A Tale of a Tub ACT 4. SCENE 2.

Tub, Hilts, Metaphor.

Tub.
Hilts, how do'st thou like o' this our good days
work?

Hil.
As good e'en ne'er a whit, as ne'er the better.

Tub.
Shall we to Pancridge, or to Kentish-town, Hilts?

Hil.
Let Kentish-town, or Pancridge, come to us,
If either will: I will go home again.

Tub.
Faith, Basket, our success hath been but bad,
And nothing prospers that we undertake;
For we can neither meet with Clay nor Awdrey,
The Chanon Hugh, nor Turfe the Constable:
We are like Men that wander in strange Woods,
And lose our selves in search of them we seek.

Hil.
This was because we rose on the wrong side;
But as I am now here, just in the mid-way,
I'll zet my Sword on the Pommel, and that line
The point valls to, we'll take: whether it be
To Kentish-town, the Church, or Home again.

Tub.
Stay, stay thy Hand: here's Justice Bramble's
Clerk,
The unlucky Hare hath crost us all this day.
I'll stand aside whilst thou pump'st out of him
His Business, Hilts; and how he's now employed.

Hil.
Let me alone, I'll use him in his kind.

Met.
Oh, for a Pad-horse, Pack-horse, or a Post-horse,
To bear me on his Neck, his Back, or his Crup!
I am as weary with running, as a Mill-horse
That hath led the Mill once, twice, thrice about,
After the breath hath been out of his Body.
I could get up upon a Pannier, a Pannel,
Or, to say truth, a very Pack-Saddle,
Till all my Honey were turn'd into Gall,
And I could sit in the Seat no longer:
Oh the Legs of a Lackey now, or a Foot-man,
Who is the Surbater of a Clerk currant,
And the Confounder of his tressless Dormant! <!-- sic tressless, trestles in Whalley -->
But who have we here, just in the nick? <!-- e in the inverted -->

Hil.
I am neither nick, nor in the nick: therefore
You lye, Sir Metaphor.

Met.
Lye? how?

[He stikes up his Heels.

Met.
I lye not yet i' my throat.

Hil. Thou ly'st o' the ground.
Do'st thou know me?

Met.
Yes, I did know you too late.

Hil.
What is my Name then?

Met.
Basket. Hil. Basket? what?

Met.
Basket, the Great ——

Hil.
The Great? what? Met. Lubber ———
I should say, Lover, of the Squire, his Master.

Hil.
Great is my patience, to forbear thee thus,
Thou Scrape-hill, Scoundrel, and thou skum of Man;
Uncivil, orenge-tawny-coated Clerk:
Thou cam'st but half a thing into the world,
And wast made up of patches, parings, shreds:
Thou, that when last thou wert put out of Service,
Travelled'st to Hamsted-Heath, on an Ash-we'nesday,
Where thou didst stand six weeks the Jack of Lent,
For Boys to hurle, three throws a penny, at thee,
To make thee a Purse: Seest thou this, bold bright blade?
This Sword shall shred thee as small unto the Grave,
As minc'd meat for a Pie. I'll set thee in Earth
All, save thy Head, and thy Right Arm at liberty,
To keep thy Hat off, while I question thee,
What? why? and whither thou wert going now,
With a Face, ready to break out with business?
And tell me truly, lest I dash't in pieces.

Met.
Then, Basket, put thy Smiter up, and hear;
I dare not tell the Truth to a drawn Sword.

Hil.
'Tis sheath'd, stand up, speak without fear or wit.

Met.
I know not what they mean; but Constable
Turfe
Sends here his Key, for Moneys in his Cubbard,
Which he must pay the Captain that was robb'd
This Morning. Smell you nothing?

Hil.
No, not I:
Thy Breeches yet are honest.

Met.
As my Mouth.
Do you not smell a Rat? I tell you truth,
I think all's Knavery: For the Chanon whisper'd
Me in the Ear, when Turfe had gi'n me his Key,
By the same token to bring Mrs. Awdrey,
As sent for thither; and to say, John Clay
Is found, which is indeed to get the Wench
Forth for my Master, who is to be married
When she comes there: The Chanon has his Rules
Ready, and all there, to dispatch the matter.

Tub.
Now on my life, this is the Chanon's plot!
Miles, I have heard all thy discourse to Basket.
Wilt thou be true, and I'll reward thee well,
To make me happy, in my Mistris Awdrey?

Met.
Your Worship shall dispose of Metaphor,
Through all his parts, e'en from the sole o' the Head,
To the Crown o' the Foot, to manage of your service.

Tub.
Then do thy Message to the Mistris Turfe,
Tell her thy token, bring the Money hither,
And likewise take young Awdrey to thy charge:

Which done, here, Metaphor, we will attend,
And intercept thee. And for thy Reward,
You two shall share the Money, I the Maid:
If any take offence, I'll make all good.

Met.
But shall I have half the Money, Sir, in faith?

Tub.
I, on my Squire-ship, shalt thou: and my Land.

Met.
Then, if I make not, Sir, the clenliest scuse
To get her hither, and be then as careful
To keep her for you, as't were for my self,
Down o' your knees, and pray that honest Miles
May break his Neck ere he get o'er two Stiles.