ACTEON & DIANA.

And for my owne part, I am not such a fool, to think the contrary; nay, I would change condition with an Asse, and thank him too: never was any man (of parts) so tumbled, Jumbled and Rumbled, as poor Bumpkin is.

Why what's the matter?

Nay, I know not, but every day my great guts and my small guts makes such a combustion in my belly as passes, and my puddings (like Lances) runs a tilt at my heart, and makes me as queasie stomackt as a young Green-sickness girl newly come to a big belly.

Canst thou not guess the reason of this trouble.

Yes, I think I can, and Ile be judged by thee, [Page 2] if my case bee not desperate: I have a horrible minde to be in Love.

With whom.

With any body, but I cannot find out the way how to be in Love.

Why? Ile instruct thee: canst thou be Melancholly?

Yes, as a dog, or a hoglouse, I could even finde in my heart, to cry presently.

Canst thou sleep well?

I cannot tell, I never saw my self sleep.

I would it were not possible, on the condition thou wert hanged and quartered.

If thou canst do that, Ile marry her first, and learn to love her afterwards.

Hast thither Bumpkin, Ile go on before.

Is it not pitty, that a man of Authority as I am, having been chief dog-keeper to my Lord Acteon this five years, being a man so comely of person, and having such a pure complexion, that all fair Ladyes may be ashamed to look on me, and that I should be distressed for a sweet-heart:

It is possible, would Bumpkin be in Love?

Nay, if he be distressed, twenty to one he may find charitable persons there.

He can loose none, and who can finde them then.

Do you beleeve him foolish.

It is a faith that needs no confirmation.

Laugh at him then, and wee'l assist you in't; but do't with Consideration.

So we will,—hark Lasses.

Now if they be not hatching Eggs of mischief, let me be counted addle, what think you sirs?

Thats a dance that I could never hit off, Pray desist a while and hear my dolefull tale.

Hee'l make us cry sure.

Be it known unto all men by these presents

An obligation; wee'l be no witnesses.

Why then ile hang my self?

We will be witness then.

What to my hanging? O my conscience! If I should woo my heart out, I should never be the fatter, for it.—where's your promise now?

You have not yet exprest your self, be plain, Tell them your grief, a remedy will follow.

If that be all, 'tis but an easie matter, pray take notice that I am in Love—with somebody.

Would I were she!

Why? so you are, if you have a minde to't

Why then you are my own?

Pardon me, sister, I

bespake him yesterday.

Yes marry did she.

But I was she that won him at the Maypole.

Was that the cause you strove so for the Garland.

But yet I must have share.

So must I too.

I will not part without the better half.

Then who shall have me whole, what are you mad?

There's reason for a madness in this case.

I will not lose my right. Let go I say.

Will you not stay my Love.

Ile see you hang'd first, and by this hand ere I will be in love again, Ile feed my hounds with my own proper carcase.

Now he is gon, our dancing may go forward.

My Lord Acteon stayes, be quick, I pray.

Quick as you will, the doing of it quick makes it shew better.

Nimble? yes, as a Bear that hath been lug'd to purpose: if Love be such a troublesome Companion, I will intreat him to keep out of my company.

Where Acteon comes transformed into the shape of a Hart, his Huntsmen pursue him, and in the conclusion kill him, and bear him away.

My husband he often a hunting goes out, Fa la, la, &c.

And brings home a great pair of horns there's no doubt; with a fa la, la, la, &c.

How is't Monsieur Simkin, why are you so sad? Fa la, la, la, &c.

I am up to the ears in love, and it makes me stark mad, with a fa la, la, la, &c. I am vext, I am tortur'd, and troubled at heart, Fa la, la, &c.

But Ile try my skill to take off your smart, With a fa la, la, &c.

But what says your husband when he hears of this? with a fa la, la, &c.

'Uds niggers noggers who knocks at the door? with a fa la, la, &c.

There is a Royster at the door, he seems a Fel­low stout.

I beseech you worthy friend, which is the back way out?

I have consider'd of a way, and twill be sure the best.

What may it be my dearest Dear?

I never shal be quiet if she use me in this fashion.

I am here to bid you welcom; what mean you by this passion?

With some young sweet-fac'd fellow I thought gone out you were.

No sooth, the sweet-fac'd fellow is kept a prisoner here.

Where is the foole thy husband? Say, whither is he gone?

The Wittall is a hunting.

And beat you till you stink.

I know you have kild many a man.

You lie, you slut, you lie.

And nimbly ran away.

O no my love, that cannot be,

I have bespoke the room.

Wife, wherefore is the door thus bar'd? what mean you pray by this?

Alas! it is my husband.

I laugh now till I piss.

Alas I cannot open it.

I beleeve the key is lost.

I have bethought my self upon a dainty trick.

But never a peny in it.

She's big with child, therefore take heed you do not fright my wife.

But know you who the Father is?

The Roarer on my life.

She knows not of your enemy, then get you gone you were best.

Peace husband, peace, I tell you true, I have hid him in the chest.

I am glad on't at my heart, but doe not tell him so.

I would not for a thousand pound the Roa­rer should it know.

When next we meet his life is gone, no other must he hope; Ile kill him whatsoere comes on't,

Pray think upon a rope.

What kind of person is it that in the chest does lie?

A goodly hansome sweet young man, as ere was seen with eye.

Then let us both entreat of him—Pray put us not in fear: we do beseech you go from hence.

But to morrow Ile be here.

Wife, run with all the speed you can, and quickly shut the dore,

I would not that the roaring man should come in any more. Mean time I wil release the youth, and tell him how we have sped.—Be comforted my honest friend.

Alas I am almost dead, my heart is tortur'd in my breast with sorrow, fear and pain.

Ile fetch some Aqua vitae, to comfort you a­gain.

There's half a crown, pray send him out to fetch a quart of wine.

There's money for you Sir,—Pray fetch a quart of Sack.

'Tis well, 'tis well, my honest friend, Ile see you shall not lack.

Yet sirrah you had wit enough to think to Cuckold me.

I jested with him, husband, his knavery to see.

'Tis a strange thing I find my self out everie day more then other, to be one of the understandingst, sweetest, neatest, and compleatest Shepherds that ever took hook in hand. Tother day I saw my face in a pail of water, and I had much adoe to forbear drowning of my self: 'tis no wonder then, that the beauteous Nymph Oenone makes much of me, and lets all the other Shepherds shake their ears like Asses; And the truth is, if I can find never a handsomer she shall serve the turn. This was her birth-day, she being born in the year—one thousand six hundred,—nay hold a little; but on this day of the month it was, Winter or Summer, in the honour of which we all keep holiday; and therefore for the credit of her beauty, and the honor of my own Poetry, have made such a Copie of Verses on her, as will make her a thousand times handsomer then ever she was in her life.—

[Page 22] I will peruse them now with the eys of understan­ding.

If she do not run mad for love of me now, 'tis pitie she should have Verses made on her as long as she lives.

Let's interrupt him—Hobbinall well met.

It may be so.

But why so strange man? I hope you will re­member we are your fellow Shepherds.

You were once, but now I command you to know, I am a Master Shepherd; for the fair Nymph Oenone, that makes all your mouths run over with wa­ter, does acknowledge me to be both Master and Mi­stresse.

In part 'tis true, yet if you well consider, she makes you but her sport, no otherwise.

If she make me her sport, 'tis more then ever she can make of thee: for thou art one of the sowrest lookt fellows that ever crept out of a vineger-bottle.

Here comes the fairest Idae ever nourisht.

I will accost her.

Forbear a while good Hobbinall.

And if the same from me can be accepted, nothing so pleasing is as to present it.

Now wil I see who is the most deserving Shep­herd in all the vale of Idae—little rogue, howdost thou?

O Hobbinall, you are welcome, I thought you had forgot me, you are my sport, and should be ever neer me.

Look you there, I am her sport she says; when will she give any of you such an honorable title: but Sport, I do not think but thou art a Conjurer, or a Witch, or a Divell at least; for thou hast infused such a combustion of Poetry in my head, that I fear I shall never be my own man agen, nor my Masters neither.— There's a Copie of verses, read 'um; nay, they are my own, as sure as my name's Hobbinall.

I thank you Sport, Ile study a requitall.

And we as bound to honour you (the fairest) that ever grac't our sex, are come to attend upon your recreations.

The honor is to me, and I accept it.

Id'e laugh at that, no Sport, Ile dance with thee my self.

Will you not? well, by this hand then Ile stand out and laugh at every thing you do, right or wrong.

Pshaw waw, this dancing is like my mothers Mares trot, Sport, shall I shew thee a dance of my own fashion?

It cannot but content.

Nay, I know that, hark hither, Lads.

I so they were, but I mean to shew them every day as fast as I can. But sirrah, Sport, yonder's God Pan, with a company of the bravest Satyrs that ever wore horns on their heads: come, Shepherds, let's go make them drunk, and saw off all their horns.

FRancisco, well met; whither in such hast?

I am going to a feast; where, if you please, you shall be welcom too.

I am willing to believe you, and will wait on you.

Ile promise you a dish of mirth, that's all, and if my hopes delude me not, well drest too, so quaintly relisht, that it will provoke a laughter farre above thy spleen to suffer.

How can these times afford such entertain­ment?

Why, Ile inform you: 'Twas yesterday my luck to be incountred by a rustick Sea-man, (or one at leastwise of as course condition.) This fellow, like a perfect son of folly, began to rail extreamly at his for­tune, and needs would make me Judge of his abuse.— I have (sayes he) about some two years since, married a wife, (wo worth the time I saw her) and in my ab­sence she hath got a trick to make me Cuckold whe­ther I will or no; a barbarous Barber makes a beast of me, Cutbeard his name, whom I do vow to be the cut-throat of.

I know the fellow well, he lives close by; but on I pray.

I finding that his humor might produce some­thing worth laughing at, encouraged him; he like a bladder that is sweld with blowing, was straight puft up into a desperate humor, so that he vowed this day for a revenge: And hereabout I am to meet this Her­cules.

It cannot chuse but produce excellent mirth, which Ile assist with all my best endeavours.

See, he is come loden with several instruments [Page 28] of death; he means to play a prize with him, I think,—Well Iohn, I see you are prepared for murder; have mercy on the Barber, I say.

No, I scorn it, I wil have no mercy, he has made a whore of a wondrous honest woman, and a Cuckold of one, that for ought I know, might have been a Cour­tier. For which abominable deed I scorn to shew my self a Christian; for I do mean to use him worse then a Jew would.

Nay, but consider, he's a man how-ere, and you can boast your self to be no more, although you have the spirit of a Giant; you have brought weapons here as if you meant to kill him twenty times. Troth tis too much.

If I bate him an Ace of forty, call me Cox­comb, I will draw his teeth one by one, with an instru­ment called a pair of Tongs, then let him blood in the right vein, and bid the Divell take him at his own perill.

Let me prevail with thee to calm thy rage, and take acquaintance of this Gentleman a worthy friend of mine.

Do you long to be acquainted with me, Sir?

By any means, Sir.

Tis granted then; Ile toss a Can or a Pot with you, as soon as I have dispatch't this bawdy Bar­ber; would he were dead that my business might be over.

What's your profession Sir? and how may I call you?

I am a Seaman, Sir, my name's Iohn Swab­ber —an Officer of the ship, sir.

I cry you mercie, sir.

Nay, never cry for the matter,—But I had forgot this Barber all this while: Barber come forth, or by the beard of my great Grandfather, I swear, I will so shashado, mashado, pashado, and carbinado thee, that thou shalt look like a gallimafry all the days of thy life. Come forth I say,

Why neighbour Swabber, who pro­vokes you thus? what do you mean? who has offen­ded you?

Oh slave of all slaves, who has offended me? why thou base, beastly, boisterous, Babylonian, bawdy­fac'd Barber, thou hast, thou hast made me fit to chew the cud with oxen, climb the mountains with wild goats, and keep company with none but Ram-headed people, for which I will tie thee up on the next sign-post, and there thou shalt hang a twelve month and a day a­live, for an example to all such notable shavers; but if thou comest and submitst to my mercy, I will do thee the favour to let thee hang till thou be dead.

Fransisco hark—Ile pawn my life this fel­low's a rank coward, keep you his furie up, and Ile per­swade the Barber to a greater vein of roaring then ere was practised by a suburb blade, Ile make him at the least seem valiant, fear not.

Do if it be possible, Ile hold him in discourse. —But, M^r Swabber, what think you if he does com­pound with you, wil you be won to take an arm or two, or both his leggs, and save his other members?

Pish, tell not me, tis neither his arms nor his legs that I stand upon, he has caus'd me to go in dan­ger of my life: for t'other day I had an occasion to [Page 30] pass by a worshipfull Gentlemans pack of hounds, they no sooner looked upon my forehead, but they came at me in full cry; and I for fear left such a sent behind me, that they came after me as perfectly by it, as if I had been a Stagg; and if I had not got shelter of a house, without doubt I had been presented to some great man for Venison, and my hanches had been bak'd by this time.

You were in danger there I must confess.

And the Butchers Doggs still take me for a Bull, and fetch such courses at me; and all this the Bar­ber is the cause of.

I would revenge it, were I as you he should not have a tool left him to work with.

No nor to play with neither, Ile have an inch of everie tool he has.—Barber come forth, and let me kill thee upon fair terms, or else I will enter thy house by force, pitch thee down the stairs, and send thee of an errand headlong. And if thou dost submit to my mercie, I will shave thee to death with thy own ra­zor, therefore take heed.—So, now let him come if he dare.

Wel, now I see there is no hope to appease him, blood must ensue, and death wil take its course.

With whom? what's the matter?

The Barber is preparing for the combat, he has took his pole to serve him for a lance, and one of his basons for a buckler, and vows to make you the wind­mill, whilest he plays Don Quixot against you furiously.

A windmil!—Ile begone.

You wil not offer that sure. Who afraid?

Would it not make any one tremble with the [Page 31] thought on't, first to be made a Cuckold, then a wind­mill? No, Ile begone, and come agen to kill him when I can find him in a better humour.

Consider what you do; he'l call you coward, proclaim you Cuckold stil in everie Alehouse, and what disgrace wil that be?

I care not, tis better be a Cuckold then a wind­mil; if he had meant to make a fool, a puppie, or an ass of me, or any such Christian like creature, 'twere another matter: but to be made a windmill of, and never to be respected but when the wind blows, is not to be endur'd, therefore let him make windmils of my weapons, if he will, for my own part Ile defend my self with my heels.

Come, I have brought him to a better temper, he will come armed with nothing but a Razor, with which if he does slit your wezand-pipe, it will not be a­miss to take it patiently.

Let him not spoil my drinking, and I care not; but hark you, if you should let him hurt me, I should be as angrie as a Tiger.

Where is this slave that has provok't my rage to his destruction, I wil swinge this Boore, then hang him up for Bacon in my chimney, and send him to be broyled for Pluto's breakfast.

VVhy This is wors then to be made a wind mil. Do you hear sir, if ever you had the fit of an ague upon you, or ever knew the trembling of a man troubled in conscience, that would be loth to die till he had made even with all the world, consider me; alas, sir I have my rent to pay yet, and if I should be sent to hell of an errand, they'l like my company so well, I should never [Page 32] come back agen; pray perswade him to send me to Ie­rusalem, or Ierico, or any those places neerer hand.

Why canst not thou excuse thy selfe? where's thy brains?

Alas, my brains are fallen intomy breeches; but if you'l stand between me and harm, Ile venture to re­concile my self to him,—Cut—honest Cutbeard, didst not thou think I was in earnest all this while.

What ere thou wert, thou shalt be nothing pre­sently, death waits for thee, come quickly I command thee.

Sir, pray perswade M^r Death to have patience for a matter of 40 or 50 years more; for I have a great deal of business to do in this world yet.

Shal I be dallied with, let me approach him, for all the intreaties of the world shal not preserve him past six minutes.

One minut's past alreadie,—and theres two.

Nay, prithee Cutbeard, be more merciful.

Three—four—five.

Wil no intreatie serve? Then take your course.

Six, O now I am gone.

If he submit he may live, let him know it—dost thou acknowledge thy own cowardize and my heroick valor?

O mighty Hercules, I confess my self a Pigmy, and I wil never think otherwise while I live; these Gentle­men be my witnesses.

VVhy then all's wel agen.—Remember Cutbeard,

Ile spice him fear not—give me thy hand Iack, Thus do I grasp thy friendship.

He grasps my hand divelish hard tho.

I hear pronounce thy wife to be a Venus.

O rare! Is my wife a Venus? That's more then ever I knew before; why then I will be her husband Cupid.

No, Cupid was her son.

'Tis no matter for that, he shall be her husband for once, and we two wil get such abundance of young Cupids, that we'l make all the world in love with one a­nother.

Since we are reconciled, know, honest Swabber, that I wil make the whole world dote on thee, Ile wash thy face, and powder thee to'th purpose, and shave thee if thou wilt too.

No, by no means, I dare not venture my throat under thy fingers; but for washing and powdring, that all the world may be in love with me, I am content.

Sit down then in this chair, look on this powder, the snow is nothing to it, 'twill create such a complexi­on on thee, that no Art did ever set upon the proudest Lady.

But hark you Cutbeard, how shall I do to satis­fie all the women that will follow me for kisses, if you make me too beautifull, my lips will be worn threed­bare before I can get home; and then Parnell my own dear wife, will have the least share of her own sweet husband.

For that we'l take a course,—wink, wink, good Iack, my Ball will search your eyes else.

My eyes are honest, and fear no searching

Now I begin to sprucifie thy phisnomie,—This powder was extracted from the Phoenix, when she last burnt her self, and is indeed the quintescence of odors.

Nay, 'tis as odious as ever I smelt, that's cer­tain, [Page 34] good Cutbeard let me have enough I prithee.

Nay, Ile spare no cost,—Judg Gentlemen, is he not strangely alterd?

Past belief; I would not that my Mistress saw him now, my hopes would soon be cool'd then.

I think so, but I would have you to take no­tice, I will have nothing to do but with great persona­ges, for I must not make my self common.

What this fellow wil com to no man knows yet, his fame no doubt wil travel ore all countries, and I am full resolved in my opinion, the Queen of Mauritania wil run mad for him.

If she run as mad as a March Hare, she gets not a bit; no, Parnell and my neighbours shal have all.

Now if the Painters wil draw Adonis out, let them come here for copies. So I have done.

Prithee Cutbeard lend me a Looking-glass.

By no means; what did you never hear of one Narcissus how he pined away for love of his own sha­dow: No, go home, your house is hard by, let Parnell see you, and bless her self with wonder.

Honest Cutbeard, this Gentleman is a worthy friend of mine, prithee bestow some of the same powder upon his face.

No, no, you shal be beautiful alone, tis best.

Parnell I come, and if thou beest not stupid, Thou'lt say Iack Swabber is a kin to Cupid.

Well Cutbeard, thou hast drest him hand­somly, I'de give a Crown that I were by when first he finds what beauty hee's adorn'd withal.

This day I am to meet with pretty Parnell, pray Heaven the Fool be absent when I come, some two hours hence if you wil meet me, Gentlemen, Ile [Page 35] tel you how he takes his transmigration.

We wil not fail. Farewel.

I wonder that my Barber stays thus long, can he neglect me thus? Wel, I wil fit him; for if he use me once agen thus basely, I wil cashiere him, and bestow my love upon some one more constant: forty to one but Swabber comes before him, and spoils all.

Who's this in the name of blackness? the clothes and walk of my dear husband, and Ile lay my life he has got a vizard on.—Nay pray now, indeed you'l fright me presently, take heed.

She does not know me that's excellent,— Parnell beleeve it, I am flesh and blood, I would not have thee take me for a Goddess.

A Goddess quotha, a black one if you be one; what hast thou got upon thy face I prithee?

Do not look too wistly upon me, Parnell, my beauty wil put your eyes out if you do, and then I must be at the charge of a Dog and a Bel for you.

A Dog and a fools head; pul off your vizard.

Do not touch me unless you make forty curt­sies first. Come kiss me, and thou wilt be out out of thy wits presently.

Nay, then I see tis a trick put upon him; Ile fetch you a glass, you shal behold your beauty.

Do, and I wil venture to be in love with my self for once. How shal I requite honest Cutbeard? By this hand he shal have the honor to be Barber to all my wenches.

Are you not wondrous fair? Look and ad­mire your self.

O Parnell, Parnell, I am gul'd most basely, I have not half so much beautie as a Chimney-sweeper: Ile kil the Barber the first thing I do.

Was it the Barber used thee thus?

I Parnell, 'twas he: Ile go fetch a company of my Fellow-Saylors, drag him out, and hang him up at the main Yard presently. Parnell farewel: if I be appre­hended for the death of Cutbeard, what ever thou dost, send me a clean shirt; for I shal have need on't.

VVell Cutbeard, I commend thee for this pro­ject, thou hast drest him handsomly; would thou wer't here, I would kiss thee for the jests sake.

Oh are you come, Sir?

I watcht the time my Parnell, and have found it; How does the gul become his feathers? Ha!

As I would have him: Oh Cutbeard, this kiss, and this, for the device.

VVhere is he, Parnell?

VVhy gone abroad in his new-fashion'd face, to fetch a gang of Saylors, who he vows shal hang thee up at the main Yard, and shal use thee worse then the Prentices a Suburb-Bawd on a Shrove-tuesday.

And those same water-rats are Divellish things; what a slave was I to use him so?

VVhat canst thou fear when I am in thy pre­sence? Away you milksop, hence from me, avant.

Nay, gentle Parnel, by this hand Ile fight with a whole Army, if thou sayst the word: prithee be recon­ciled.

VVhy Parnell, Parnell, here's thy own sweet husband; open the door dear wife.

O me, my husband's come, what shal I do?

Let me into the well▪ if thou thinkst good, or [Page 37] hang me in the chimney stead of Bacon.

Alas, that's full of hazard.—No device!

Why huswife, huswise, must I wait halfe a day?

My peticotes faln off, but I come presently—Oh I have thought, come hither, put on this biggin, I made it for my child that is at Nurse, and cram thy self into this cradle here: there is no other way, there­fore dispatch.

O me, thou never thinkst upon my beard, that wil betray all presently.

Take you no care, Ile make him to beleeve you were born with it; be quick, I say.

Necessitie compels me, send me off of this brunt once, Ile hunt the smock no more—Cover me close good Parnell.

So, keep you close, and when he prattles to you, sneere in his face, and call him Dad; do you hear?

Why you proud, peevish, petty, paltry Parnell, why did you make me stay so long?

I made what hast I could, but the child cri'd so.

The child! what child? have you got bastards here?

Bastards? they are your own then: Simon's come home, the boy I had a twelvemonth since by you, he was born when you were at sea.

Is he brought home? As I'm an honest man I'm glad on't. Let me see him Parnell.

Look here he is, the goodliest boy, and even as like thee Iohn, as if thou hadst begot him all thy self.

Whoop, heres a boy of a twelvemonth old: if he grow but thus much this next year, he'l be able to [Page 38] fight with a Giant presentl. But Parnely, he has got a great beard too, how comes that?

Why he was born with it; many children are so, and 'tis a sign he wil be a man betimes, a wise discreet one too.

Dad dad, dad.

Nay, 'tis a wise child, I perceive that; for he cals me dad at first sight. Good Parnel fetch me some milk for him, Ile see him eat.

He had milk but just now; prithee Iohn be pa­tient.

You are a fool, he has been starv'd at Nurse, and we must make him fat. Fetch some, I say.

I wil not truly Iohn, you'l spoil the child.

I saw some stand in the next room, Ile fetch it my self so I wil.

What wil you do? You must endure with pa­tience; I mingled batter but just now for pancakes and that he'l bring, as certain as I live.

I shal be cram'd to death; mercie upon me.

He comes, lie close agen.

Dad, dad, dad.

I mine own boy, here's milk for thee, Simon.

Look Parnel look, how greedily he eats it.

Now fie upon you Iohn, you'l choak the child.

I mean to make him grow as high as Pauls, and shew him for a wonder in Bartholmew fair. Fetch me some more milk, this is all gone.

What, do you think Ile murder the poor infant?

By this hand Ile go to the Milk-woman and fetch him a whole gallon.

Up quickly and be gone; for when he comes he'l choak you without fail.

A pox upon him, never was child fed thus. But what wil you do now?

Do not you fear; Ile fetch my own child; 'tis at a neighbours house, & say the Fairies have exchang'd it.

Send thee good luck; farewel sweet Parnel.

So, if this child wil serve him for a Simon, all will be wel agen.

He comes,—Oh Iohn.

Come, give me Simon on my lap, Ile feed him til his guts crack agen.

Alas, I went but i'th next room, and in the mean time the Fairies have exchanged him; look what a little thing they have left in's place.

Ile have none on't; go fetch me Simon, and tel the Fairies Ile indite them at the Sessions for this. Oh Simon, Simon, what's become of thee?

Nay, prithee take not on so.

The goodliest boy of his age, that ever man saw. Pshaw, this has ner 'a beard, Ile ha' none on't.

Why how no Iack, what in a passion? ha! twas that blackt thy face to day for mirth sake, and thou didst think 'twas Cutbeard.

I care not for my face, Simon is gone, that had a beard as big as Cutbeards here, the Fairies have ex­changed him; and look what a chitty-face they have left in's room, a thing of nothing for him.

Come, you must use this they have left with courtesie; for they wil whip Simon every day i'th week else. I know the nature of them.

Wil they so? Nay then I must make much on't.

And now you must be friends with Cutbeard too.

With all my heart, for I am angry with none but the Fairies now.

We have brought musick, and some neighbours with us, and mean to have a dance. Come Iohn.

I can dance nothing but a melancholy dance. For I am in a grievous dump for Simon still

I warrant thee. Strike up there.