Chapter 112

Enter two Clerks, who lay Papers in Order, and Doorkeeper.

Door. Come, haste, haste, the Lords are coming—keep back there, room for the Lords, room for the honourable Lords: Heav’n bless your Worships Honours.

Enter _Lambert_, _Fleetwood_, _Whitlock_, _Wariston_, discoursing earnestly; to them _Duckenfield_, _Cobbet_, _Hewson_, _Desbro_, and others; _Duck._ takes _Wariston_ by the Hand, and talks to him.

War. Bread a gued, Gentlemen, I’s serv’d the Commonwealth long and faithfully; I’s turn’d and turn’d to aud Interest and aud Religions that turn’d up Trump, and wons a me, but I’s get naught but Bagery by my Sol; I’s noo put in for a Pansion as well as rest o ya Loones.

Cob. What we can serve you in, my Lord, you may command.

Duc. And I too, my Lord, when the Government is new moulded.

War. Wons, Sirs, and I’s sa moold it, ’twas ne’er sa moolded sen the Dam boon’d the Head on’t.

Duc. I know there are some ambitious Persons that are for a single Person; but we’ll have hot Work e’er we yield to that.

War. The faud Diel take ’em then for _Archibald_; ’tis warse than Monarchy.

Duc. A thousand times: have we with such Industry 375 been pulling down Kings of the Royal Family, to set up Tyrants of our own, of mean and obscure Birth? No, if we’re for a single Person, I’m for a lawful one.

War. Wons and ya have spoken aud, my Lord, so am I.

Due. But _Lambert_ has a busy, haughty Spirit, and thinks to carry it; but we’ll have no single Person.

War. Nor I, ods Bread; the faud Diel brest the Wem of _Lambert_, or any single Person in _England_. I’s for yare Interest, my gued Lords. [Bowing.

Lam. My Lord _Wariston_, will you please to assume the Chair?

Enter _Loveless_, _Freeman_, and others with Petitions.

War. Ah, my gued Loord, I’s yare most obedient humble Servant. [Bowing to _Lam._ all set.

All. Hum, hum.

Fleet. My Lords and Gentlemen, we are here met together in the Name of the Lard—

Duc. Yea, and I hope we shall hang together as one Man—A Pox upon your Preaching. [Aside.

Fleet. —And hope this Day’s great Work will be for his Praise and Glory.

Duc. ’Bating long Graces, my Lord, we are met together for the Bus’ness of the Nation, to settle it, and to establish a Government.

Fleet. Yea, verily: and I hope you will all unanimously agree, it shall be your unworthy Servant.

Lam. What else, my Lord.

Fleet. And as thou, Lard, hast put the Sword into my Hand—

Due. So put it into your Heart—my Lord, to do Justice.

Fleet. Amen.

Due. I’d rather see it there than in your Hand— [Aside.

Fleet. For we are, as it were, a Body without a Head; or, to speak more learnedly, an Animal inanimate.

Hew. My Lord, let us use, as little as we can, the 376 Language of the Beast, hard Words; none of your Eloquence, it savoureth of Monarchy.

Lam. My Lord, you must give Men of Quality leave to speak in a Language more gentile and courtly than the ordinary sort of Mankind.

Hew. My Lord, I am sorry to hear there are any of Quality among this honourable Dissembly. [Stands up.

Cob. Assembly, my Lord—

Hew. Well, you know my meaning; or if there be any such, I’m sorry they should own themselves of Quality.

Due. How! own themselves Gentlemen! Death, Sir, d’ye think we were all born Coblers?

Hew. Or if you were not, the more the pity, for little _England_, I say. [In a heat.

Fleet. Verily, my Lords, Brethren should not fall out, it is a Scandal to the good Cause, and maketh the wicked rejoice.

War. Wons, and theys garr the loosey Proverb on’t te, _when loons gang together by th’ luggs, gued men get their ene._

All. He, he, he.

Due. He calls you Knaves by Craft, my Lords.

War. Bread a gued, take’t among ye, Gentlemen, I’s ment weel.

Fleet. I profess, my Lord _Wariston_, you make my Hair stand an end to hear how you swear.

War. Wons, my Loord, I’s swear as little as your Lordship, only I’s swear out, and ye swallow aud.

Due. There’s a Bone for you to pick, my Lord.

All. He, he, he.

Lam. We give my Lord _Wariston_ leave to jest.

Des. But what’s this to the Government all this while? A dad I shall sit so late, I shall have no time to visit my Horses, therefore proceed to the Point.

Hew. Ay, to the Point, my Lords; the Gentleman that spoke last spoke well.

Cob. Well said, Brother, I see you will in time speak properly.

377 Duc. But to the Government, my Lords! [Beats the Table.

Lam. Put ’em off of this Discourse, my Lord. [Aside to _War._

Des. My Lord _Wariston_, move it, you are Speaker.

War. The Diel a me, Sirs, and noo ya talk of a Speaker, I’s tell ye a blithe Tale.

Fleet. Ingeniously, my Lord, you are to blame to swear so.

Lam. Your Story, my Lord.

War. By my Sol, mon, and there war a poor Woman the other Day, begg’d o’th’ Carle the Speaker, but he’d give her nought unless she’d let a Feart; wons at last a Feart she lat. Ay marry, quoth the Woman, noo my Rump has a Speaker te.

All. He, he, he.

Due. But to our Bus’ness—

Des. Bus’ness; ay, there’s the thing, I’ve a World on’t. I shou’d go and bespeak a Pair of Mittins and Shears for my Hedger and Shearer, a pair of Cards for my Thrasher, a Scythe for my Mower, and a Screen-Fan for my Lady-Wife, and many other things; my Head’s full of Bus’ness. I cannot stay—

Whit. Fy, my Lord, will you neglect the bus’ness of the Day? We meet to oblige the Nation, and gratify our Friends.

Des. Nay, I’ll do any thing, so I may rise time enough to see my Horses at Night.

Lav. Damn ’em, what stuff’s here for a Council-Table?

Free. Where are our _English_ Spirits, that can be govern’d by such Dogs as these?—

Lam. Clerk, read the Heads of what past at our last sitting.

War. In the first place, I must mind your Lordships tol consider those that have been gued Members in the Commonwealth.

Fleet. We shall not be backward to gratify any that have serv’d the Commonwealth.

378 Whit. There’s Money enough; we have taxt the Nation high.

Due. Yes, if we knew where to find it: however, read.

Clerk reads.] To _Walter Walton_, Draper, six thousand nine hundred twenty nine Pounds six Shillings and five Pence, for Blacks for his Highness’s Funeral.

Lam. For the Devil’s; put it down for _Oliver Cromwel’s_ Funeral: We’ll have no Record rise up in Judgment for such a Villain.

Lav. How live Asses kick the dead Lion! [Aside.

Due. Hark ye, my Lords, we sit here to reward Services done to the Commonwealth; let us consider whether this be a Service to the Commonwealth or not?

Lam. However, we will give him Paper for’t.

Hews. Ay, let him get his Money when he can.

Lam. Paper’s not so dear, and the Clerk’s Pains will be rewarded.

War. Right, my gued Lord,’sbred, that _Cromwel_ was th’ faudest limmer Loon that ever cam into lour Country, the faud Diel has tane him by th’ Luggs for robbing our Houses and Land.

Fleet. No swearing, my Lord.

War. Weel, weel, my Loord, I’s larne to profess and lee as weel as best on ya.

Hews. That may bring you profit, my Lord—but, Clerk, proceed.

Clerk reads.] To _Walter Frost_, Treasurer of the Contingencies, twenty thousand Pounds. To _Thurloe_, Secretary to his Highness—

Duc. To old _Noll_.

Clerk reads.] —Old Noll, ten thousand Pounds, for unknown Service done the Commonwealth—To Mr. _Hutchinson_, Treasurer of the Navy, two hundred thousand Pounds—

War. Two hundred thousand Pound; Owns, what a Sum’s there?—Marry it came from the Mouth of a Cannon sure.

379 Clerk reads.] A Present to the Right Honourable and truly Virtuous Lady, the Lady _Lambert_, for Service done to the late Protector—

Hews. Again—say _Cromwel_.

Clerk. —Cromwel—six thousand Pound in _Jacobus’s_.

War. ’Sbread, sike a Sum wou’d make me honour the Face of aud _Jemmy_.

Clerk. To Mr. _Ice_ six thousand Pound; to Mr. _Loether_, late Secretary to his High—

Whit. To _Oliver Cromwel_ say, can you not obey Orders?

Clerk. —Secretary to _Oliver Cromwel_—two thousand nine hundred ninety nine Pounds for Intelligence and Information, and piously betraying the King’s Liege People.

War. Haud, haud, Sirs, Mary en ya gift se fast ya’ll gif aud away from poor _Archibald Johnson_.

Whit. Speak for your self, my Lord; or rather, my Lord, do you speak for him. [To _Lam._

Lam. Do you move it for him, and I’ll do as much for you anon. [Aside to _Whit._

Whit. My Lord, since we are upon Gratifications,—let us consider the known Merit of the Lord _Wariston_, a Person of industrious Mischiefs to the malignant Party, and great Integrity to us, and the Commonwealth.

War. Gued faith, an I’s ha been a trusty Trojon, Sir, what say you, may very gued and gracious Loords?—

Duc. I scorn to let a Dog go unrewarded; and you, Sir, fawn so prettily, ’tis pity you shou’d miss Preferment.

Hews. And so ’tis; come, come, my Lords, consider he was ever our Friend, and ’tis but reasonable we shou’d stitch up one another’s broken Fortunes.

Duc. Nay, Sir, I’m not against it.

All. ’Tis Reason, ’tis Reason.

Free. Damn ’em, how they lavish out the Nation!

War. Scribe, pretha read my Paper.

Hews. Have you a Pertition there?

Cob. A Petition, my Lord.

380 Hews. Pshaw, you Scholards are so troublesome.

Lam. Read the Substance of it. [To the Clerk.

Clerk. That your Honours wou’d be pleas’d, in consideration of his Service, to grant to your Petitioner, a considerable Sum of Money for his present Supply.

Fleet. Verily, order him two thousand Pound—

War. Two thousand poond? Bread a gued, and I’s gif my Voice for _Fleetwood_. [Aside.

Lam. Two thousand; nay, my Lords, let it be three.

War. Wons, I lee’d, I lee’d; I’s keep my Voice for _Lambert_—Guds Benizon light on yar Sol, my gued Lord _Lambert._

Hews. Three thousand Pound! why such a Sum wou’d buy half _Scotland_.

War. Wons, my Lord, ya look but blindly on’t then: time was, a Mite on’t had bought aud shoos in yar Stall, Brother, tho noo ya so abound in _Irish_ and Bishops Lands.

Duc. You have nick’d him there, my Lord.

All. He, he, he.

War. Scribe—gang a tiny bit farther.

Clerk. —And that your Honours would be pleas’d to confer an Annual Pension on him—

Lam. Reason, I think; what say you, my Lords, of five hundred Pound a Year?

All. Agreed, agreed.

War. The Diel swallow me, my Lord, ya won my Heart.

Due. ’Tis very well—but out of what shall this be rais’d?

Lam. We’ll look what Malignants’ Estates are forfeit, undispos’d of—let me see—who has young _Freeman’s_ Estate?

Des. My Lord, that fell to me.

Lam. What all the fifteen hundred Pound a Year?

Des. A Dad, and all little enough.

Free. The Devil do him good with it.

Des. Had not the Lard put it into your Hearts to have given me two thousand _per Annum_ out of Bishops Lands, 381 and three thousand _per Annum_ out of the Marquess’s Estate; how shou’d I have liv’d and serv’d the Commonwealth as I have done?

Free. A plague confound his Honour, he makes a hard shift to live on Eight thousand Pound a Year, who was born and bred a Hedger.

Lov. Patience, Friend.

Lam. I have been thinking—but I’ll find out a way.

Lov. Or betray some honest Gentleman, on purpose to gratify the Loone.

Lam. And, Gentlemen, I am bound in Honour and Conscience to speak in behalf of my Lord _Whitlock_; I think fit, if you agree with me, he shou’d be made Constable of _Windsor_ Castle, Warden of the Forest, with the Rents, Perquisities, and Profits thereto belonging; nor can your Lordships confer a Place of greater Trust and Honour in more safe Hands.

Due. I find he wou’d oblige all to his side. [Aside. Has he not part of the Duke of _Buckingham’s Estate_ already, with _Chelsey_ House, and several other Gifts?

Lam. He has dearly deserv’d ’em; he has serv’d our Interest well and faithfully.

Due. And he has been well paid for’t.

Whit. And so were you, Sir, with several Lordships, and Bishops Lands, you were not born to, I conceive.

Duc. I have not got it, Sir, by knavish Querks in Law; a Sword that deals out Kingdoms to the brave, has cut out some small parcels of Earth for me. And what of this? [Stands up in a heat.

Whit. I think, Sir, he that talks well, and to th’ purpose, may be as useful to the Commonwealth as he that fights well. Why do we keep so many else in Pension that ne’er drew Sword, but to talk, and rail at the malignant Party; to libel and defame ’em handsomly, with pious useful Lyes,

Which pass for Gospel with the common Rabble, And edify more than _Hugh Peter’s_ Sermons; 382 And make Fools bring more Grist to the publick Mill. Then, Sir, to wrest the Law to our convenience Is no small, inconsiderate Work.

Free. And which you may be hang’d for very shortly— [Aside.

Lam. ’Tis granted, my Lord, your Merit’s infinite—We made him Keeper of the Great Seal, ’tis true, ’tis Honour, but no Salary.

Duc. Ten thousand Pound a Year in Bribes will do as well.

Lam. Bribes are not so frequent now as in Old _Noll’s_ Days.

Hews. Well, my Lord, let us be brief and tedious, as the saying is, and humour one another: I’m for _Whitlock’s_ Advance.

Lam. I move for a Salary, Gentlemen, _Scobel_ and other petty Clerks have had a thousand a Year; my Lord sure merits more.

Hews. Why—let him have two thousand then.

Fleet. I profess ingeniously, with all my Heart.

Whit. I humbly thank your Lordships—but, if I may be so bold to ask, from whence shall I receive it?

Lam. Out of the Customs.

Cob. Brotherly Love ought to go along with us—but, under favour, when this is gone, where shall we raise new Supplies?

Lam. We’ll tax the Nation high, the City higher, They are our Friends, our most obsequious Slaves, Our Dogs to fetch and carry, our very Asses—

Lov. And our Oxes, with the help of their Wives. [Aside.

Lam. Besides, the City’s rich, and near her time, I hope, of being deliver’d.

War. Wons a gued, wad I’d the laying o’ her, she shou’d be sweetly brought to Bed, by my Sol.

Des. The City cares for no _Scotch_ Pipers, my Lord.

War. By my Sol, but she has danc’d after the gued 383 Pipe of Reformation, when the Covenant Jigg gang’d maryly round, Sirs.

Clerk. My Lords, here are some poor malignant Petitioners.

Lam. Oh, turn ’em out, here’s nothing for ’em; these Fellows were petitioning my Lady to day—I thought she had given you a satisfactory Answer,

Lov. She did indeed, my Lord: but ’tis a hard Case, to take away a Gentleman’s Estate, without convicting him of any Crime.

Lam. Oh, Sir, we shall prove that hereafter.

Lov. But to make sure Work, you’ll hang a Man first and examine his Offence afterwards; a Plague upon your Consciences: My Friend here had a little fairer Play; your Villains, your Witnesses in Pension swore him a Colonel for our glorious Master, of ever blessed Memory, at eight Years old; a Plague upon their Miracles.

Fleet. Ingeniously, Sirrah, you shall be pillory’d for defaming our reverend Witnesses: Guards, take ’em to your Custody both.

Free. Damn it, I shall miss my Assignation with Lady _Desbro_; a Pox of your unnecessary prating, what shall I do? [Guards take ’em away.

Lam. And now, my Lords, we have finished the Business of the Day. My good Lord _Fleetwood_, I am entirely yours, and at our next sitting shall approve my self your Creature—

Whit. My good Lord, I am your submissive Vassal.

War. Wons, my Lord, I scorn any Man shou’d be mere yare Vassal than Archibald Johnson. [To _Fleetwood_.

[Ex. All.