Act 3 — Scene IX. Changes to the long Street, a Pageant of an Elephant coming from the farther end with Sir Credulous on it, and several others playing on strange confused Instruments.

Sir Cred. This sure is extraordinary, or the Devil’s in’t, and I’ll ne’er trust Serenade more. Come forward, and all play again.

—Hold, hold, now for the Song, which because I wou’d have most deliciously and melodiously sung, I’ll sing my self; look ye,—hum—hum.—

Sir Credulous should have sung.

Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes,

D’on thy Flannel Petticoat quickly, and rise;

And from thy resplendent Window discover

A Face that wou’d mortify any young Lover:

For I, like great Jove transformed, do wooe,

And am amorous Owl, to wit to wooe, to wit to wooe.

That of all Things you best may compare to an Owl:

For in some dark Shades he delights still to sit,

And all the Night long he crys wo to wit.

Then rise, my bright Cloris, and d’on on slip shoe:

And hear thy amorous Owl chant, wit to wooe, wit to wooe.

—Well, this won’t do, for I perceive no Window open, nor Lady bright appear, to talk obligingly:—perhaps the Song does not please her: you Ballad-singers, have you no good Songs of another fashion?

1 Man. Yes, Sir, Several, Robin—Hark how the Waters fall, fall, fall!

Sir Cred. How, Man! Zoz, remove us farther off, for fear of wetting.

1 Man. No, no, Sir, I only gave my Fellow a hint of an excellent Ballad that begins—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade! Sings.

Sir Cred. Ay, ay, that, we’ll have that,—Ill-wedded Joys, how quickly do you fade,— Sings. That’s excellent! Oh, now the Windows open, now, now shew your capering Tricks. Vaulting. They all play again.

Enter Roger and a Company of Fellows as out of Sir Patient’s House, led on by Abel a precise Clerk, all armed with odd Weapons.

Abel. Verily, verily, here be these Babes of Perdition, these Children of Iniquity.

Rog. A pox of your Babes and Children, they are Men, and Sons of Whores, whom we must bang confoundedly, for not letting honest godly People rest quietly in their Beds at Midnight.

Sir Cred. Who’s there?

Rog. There, with a Pox to you; cannot a Right-worshipful Knight, that has been sick these Twenty Years with taking Physick, sleep quietly in his own House for you; and must we be rais’d out of our Beds to quiet your Hell-pipes, in the Devil’s name?

Abel. Down with Gog and Magog, there; there’s the rotten Bell weather that leads the rest astray, and defiles the whole Flock.

Rog. Hang your preaching, and let’s come to him, we’ll maul him. Beat Sir Cred.

Sir Cred. Oh, Quarter, Quarter, Murder, Help, Murder, Murder!

Enter Lodwick.

Lod. Damn these Rascals, who e’er they were, that so unluckily redeem’d a Rival from my Fury,—Hah, they are here,—Egad, I’ll have one touch more with ’em,—the Dogs are spoiling my design’d Serenade too—have amongst ye.— Fights and beats ’em off. Sir Credulous, how is’t?

Sir Cred. Who’s there? Lodwick? Oh dear Lad, is’t thou that hast redeem’d me from the inchanted Cudgels that demolish’d my triumphant Pageant, and confounded my Serenade? Zoz, I’m half kill’d, Man,—I have never a whole Bone about me sure.

Lod. Come in with me—a plague upon the Rascal that escap’d me.

Exeunt.