SCENE III.

Noife and Tumult within: Enter Porter and his Man.

you

Port. You'll leave your noise anon, ye Rafcals; do take the Court for Paris Garden? ye rude Slaves, leave your gaping.

Within. Good Mr. Porter, I belong to th' Larder.

Port. Belong to the Gallows, and be hang'd, ye Rogue: Is this a Place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen Crab-tree Staves, and strong ones; these are but Switches to 'em: I'll fcratch your Heads; you must be seeing Chriftnings? Do you look for Ale and Cakes here, you rude Rascals?

Man. Pray, Sir, be patient; 'tis as much impoffible,
Unless we swept them from the Door with Cannons,
To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em fleep

On May-day Morning, which will never be:
We may as well push against Pauls, as ftir 'em.
Port. How got they in, and be hang'd?

Man. Alas, I know not, how gets the Tide in?
As much as one found Cudgel of four Foot,
You fee the poor remainder, could distribute,
I made no spare, Sir.

Port. You did nothing, Sir.

Man. I am not Sampfon, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand,
To mow 'em down before me; but if I fpar'd any
That had a Head to hit, either young or old,
He or she, Cuckold, or Cuckold-maker;
Let me ne'er hope to see a Chine again,
And that I would not for a Cow, God fave her.
Within. Do you hear, Mr. Porter?

Port. I fhall be with you prefently, good Mr. Puppy.
Keep the Door clofe, Sirrah,

Man. What would you have me do?

Port. What fhould you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to Mufter in? Or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great Tool, come to Court, the Women fo befiege us? Blefs me! what a fry of Fornication is at the Door? On my Chriftian-Confcience, this one Chrift ning will beget a thoufand, here will be Father, God-father, and all together,

Man.

Man. The Spoons will be the bigger, Sir; there is a Fellow fomewhat near the Door, he should be a Brafier by his Face, for o' my Confcience twenty of the Dog-days now reign in's Nofe; all that ftand about him are under the Line, they need no other Penance; that Fire-Drake did I hit three times on the Head, and three times was his Nofe difcharged against me; he stands there like a Mortar-piece to blow us up. There was Haberdasher's Wife of fmall Wit, near him, that rail'd upon me, 'till her pinck'd Porringer fell off her Head, for kindling fuch a combuftion in the State. I mift the Meteor once, and hit that Woman, who cry'd out Clubs, when I might fee from far, fome forty Truncheons draw to her Succour, which were the hope o'th' Strand, where the was quarter'd; they fell on, I made good my Place; at length they came to th' Broom-ftaff to me, I defy'd 'em ftill, when fuddenly a File of Boys behind 'em, loofe fhot, deliver'd fuch a shower of Pibbles, that I was fain to draw mine Honour in, and let 'em win the Work; the Devil was amongst 'em, I think furely.

Port. Thefe are the Youths that thunder at a Play-houfe, and fight for bitten Apples, that no Audience but the Tribulation of Tower-Hill, or the Limbs of Lime-House, their dear Brothers, are able to endure. I have fome of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance thefe three Days; befides the running Banquet of two Beadles, that is to

come.

Enter Lord Chamberlain.

Cham. Mercy o'me; what a Multitude are here?
They grow ftill too; from all Parts they are coming,
As if we kept a Fair here? where are thefe Porters?
Thefe lazy Knaves? Ye've made a find Hand, Fellows?
There's a trim Rabble let in; are all thefe

Your faithful Friends o'th' Suburbs? We shall have
Great ftore of room, no doubt, left for the Ladies,
When they pafs back from the Chriftning?

Port. And't pleafe your Honour,

We are but Men, and what fo many may do,
Not being torn in pieces, we have done;
An Army cannot rule 'em.

Cham.

Cham. As I live,

If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
By th' Heels, and fuddenly; and on your Heads
Clap round Fines, for neglect: Y'are lazy Knaves,
And here ye lye baiting of Bombards, when
Ye fhould do Service. Hark, the Trumpets found,
Th'are come already from the Chriftning;
Go break among the Prefs, and find a way out
To let the Troop pafs fairly; or I'll find

A Marfbalfea fhall hold ye play these two Months.
Port. Make way there, for the Princess.

Man. You great Fellow,

Stand close up, or I'll make your Head ake.
Port. You i'th' Chamblet, get up'o'th' Rail,
I'll peck you o'er the Pales elfe.

SCENE III.

[Exeunt.

Enter Trumpets founding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his Marshal's Staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen, bearing great standing Bowls for the Chriftning Gifts: Then four Noblemen bearing a Canopy, under which the Dutchefs of Norfolk, God-mother, bearing the Child richly habited in a Mantle, &c. Train born by a Lady: Then follows the Marchioness of Dorset, the other God-mother, and Ladies. The Troop pass once about the Stage, and Garter Speaks:

Gart. Heaven,

From thy endless Goodness fend profperous Life,
Long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty
Princefs of England, Elizabeth.

Flourish. Enter King and Guard.

Cran. And to your Royal Grace, and the good Queen,
My Noble Partners, and my felf thus pray,

All comfort, joy in this most gracious Lady,
Heaven ever laid up to make Parents happy,

May hourly fall upon ye.

King. Thank you good Lord Archbishop;
What is her Name?

Cran. Elizabeth.

King. Stand up, Lord;

With this Kifs, take my Bleffing: God protect thee,
Into whose hand, I give thy Life.

Cran. Amen.

King. My noble Goffips, y'have been too Prodigal,
I thank ye heartily: So fhall this Lady,
When the has fo much English.

Cran. Let me fpeak, Sir,

For Heav'n now bids me; and the words I utter,
Let none think Flattery; for they'll find 'em Truth.
This Royal Infant, Heav'n ftill move about her,
Though in her Cradle, yet now promifes

Upon this Land, a thousand thousand Bleffings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be,
(But few now living can behold that Goodness,).
A Pattern to all Princes living with her,
And all that shall fucceed: Saba was never
More covetous of Wisdom, and fair Virtue,
Than this pure Soul fhall be. All Princely Graces
That mould up fuch a mighty Piece as this is,
With all the Virtues that attend the Good,
Shall ftill be doubled on her. Truth fhall Nurse her,
Holy and Heavenly Thoughts ftill Counsel her:
She fhall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own fhall blefs her;
Her Foes shake like a Field of beaten Corn,
And hang their Heads with Sorrow:
Good grows with her.

In her days every Man fhall eat in fafety,
Under his own Vine what he plants; and fing
The merry Songs of Peace to all his Neighbours.
God fhall be truly known, and those about her
From her fhall read the perfect ways of Honour,
And by thofe claim their Greatnefs, not by Blood.
Nor fhall this Peace fleep with her; But as when
The Bird of wonder dies, the Maiden Phoenix,
Her Alhes new create another Heir,

As great in admiration as her felf;

So fhall fhe leave her Bleffedness to One,

(When Heav'n fhall call her from this cloud of darkness,) Who from the facred Ashes of her Honour

Shall Star-like rife, as great in fame as she was,
And fo ftand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Love, Truth, Terrour,
That were the Servants to this chosen Infant,
Shall then be his, and like a Vine grow to him;
Where ever the bright Sun of Heav'n fhall fhine,
His Honour, and the greatnefs of his Name,
Shall be, and make new Nations. He fhall flourish,
And like a Mountain Cedar, reach his Branches,
To all the Plains about him: Our Children's Children
Shall fee this, and blefs Heav'n.

King. Thou fpeakest Wonders.

Cran. She thall be to the Happiness of England,
An aged Princefs; many days thall fee her,
And yet no day without a deed to crown it.
Would I had known no more: But she must die,
She muft, the Saints must have her; yet a Virgin,
A moft unspotted Lilly fhall the pafs

To th' Ground, and all the World shall mourn her.
King. O Lord Archbishop,

Thou haft made me now a Man; never, before
This happy Child, did I get any thing.
This Oracle of comfort has fo pleas'd me,
That when I am in Heav'n, I fhall defire

To fee what this Child does, and praise my Maker.
I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor,
And you good Brethren, I am much beholding:
I have receiv'd much Honour by your prefence,
And ye fhall find me thankful. Lead the way, Lords,
Ye must all fee the Queen, and fhe muft thank ye,
She will be fick elfe. This day, no Man think
Has bufinefs at his Houfe, for all shall stay:
This little One hall make it Holy-day.

[Exeunt

THE