SCENE XI. _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._