SCENE I.--_The Village Green.

_Enter_ CUDDY BANKS _with the ~Morris-dancers~._

First Clown. Nay, Cuddy, prithee do not leave us now; if we part all this night, we shall not meet before day.

_2nd Cl._ I prithee, Banks, let’s keep together now.

_Cud._ If you were wise, a word would serve; but as you are, I must be forced to tell you again, I have a little private business, an hour’s work; it may prove but an half hour’s, as luck may serve; and then I take horse, and along with you. Have we e’er a witch in the morris?

_1st Cl._ No, no; no woman’s part but Maid Marian and the Hobby-horse.

_Cud._ I’ll have a witch; I love a witch.

_1st Cl._ ’Faith, witches themselves are so common now-a-days, that the counterfeit will not be regarded. They say we have three or four in Edmonton besides Mother Sawyer.

_2nd Cl._ I would she would dance her part with us.

_3rd Cl._ So would not I; for if she comes, the devil and all comes along with her.

_Cud._ Well, I’ll have a witch; I have loved a witch ever since I played at cherry-pit.[431] Leave me, and get my horse dressed; give him oats: but water him not till I come. Whither do we foot it first?

[431] A children’s game, in which cherry-stones are pitched into a small hole. The suggestion was sometimes a less innocent one, however. Compare Herrick’s quatrain on “Cherry-pit.”

_2nd Cl._ To Sir Arthur Clarington’s first; then whither thou wilt.

_Cud._ Well, I am content; but we must up to Carter’s, the rich yeoman; I must be seen on hobby-horse there.

_1st Cl._ O, I smell him now!--I’ll lay my ears Banks is in love, and that’s the reason he would walk melancholy by himself.

_Cud._ Ha! who was that said I was in love?

_1st Cl._ Not I.

_2nd Cl._ Nor I.

_Cud._ Go to, no more of that: when I understand what you speak, I know what you say; believe that.

_1st Cl._ Well, ’twas I, I’ll not deny it; I meant no hurt in’t. I have seen you walk up to Carter’s of Chessum: Banks, were not you there last Shrovetide?

_Cud._ Yes, I was ten days together there the last Shrovetide.

_2nd Cl._ How could that be, when there are but seven days in the week?

_Cud._ Prithee peace! I reckon _stila nova_ as a traveller; thou understandest as a fresh-water farmer, that never sawest a week beyond sea. Ask any soldier that ever received his pay but in the Low Countries, and he’ll tell thee there are eight days in the week[432] there hard by. How dost thou think they rise in High Germany, Italy, and those remoter places?

[432] Thus Butler:

“The soldier does it every day, _Eight to the week_, for sixpence pay.”--_Gifford._

_3rd Cl._ Ay, but simply there are but seven days in the week yet.

_Cud._ No, simply as thou understandest. Prithee look but in the lover’s almanac: when he has been but three days absent, “O,” says he, “I have not seen my love these seven years:” there’s a long cut! When he comes to her again and embraces her, “O,” says he, “now methinks I am in Heaven;” and that’s a pretty step! He that can get up to Heaven in ten days need not repent his journey; you may ride a hundred days in a caroche,[433] and be further off than when you set forth. But, I pray you, good morris-mates, now leave me. I will be with you by midnight.

[433] Coach, Fr. _Carrosse_.

_1st Cl._ Well, since he will be alone, we’ll back again and trouble him no more.

_All the Clowns._ But remember, Banks.

_Cud._ The hobby-horse shall be remembered. But hark you; get Poldavis, the barber’s boy, for the witch, because he can show his art better than another. [_Exeunt all but_ CUDDY.

Well, now to my walk. I am near the place where I should meet--I know not what: say I meet a thief? I must follow him, if to the gallows; say I meet a horse, or hare, or hound? still I must follow: some slow-paced beast, I hope; yet love is full of lightness in the heaviest lovers. Ha! my guide is come.

_Enter the ~Dog~._

A water-dog! I am thy first man, sculler; I go with thee; ply no other but myself. Away with the boat! land me but at Katherine’s Dock, my sweet Katherine’s Dock, and I’ll be a fare to thee. That way? nay, which way thou wilt; thou knowest the way better than I:--fine gentle cur it is, and well brought up, I warrant him. We go a-ducking, spaniel; thou shalt fetch me the ducks, pretty kind rascal.

_Enter a ~Spirit~ vizarded. He throws off his mask, &c., and appears in the shape of_ KATHERINE.

_Spir._ Thus throw I off mine own essential horror, And take the shape of a sweet lovely maid Whom this fool dotes on: we can meet his folly, But from his virtues must be runaways. We’ll sport with him; but when we reckoning call, We know where to receive; the witch pays for all. [_The ~Dog~ barks._

_Cud._ Ay? is that the watchword? She’s come. [_Sees the ~Spirit~._] Well, if ever we be married, it shall be at Barking Church,[434] in memory of thee: now come behind, kind cur.

[434] Barking Church stood at the bottom of Seething Lane. It was destroyed in the great fire.--_Gifford._

And have I met thee, sweet Kate? I will teach thee to walk so late.

O, see, we meet in metre. [_The ~Spirit~ retires as he advances._] What! dost thou trip from me? O, that I were upon my hobby-horse, I would mount after thee so nimble! “Stay, nymph, stay, nymph,” singed Apollo.

Tarry and kiss me, sweet nymph, stay; Tarry and kiss me, sweet: We will to Chessum Street, And then to the house stands in the highway.

Nay, by your leave, I must embrace you. [_Exit, following the ~Spirit~._

[_Within._] O, help, help! I am drowned, I am drowned!

_Re-enter_ CUDDY _wet_.

_Dog._ Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Cud._ This was an ill night to go a-wooing in; I find it now in Pond’s almanac: thinking to land at Katherine’s Dock, I was almost at Gravesend. I’ll never go to a wench in the dog-days again; yet ’tis cool enough.--Had you never a paw in this dog-trick? a mange take that black hide of yours! I’ll throw you in at Limehouse in some tanner’s pit or other.

_Dog._ Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Cud._ How now! who’s that laughs at me? Hist to him! [_The ~Dog~ barks._]--Peace, peace! thou didst but thy kind neither; ’twas my own fault.

_Dog._ Take heed how thou trustest the devil another time.

_Cud._ How now! who’s that speaks? I hope you have not your reading tongue about you?

_Dog._ Yes, I can speak.

_Cud._ The devil you can! you have read Æsop’s fables, then; I have played one of your parts then,--the dog that catched at the shadow in the water. Pray you, let me catechise you a little; what might one call your name, dog?

_Dog._ My dame calls me Tom.

_Cud._ ’Tis well, and she may call me Ass; so there’s an whole one betwixt us, Tom-Ass: she said I should follow you, indeed. Well, Tom, give me thy fist, we are friends; you shall be mine ingle:[435] I love you; but I pray you let’s have no more of these ducking devices.

[435] Crony, friend.

_Dog._ Not, if you love me. Dogs love where they are beloved; cherish me, and I’ll do anything for thee.

_Cud._ Well, you shall have jowls and livers; I have butchers to my friends that shall bestow ’em: and I will keep crusts and bones for you, if you’ll be a kind dog, Tom.

_Dog._ Any thing; I’ll help thee to thy love.

_Cud._ Wilt thou? that promise shall cost me a brown loaf, though I steal it out of my father’s cupboard: you’ll eat stolen goods, Tom, will you not?

_Dog._ O, best of all; the sweetest bits those.

_Cud._ You shall not starve, Ningle[436] Tom, believe that: if you love fish, I’ll help you to maids and soles; I’m acquainted with a fishmonger.

[436] Abbreviation for “Mine ingle,” as above.

_Dog._ Maids and soles? O, sweet bits! banqueting stuff those.

_Cud._ One thing I would request you, ningle, as you have played the knavish cur with me a little, that you would mingle amongst our morris-dancers in the morning. You can dance?

_Dog._ Yes, yes, any thing; I’ll be there, but unseen to any but thyself. Get thee gone before; fear not my presence. I have work to-night; I serve more masters, more dames than one.

_Cud._ He can serve Mammon and the devil too.

_Dog._ It shall concern thee and thy love’s purchase. There is a gallant rival loves the maid, And likely is to have her. Mark what a mischief, Before the morris ends, shall light on him!

_Cud._ O, sweet ningle, thy neuf[437] once again; friends must part for a time. Farewell, with this remembrance; shalt have bread too when we meet again. If ever there were an honest devil, ’twill be the Devil of Edmonton,[438] I see. Farewell, Tom; I prithee dog me as soon as thou canst. [_Exit._

[437] Or “neif,” _i.e._ fist.

[438] The allusion is to Master Peter Fabel, who, as the prologue to the old comedy says, “was called, for his sleights and his magic, “The merry Devil of Edmonton.”--_Gifford._

_Dog._ I’ll not miss thee, and be merry with thee. Those that are joys denied must take delight In sins and mischiefs; ’tis the devil’s right. [_Exit._