The Palace-Yard.
 Noise and tumult within. Enter PORTER and his MAN.

Porter	You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the 
	court for Parish-garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your 
	gaping.

One Within	Good master porter, I belong to th' larder.

Porter	Belong to th' gallows and be hanged, ye 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, you rude rascals?

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.
	We may as well push against Paul's as stir 'em.

Porter	How got they in, and be hanged?

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,
	I made no spare, sir.

Porter							You did nothing, sir.

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,
	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 puppy.
	Keep the door close sirrah.

Man	What would you have me do?

Porter	What should you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? Is 
	this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange 
	Indian with the great tool come to 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.

Man	The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is 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 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 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 succour, which were the hope 
	o'th'Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made 
	good my 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 
	pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in and let 
	'em win the work. The devil was amongst 'em I 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 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.

                         Enter LORD CHAMBERLAIN.

Chamberlain	Mercy o'me, what a multitude are here!
	They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,
	As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,
	These lazy knaves? Ye'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,
	When they pass back from the christening.

Porter									And't please your honour,
	We are but men, and what so many may do,
	Not being torn a-pieces, we have done.
	An army cannot rule 'em.

Chamberlain							As I live,
	If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
	By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
	Clap round fines for neglect. Ye're lazy knaves;
	And here ye lie baiting of bombards when
	Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound!
	They're come already from the christening.
	Go, break among the press, and find a way out
	To let the troop pass fairly, or I'll find
	A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.

Porter	Make way there for the princess.

Man									You great fellow,
	Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache.

Porter	You i'th'camlet, get up o'th'rail:
	I'll peck you o'er the pales else.
											[Exeunt.
