Beggars Bush: A Comedy. Beaumont Francis

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      Hig. That thou art chosen, venerable Clause,

      Our King and Soveraign; Monarch o'th'Maunders,

      Thus we throw up our Nab-cheats, first for joy,

      And then our filches; last, we clap our fambles,

      Three subject signs, we do it without envy:

      For who is he here did not wish thee chosen,

      Now thou art chosen? ask 'em: all will say so,

      Nay swear't: 'tis for the King, but let that pass.

      When last in conference at the bouzing ken

      This other day we sat about our dead Prince

      Of famous memory: (rest go with his rags:)

      And that I saw thee at the tables end,

      Rise mov'd, and gravely leaning on one Crutch,

      Lift the other like a Scepter at my head,

      I then presag'd thou shortly wouldst be King,

      And now thou art so: but what need presage

      To us, that might have read it in thy beard

      As well, as he that chose thee? by that beard

      Thou wert found out, and mark'd for Soveraignty.

      O happy beard! but happier Prince, whose beard

      Was so remark'd, as marked out our Prince,

      Not bating us a hair. Long may it grow,

      And thick, and fair, that who lives under it,

      May live as safe, as under Beggars Bush,

      Of which this is the thing, that but the type.

      Om. Excellent, excellent orator, forward good Higgen,

      Give him leave to spit: the fine, well-spoken Higgen.

      Hig. This is the beard, the bush, or bushy-beard,

      Under whose gold and silver raign 'twas said

      So many ages since, we all should smile

      On impositions, taxes, grievances,

      Knots in a State, and whips unto a Subject,

      Lye lurking in this beard, but all kemb'd out:

      If now, the Beard be such, what is the Prince

      That owes the Beard? a Father; no, a Grand-father;

      Nay the great Grand-father of you his people.

      He will not force away your hens, your bacon,

      When you have ventur'd hard for't, nor take from you

      The fattest of your puddings: under him

      Each man shall eat his own stolen eggs, and butter,

      In his own shade, or sun-shine, and enjoy

      His own dear Dell, Doxy, or Mort, at night

      In his own straw, with his own shirt, or sheet,

      That he hath filch'd that day, I, and possess

      What he can purchase, back, or belly-cheats

      To his own prop: he will have no purveyers

      For Pigs, and poultry.

      Clau. That we must have, my learned oratour,

      It is our will, and every man to keep In his own path and circuit.

      Hig. Do you hear? You must hereafter maund on your own pads he saies.

      Clau. And what they get there, is their own, besides

      To give good words.

      Hig. Do you mark? to cut been whids,

      That is the second Law.

      Clau. And keep a-foot

      The humble, and the common phrase of begging,

      Lest men discover us.

      Hig. Yes; and cry sometimes,

      To move compassion: Sir, there is a table,

      That doth command all these things, and enjoyns 'em,

      Be perfect in their crutches, their feign'd plaisters,

      And their torn pass-ports, with the ways to stammer,

      And to be dumb, and deaf, and blind, and lame,

      There, all the halting paces are set down,

      I'th' learned language.

      Clau. Thither I refer them,

      Those, you at leisure shall interpret to them.

      We love no heaps of laws, where few will serve.

      Om. O gracious Prince, 'save, 'save the good King Clause.

      Hig. A Song to crown him.

      Fer. Set a Centinel out first.

      Snap. The word?

      Hig. A Cove comes, and fumbumbis to it.– Strike.