HEATH, _a broom-man_. BRISTLE, _a brush-man_. DITTY, _a ballad-man_. BUDGET, _a tinker_. GUM, _a tooth-drawer_. WELCOME, _a host_. BUNG, _a tapster_. FENNETING, _an apple-wench_. CURDS, _a fresh cheese and cream woman_. PROLOGUE. The style that banish'd Ovid and his book, And, spite of's laurel made him thunderstrook, Is banish'd from this scene by us; and here Cato may come into the theatre. At our love-tricks none need their eyelids crush, Chaste vestals may look on without a blush: Our cheats do take, if they but time beguile, And all our plot is but to make you smile. You're welcome then to London, which our show, Since you mayn't go to that, has brought to you. Pardon, if we offend you with our noise, 'Tis but an echo of their clamorous voice. THE LONDON CHANTICLEERS. SCENE I. _Enter_ HEATH, _a broom-man_. HEATH. Brooms, maids, brooms! Old boots or shoes! Come, buy my brooms! _You maidens that do cleanse the door,_ _And make a looking-glass o' th' floor,_ _That every night prepare the ground,_ _For Oberon to dance a round,_ _And do expect Queen Mab for you_ _Should drop a tester in a shoe,_ _And would sleep without pinching, come_ _Quickly to me, and buy a broom,_ _That will effect the thing you mean;_ _'Tis a new broom, and will sweep clean._ Come, buy my broom, maids! Maids, did I say? Sure, there are none i' th' city; or, if there be any, they have forsworn my custom. All the brooms I have sold to-day would not sweep half the ground I have gone; and the money I have got will scarce buy ale enough to moisten my mouth after one cry. Sure, all the city are turned dustmen, and the whole corporation are of the company of Grobians. Women sweep their houses with their long coats, and men their shops with their scrubbed beards. There's no use of a besom now but to make rods of and sweep the children's backsides. 'Tis better killing men for eightpence a day, or hanging of 'em for thirteenpence halfpenny apiece, than follow this poor and idle life; 'tis easier canting out, _A piece of broken bread for a poor man_, than singing, _Brooms, maids, brooms: come, buy my brooms!_ I should e'en go hang myself now if I were worth a halter; but who will spend a groat on't, when he may be hanged at free cost? I'll go rob the sheriff, and not leave him enough to hire an executioner for me; steal the judge's gown, that he may not come to the assizes, and poison the jury, that they may not bring me in guilty. _Enter_ BRISTLE. BRIS. Buy a save-all, buy a save-all; never more need. Come, buy a save-all! Buy a comb-brush or a pot-brush; buy a flint, or a steel, or a tinder-box.