch'd, we might to dinner.
I am with Child of a huge Stomach, and long,
Till by some honest Midwife-piece of Beef,
I be deliver'd of it: I must go now,
And hunt out for this Kilbourn Calf, John Clay:
Whom where to find, I know not, nor which way.