A TALE OF A TUB.
153
Pan. I zay, John Clay keep still on his old gate:
Wedding and hanging both go at a rate,
Wedding and hanging both go at a rate,
Turfe. Well said, To-Pan; you have still the hap to hit
The nail o' the head at a close: I think there never
Marriage was managed with a more avisement,
Than was this marriage, though I say it that should not;
Especially 'gain mine own flesh and blood,
My wedded wife. Indeed my wife would ha' had
All the young batchelors, and maids forsooth,
Of the zix parishes hereabouts; but I
Cried none, sweet Sybil; none of that gear, I:
It would lick zalt, I told her, by her leave.
No, three or vour our wise, choice, honest neighbours,
Ubstantial persons, men that have born office,
And mine own family would be enough
To eat our dinner. What! dear meat's a thief;
I know it by the butchers and the market-volk.
Hum drum, I cry. No half ox in a pye:
A man that's bid to a bride-ale, if he have cake
And drink enough, he need not vear his stake.
The nail o' the head at a close: I think there never
Marriage was managed with a more avisement,
Than was this marriage, though I say it that should not;
Especially 'gain mine own flesh and blood,
My wedded wife. Indeed my wife would ha' had
All the young batchelors, and maids forsooth,
Of the zix parishes hereabouts; but I
Cried none, sweet Sybil; none of that gear, I:
It would lick zalt, I told her, by her leave.
No, three or vour our wise, choice, honest neighbours,
Ubstantial persons, men that have born office,
And mine own family would be enough
To eat our dinner. What! dear meat's a thief;
I know it by the butchers and the market-volk.
Hum drum, I cry. No half ox in a pye:
A man that's bid to a bride-ale, if he have cake
And drink enough, he need not vear his stake.
Clench. 'Tis right; he has spoke as true as a gun, believe it.
Enter dame Turfe and Awdrey, followed by Joan,
Joyce, Madge, Parnel, Grisel, and Kate,
dressed for the wedding.
Joyce, Madge, Parnel, Grisel, and Kate,
dressed for the wedding.
Turfe. Come, Sybil, come; did not I tell you o' this,
This pride and muster of women would mar all?
Six women to one daughter, and a mother!
The queen (God save her) ha' no more herself.
This pride and muster of women would mar all?
Six women to one daughter, and a mother!
The queen (God save her) ha' no more herself.
