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DOG. This is the end of the charge :—you, constable, are to present the prince's own person : if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him.

VERG. Nay, by 'r lady, that I think a' cannot.

DOG. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man; and it is an offence to stay a man against his will.

VERG. By 'r lady, I think it be so.

DOG. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night : and there be any matter of weight chances, call up me keep your fellows' counsels and your own; and good night. Come, neighbour.

WATCH. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.

XLII

Two old Glostershire gentlemen on life
and death

SHALLOW. Come on, come on, come on, sir ; give me your hand, sir, give me your hand, sir : an early stirrer, by the rood! And how doth my good cousin, Silence?

SILENCE. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow. SHAL. And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow? and your fairest daughter and mine, my goddaughter Ellen?

SIL. Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow !

SHAL. By yea and nay, sir, I dare say my cousin

William is become a good scholar he is at Oxford still, is he not?

SIL. Indeed, sir, to my cost.

SHAL. A' must, then, to the inns o' court shortly: I was once of Clement's Inn, where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet.

SIL. You were called "lusty Shallow" then, cousin.

SHAL. By the mass, I was called any thing; and I would have done any thing indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns o' court again and I may say to you, we knew where the bona-robas were, and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

SIL. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?

SHAL. The same Sir John, the very same. I saw him break Skogan's head at the court-gate, when a' was a crack not thus high: and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead?

SIL. We shall all follow, cousin.

SHAL. Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?

SIL. By my troth, I was not there.

SHAL. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?

SIL. Dead, sir.

SHAL. Jesu, Jesu, dead! a' drew a good bow; and dead! a' shot a fine shoot: John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! a' would have clapped i' the clout at twelve score; and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man's heart good to see. How a score of

ewes now?

SIL. Thereafter as they be a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.

SHAL. And is old Double dead ?

XLIII

Sir Wilfull meets his brother

SIR WILFULL WITWOUD. Right, lady; I am Sir Wilfull Witwoud, so I write myself; no offence to anybody, I hope; and nephew to the Lady Wishfort of this mansion.

MRS. MARWOOD. Don't you know this gentleman, sir?

SIR WIL. Hum! what, sure 'tis not—yea by 'r Lady, but 'tis-s'heart, I know not whether 'tis or no-yea, but 'tis, by the Wrekin. Brother Anthony! what Tony, i' faith! what, dost thou not know me? By 'r Lady, By 'r Lady, nor I thee, thou art so becravated, and so beperiwigged.—S'heart, why dost not speak? art thou overjoyed?

WITWOUD. Odso, brother, is it you? your servant, brother.

SIR WIL. Your servant! why yours, sir. Your servant again-s'heart, and your friend and servant to that and a-and a-flap-dragon for your service, sir! and a hare's foot and a hare's scut for your service, sir! an you be so cold and so courtly. WIT. No offence, I hope, brother.

SIR. WIL. S'heart, sir, but there is, and much offence! A pox, is this your inns o' court breeding, not to know your friends and your relations, your elders and your betters?

WIT. Why, brother Wilfull of Salop, you may be as short as a Shrewsbury-cake, if you please. But I tell you 'tis not modish to know relations in town: you think you're in the country, where great lubberly brothers slabber and kiss one another when they meet, like a call of serjeants-'tis not the fashion here; 'tis not indeed, dear brother.

SIR WIL. The fashion 's a fool; and you 're a fop, dear brother. S' heart, I've suspected thisby 'r Lady, I conjectured you were a fop, since you began to change the style of your letters, and write on a scrap of paper gilt round the edges, no bigger than a subpoena. I might expect this, when you left off, "Honoured brother "; and “hoping you are in good health," and so forth-to begin with a "Rat me, knight, I'm so sick of a last night's debauch "—'ods heart, and then tell a familiar tale of a cock and a bull, and a whore and a bottle, and so conclude.--You could write news before you were out of your time, when you lived with honest Pimple Nose the attorney of Furnival's Inn-you could en

treat to be remembered then to your friends round the Wrekin. We could have gazettes, then, and Dawks's Letter, and the Weekly Bill, till of late days.

PETULANT. S'life, Witwoud, were you ever an attorney's clerk of the family of the Furnival? Ha ha ha!

WIT. Ay, ay, but that was but for a while: not long, not long. Pshaw! I was not in my own power then ;-an orphan, and this fellow was my guardian; ay, ay, I was glad to consent to that, man, to come to London: he had the disposal of me then. If I had not agreed to that, I might have been bound 'prentice to a felt-maker in Shrewsbury; this fellow would have bound me to a maker of fells.

SIR WIL. S'heart, and better than to be bound to a maker of fops; where, I suppose, you have served your time; and now you may set up for yourself.

IN

XLIV

Partridge sees a play

N the first row, then, of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge take their places. Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was played, he said it was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time without putting one another out. While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the Common Prayer Book before the gunpowdertreason service." Nor could he help observing

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