_Enter_ GUM _with the Tinker's budget and Ballad-man's_
_box_.
Any old pots or kettles to mend? Will you buy my ballads?
or have you any corns on your feet-toes? Nay, I am
Jack-of-all-trades now. Three is a perfect number, and so many
I have. Nay, Master Tinker, you kicked me to-day; but since
you are so light of your heels, I'll make you walk after your
budget before you have it. 'T shall be in trouble presently,
not to be delivered without a fee. I'll drink as much ale on
the kettle as will fill it; the rest o' th' tools shall go for
jugs apiece; and then, Master Ditty, I will be merry with your
ballads, too. They must be in lavender a little, and soak. If
they will but yield me draughts apiece, I care not, and the box
shall serve to score on. But stay, had I not better burn it,
to bake the toasts and warm the ale? Hang't! 'tis but engaging
the books twopence or a groat deeper, and have some three or
four bundles of straws like faggots, and 'twill be _a-la-mode_.
_Enter_ BRISTLE _and_ HEATH _with bundles_. GUM
_retires_.
BRIS. She'll say I am a pretty jewel to run away with her
cabinet; but 'tis no matter. This box will make me flourish all
the year long.
GUM. So, so; here are companions that will help drink the sea
dry: mere gulfs or whirlpools, that suck in all that comes nigh
'um.
BRIS. Come, Heath, open thy treasury. What's the first pearl?
GUM. These ale-suckers, too, are a-going to liquor some prize
that their lime-twig fingers have seized upon.
HEATH. A pair of silver-handled knives. These, I believe, she
made when she lived with my Lady May'ress. Next, a pair of
white gloves; these she had at the funeral of a dear friend,
for whose sake she meant to be buried in 'um herself; and how
would Cerberus take it, to see one come to hell with a dog-skin
pair of gloves? A silken garter! This, I warrant it, she had at
a wedding, and intended to bestow it on her own bridemaid. Then
a pair of scissors----
GUM. Sure, these villains have robbed an haberdasher, and stole
a box of small-ware. [_Aside._
HEATH _sings_.
_Come out to the light,_
_Than which thou'rt more bright:_
_This box thee no longer shall harbour._
_'Tis thou that hast made_
_Me o' th' triple trade--_
_A tailor, a sempster, a barber._
_With thee I will shave_
_The barbarian slave,_
_And trim up the youngsters of Poland,_
_Make a jump of Aleppo,_
_Of Friesland a[nd] Joppo,_
_And a stately brave shirt of Holland._
GUM. [_Coming forward_.] Well sung of a woodcock. Come, thou
must go have thy pipe tuned at mine host Welcome's; thou art
like the glass pipe, that will never whistle but when there's
water in't.
HEATH. Ho, ho! What, furniture for a whole fair upon thy back
at once? Dressed up just like the wooden boys on haberdashers'
stalls.
BRIS. Three strings to thy bow at once? Sure, thou canst not
break when thou hast such a triple cord to hold thee.
GUM. A single one, I believe, would spoil your drinking;
'twould tie up your guzzle.
BRIS. But how dar'st thou walk abroad before owl-light? Dost
think there's no birds stirring still that will spy out
these feathers? Come, off with thy box of poetry, the Muses'
warehouse, Calliope's Cabinet. 'Tis ominous to have the string
about thy neck. If thou art taken with 'um, thou may'st be
condemned to make as many wry mouths as the squeaking owner
did, when he last strained and vomited 'um out at Smithfield or
Pye Corner.
GUM. O, there's no fear of that, though he that these call
master had my neck in a slip. These are Ditty's, and these
Budget's; they gave 'um me to hold a little; but I'll carry
'um to the Flying Horse, and change 'um for a cup of Helicon,
which will in half an hour make me able to repay the paltry
rhymes in heroic verse.
BRIS. Come, shall we join together? we three are able to sponge
up all the ale i' th' city, and raise the price of malt.
GUM. A match; as far as these will go, I'm for you.
HEATH. And when they're gone, we'll drink our very shirts out,
and then pawn ourselves too. [_Exeunt._