_Enter_ BRISTLE, _like a shoemaker_, _with_ HEATH, _like_
_a butcher_.
HEATH. Slaughter-calf do you say my name shall be?
BRIS. Ay, ay, and mine Vamp.
HEATH. And how do I look now? Like one that was begotten under
a butcher's stall, I warrant, and born in a slaughter-house?
I know there's never a Kill-cow i' th' city becomes a woollen
apron better than I do.
BRIS. Liker a calf than butcher; yet thy sheep's head will
be some token thou cam'st from the Butch Row. Have a care
thou dost not forget thyself, and talk of brooms instead of
fly-flops, and old boots and shoes instead of calves' skins!
HEATH. I am as artificial at the trade as the master o' th'
company. I could sell Jupiter, were he a bull again. I am
perfectly changed; I never knew Heath the broom-man or the
price of a besom, never trafficked with maids o' th' kitchen,
or shopboys for old boots and shoes.
BRIS. Nor I for new, for all I'm a shoemaker. But to the
design. Stand here; this is the road she walks; if thou
fail'st, may thy woollen apron be spun into halters to hang
thee in, and a stall be thy gibbet. [_Exit._
HEATH. If I don't act my part well, may I be a changeling
indeed, and be begged for the city fool. If she be coy, and by
her obstinacy hinder our plot, I'll quarter her out and sell
her for cow-beef, make pettitoes of her fingers and trotters of
her feet.
_Enter_ CURDWELL.
CURD. I have fresh cheese and cream!
HEATH. Harmonious voice! The Witney singers are but chattering
magpies to this melodious nightingale, and the tabor and pipe
but as the scraping on a brass pan to this organ; sure, this is
the beauty that I must court. If Cupid be not propitious now,
I'll cut my brooms into rods, and whip the peevish boy. Lady
(for so your beauty styles you), to whom the snow and swan are
black, whether thou art a goddess, and come down to punish men,
and make them die with love, or a mortal which excellest all
goddesses, pity a wounded heart, which can receive no ease from
any thing but those eyes from whom it did receive its wounds.
There's no nectar or ambrosia but what thy pail affords; the
moon would willingly be that the Welshmen wish it, so thou
wouldst give it room amongst thy cheeses. Be not unkind, sweet
lady; one cruel look will make this place my slaughter-house,
and thee the butcher's butcher.
CURD. I dare not trust you, for all your fair words; men of
your profession make it a trade to cheat us.
HEATH. I'll be as faithful as thou art fair, and stick as close
unto thee as my shirt does to my back on a sweltry sweating
day. Come, thou shalt yield, and by yielding conquer me.
CURD. You set upon weak women with your strong compliments, and
overcome them, whether they will or no. [_He moves._
HEATH. Move forward; we'll be contracted at the next alehouse,
be married to-morrow, and have half a dozen children the next
day. [_Exeunt._