A Street; a great Bonfire, with Spits, and Rumps roasting, and the Mobile about the Fire, with Pots, Bottles, Fiddles.
1 Pren. Here, Jack, a Health to the King.
2 Pren. Let it pass, Lad, and next to the noble General.
1 Pren. Ralph, baste the Rump well, or ne’er hope to see a King agen.
3 Pren. The Rump will baste it self, it has been well cram’d.
Enter Freeman, L. Des. Loveless, and L. Lam. Gill. Tom,
Pages, &c.
Cap. Hah, Noble Champion, faith, Sir, you must honour us so far as to drink the King’s Health, and the noble General’s, before you go.
Enter Wariston, drest like a Pedlar, with a Box about his Neck
full of Ballads and Things.
War. Will ya buy a guedly Ballat or a Scotch Spur, Sirs? a guedly Ballat, or a Scotch Spur.— ‘Sbread, I’s scapt hitherte weele enough, I’s say’d my Crag fro stretching twa Inches longer than ’twas borne: will ya buy a Jack-line to roast the Rump, a new Jack Lambert Line? — or a blithe Ditty of the Noble Scotch General? — come buy my Ditties.
Cap. How, a Ditty o’th’ General? let’s see’t, Sirrah.
War. ‘Sbread, Sirs, and here’s the guedly Ballat of the General’s coming out of Scotland.
Cap. Here, who sings it? we’ll all bear the bob.
[Wariston sings the Ballad, all bearing the Bob.
Enter Ananias crying Almanacks.
Ana. New Almanacks, new Almanacks.
Cap. Hah, who have we here? Ananias, Holder-forth of Clement’s Parish?
All. Ha, a Traytor, a Traytor.
Lov. If I am not mistaken, this blithe Ballad-singer too was Chair-man to the Committee of Safety.
Cap. Is your Lordship turned Pedlar at last?
War. What mon I do noo? Lerd, ne mere Lerd than yar sel, Sir; wons I show ‘em a fair pair of Heels.
[Goes to run away, they get him on a Colt-staff, with Ananias on
another, Fidlers playing Fortune my Foe, round the Fire.
Cap. Play Fortune my Foe, Sirrah.
Enter Hewson, drest like a Country Fellow.
Cor. Who are you, Sirrah? you have the mark o’ th’ Beast.
Hews. Who aye, Sir? Aye am a Doncer, that come a merry-making among ya —
Cap. Come, Sirrah, your Feats of Activity quickly then.
[He dances; which ended, they get him on a Colt-staff, and cry a
Cobler, a Cobler.
All. A Cobler, a Cobler.
Cap. To Prison with the Traytors, and then we have made a good Night’s work on’t.
Then let’s all home, and to the Powers Divine
Pray for the King, and all the Sacred Line.
[Exeunt.