Bartholomew Fayre Act 2. Scene 2

Leatherhead, Trash, Justice, Urs'la, Moon-calf, Nightingale,
Costermonger, Passengers.

THE Fair's pestlence dead methinks; People come
not abroad to day, what ever the matter is. Do
you hear, Sister Trash, Lady o' the Basket? sit farther
with your Ginger-bread progeny there, and hinder not
the prospect of my Shop, or I'll ha' it proclaim'd i' the
Fair, what stuff they are made on.

Tra.
Why, what stuff are they made on, Brother
Leather-head? nothing but what's wholsome, I assure
you.

Lea.
Yes, stale Bread, rotten Eggs, musty Ginger, and
dead Hony, you know.

Jus.
I! have I met with enormity so soon?

Lea.
I shall mar your Market, old Jone.

Tra.
Mar my Market, thou too-proud Pedler? do
thy worst, I defie thee, I, and thy Stable of Hobby-
Horses. I pay for my Ground, as well as thou dost, and
thou wrong'st me for all thou art parcel-Poet, and an
Ingineer. I'll find a Friend shall right me, and make
a Ballad of thee, and thy Cattle all over. Are you puft
up with the pride of your Wares? your Arsedine?

Lea.
Go too, old Jone, I'll talk with you anon; and
take you down too, afore Justice Overdoo, he is the Man
must charm you, I'll ha' you i' the Pie-pouldres.

Tra.
Charm me? I'll meet thee Face to Face, afore
his Worship, when thou dar'st: and though I be a lit-
tle crooked o' my body, I'll be found as upright in my
dealing as any Woman in Smithfield; I, charm me?

Jus.
I am glad to hear my name is their terror, yet
this is doing of Justice.

Lea.
What do you lack? what is't you buy? what
do you lack? Rattles, Drums, Halberts, Horses, Babies
o' the best? Fiddles o' th' finest?

[Enter Cost.

Cos.
Buy any Pears, Pears, fine, very fine Pears.

Tra.
By any Ginger-bread, guilt Ginger-bread!

Nig.
Hey, now the Fairs a filling!
O, for a Tune to startle
The Birds o' the Booths here billing:
Yearly with old Saint Barthle!
The Drunkards they are wading,
The Punques, and Chapmen trading;
Who'ld see the Fair without his lading? Buy any
Ballads; new Ballads?

Urs.
Fie upon't: who would wear out their youth,
and prime thus, in roasting of Pigs, that had any cooler
vocation? Hell's a kind of cold Cellar to't, a very fine
Vault, o' my Conscience! what Moon-calf.

Moo.
Here, Mistriss.

Nig.
How now Ursla? in a heat, in a heat?

Urs.
My Chair, you false Faucet you; and my Morn-
ings draught, quickly, a Bottle of Ale, to quench me,
Raskal. I am all fire, and fat, Nightingale, I shall e'en
melt away to the first Woman, a Rib again, I am afraid.
I do water the Ground in knots, as I go, like a great
Garden-pot; you may follow me by the S.S. I make.

Nig.
Alas, good Urs, was Zekiel here this morn-
ing?

Urs.
Zekiel? what Zekiel?

Nig.
Zekiel Edgworth, the civil Cut-purse, you know
him well enough; he that talks bawdy to you still: I
call him my Secretary.

Urs.
He promis'd to be here this morning, I re-
member.

Nig.
When he comes, bid him stay: I'll be back again
presently.

[Moon-calf brings in the Chair.

Urs.
Best take your morning Dew in your Belly,
Nightingale: come, Sir, set it here; did not I bid you
should get this Chair let out o' the sides, for me, that my
Hips might play? you'll never think of any thing, till
your Dame be rump-gall'd; 'tis well, Changeling: be-
cause it can take in your Grass-hoppers Thighs, you
care for no more. Now you look as you had been i'
the corner o' the Booth, fleaing your Breech with a
Candles end, and set fire o' the Fair. Fill, Stote: fill.

Jus.
This Pig-woman do I know, and I will put her in,
for my second enormity; she hath been before me,
Punk, Pinnace, and Bawd, any time these two and twen-
ty years upon Record i' the Pie-poudres.

Urs.
Fill again, you unlucky Vermine.

Moo.
'Pray you be not angry, Mistriss, I'll ha' it wi-
den'd anon.

Urs.
No, no, I shall e'en dwindle away to't, e'er the
Fair be done: you think, now you ha' heated me? A
poor vex'd thing I am, I feel my self dropping already,
as fast as I can: two Stone a Sewet a day is my propor-
tion: I can but hold Life and Soul together, with this
(here's to you, Nightingale) and a whiff of Tabacco,
at most. Where's my Pipe now? not fill'd? thou errant
Incubee.

Nig.
Nay, Ursla, thou'lt gall between the Tongue and
the Teeth, with fretting, now.

Urs.
How can I hope that ever he'll discharge his
place of trust, Tapster, a Man of reckoning under me,
that remembers nothing I say to him? but look too't,
Sirrah, you were best, three Pence a Pipe full, I will ha'
made, of all my whole half Pound of Tabacco, and a
quarter of a Pound of Coltsfoot, mixt with it too, to eech
it out. I that have dealt so long in the fire, will not be
to seek in smoke, now. Then six and twenty Shillings
a Barrel I will advance o' my Beer, and fifty Shillings a
hundred o' my Bottle-Ale; I ha' told you the ways how
to raise it. Froth your Cans well i' the filling, at length
Rogue, and jog your Bottles o' the Buttock, Sirrah,
then skink out the first Glass, ever, and drink with all
Companies, though you be sure to be drunk; you'll
mis-reckon the better, and be less asham'd on't. But
your true trick, Raskal, must be, to be ever busie, and
mis-take away the Bottles and Cans, in haste, before
they be half drunk off, and never hear any body call,
(if they should chance to mark you) till you ha' brought
fresh, and be able to forswear 'em. Give me a drink of
Ale.

Jus.
This is the very Womb, and Bed of enormity!
gross as her self! this must all down for enormity, all,
every whit on't.

[One knocks.

Urs.
Look, who's there, Sirrah? five Shillings a Pig is
my Price, at least; if it be a Sow-pig, six Pence more;
if she be a great bellied Wife, and long for't, six Pence
more for that.

Jus.
O tempora! O mores! I would not ha' lost my dis-
covery of this one grievance, for my place, and worship
o' the Bench, how is the poor abus'd here! well, I
will fall in with her, and with her Moon-calf, and win
out wonders of enormity. By thy leave, goodly Wo-
man, and the fatness of the Fair: oily as the King's Con-
stables Lamp, and shining as his Shooing-horn! hath thy
Ale vertue, or thy Beer strength? that the Tongue of
Man may be tickled? and his Palate pleas'd in the Morn-
ing? let thy pretty Nephew here, go search and see.

Urs.
What new Roarer is this?

Moo.
O Lord! do you not know him, Mistris? 'tis mad
Arthur of Bradley, that makes the Orations. Brave Ma-
ster, old Arthur of Bradley, how do you? welcome to
the Fair; when shall we hear you again, to handle your
matters? with your Back again a Booth, ha? I ha' bin
one o' your little disciples, i' my days!

Jus.
Let me drink, Boy, with my Love, thy Aunt,
here; that I may be eloquent: but of thy best, lest
it be bitter in my Mouth, and my words fall foul on
the Fair.

Urs.
Why dost thou not fetch him Drink? and offer
him to sit?

Moo.
Is't Ale, or Beer? Master Arthur?

Jus.
Thy best, pretty stripling, thy best; the same
thy Dove drinketh, and thou drawest on Holy-days.

Urs.
Bring him a six Penny Bottle of Ale; they say,
a Fools hansel is lucky.

Jus.
Bring both, Child. Ale for Arthur, and Beer
for Bradley. Ale for thine Aunt, Boy. My disguise takes
to the very wish and reach of it. I shall by the benefit
of this discover enough, and more: and yet get off
with the reputation of what I would be. A certain
midling thing, between a Fool and a Madman.