Scene 3Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man, carrying cudgels. PORTER You’ll leave your noise anon, you rascals! Do you take the court for Parish Garden? You rude slaves, leave your gaping! ONE, (within) Good Master Porter, I belong to th’ larder. 5 PORTER Belong to th’ gallows and be hanged, you rogue! Is this a place to roar in?—Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones. These are but switches to ’em.—I’ll scratch your heads! You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, 10 you rude rascals? PORTER’S MAN Pray, sir, be patient. ’Tis as much impossible— Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons— To scatter ’em as ’tis to make ’em sleep On May Day morning, which will never be. 15 We may as well push against Paul’s as stir ’em. PORTER How got they in, and be hanged? PORTER’S MAN Alas, I know not. How gets the tide in? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot— You see the poor remainder—could distribute, 20 I made no spare, sir. PORTER You did nothing, sir. PORTER’S MAN I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow ’em down before me; but if I spared any That had a head to hit, either young or old, 25 He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again— And that I would not for a cow, God save her! ONE, (within) Do you hear, Master Porter? PORTER I shall be with you presently, good master 30 puppy.— Keep the door close, sirrah. PORTER’S MAN What would you have me do? PORTER What should you do but knock ’em down by th’ dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to 35 court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together. PORTER’S MAN The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is 40 a fellow somewhat near the door—he should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog days now reign in ’s nose. All that stand about him are under the line; they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the 45 head, and three times was his nose discharged against me. He stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head for kindling such a 50 combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once and hit that woman, who cried out “Clubs!” when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succor, which were the hope o’ th’ Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my 55 place. At length they came to th’ broomstaff to me; I defied ’em still, when suddenly a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pibbles that I was fain to draw mine honor in and let ’em win the work. The devil was amongst ’em, I 60 think, surely. PORTER These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples, that no audience but the tribulation of Tower Hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to 65 endure. I have some of ’em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days, besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. | (Note: In the Folger's edition of the play that we're using, this is Act 5, Scene 3.)
In the palace yard, a group gathers for the baby's christening. A Porter is trying to stop people from shouting and make it a civilized bash. The Porter argues with various peeps trying to get in and see more. He's got to hold the gate so that no one can enter who's not supposed to be there. The people waiting to see the christening are the same lowlifes who shout at executions or go to the playhouse. (Shakespeare is totally making a joke at his audience's expense here.) |
Enter Lord Chamberlain. CHAMBERLAIN Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too. From all parts they are coming, 70 As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves?—You’ve made a fine hand, fellows! There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these Your faithful friends o’ th’ suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, 75 When they pass back from the christening! | When the Lord Chamberlain sees all this, he snaps at the Porter. This is
a royal christening, and he's letting rascals shout? Get it together,
man. |
PORTER An ’t please your Honor, We are but men, and what so many may do, Not being torn a-pieces, we have done. 80 An army cannot rule ’em. CHAMBERLAIN As I live, If the King blame me for ’t, I’ll lay you all By th’ heels, and suddenly, and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect. You’re lazy knaves, 85 And here you lie baiting of bombards, when You should do service. Trumpets. Hark, the trumpets sound! They’re come already from the christening. Go break among the press, and find a way out 90 To let the troop pass fairly, or I’ll find A Marshalsea shall hold you play these two months. PORTER Make way there for the Princess! PORTER’S MAN You great fellow, Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache. 95 PORTER You i’ th’ camlet, get up o’ th’ rail! I’ll peck you o’er the pales else. They exit. | The Porter worries that the king will blame him directly for all the commotion. Sound the trumpets, because the royal family is on their way back from the christening. |