_Tho._ Nothing but famine frights thee: come hither Fidler, What Ballads are you seen in best? be short Sir. _Fidler._ Under your masterships correction, I can sing The Duke of _Norfolk_, or the merry Ballad Of _Diverus_ and _Lazarus_, the Rose of _England_, In _Creet_ when _Dedimus_ first began, _Jonas_ his crying out against _Coventry_. _Tho._ Excellent, Rare matters all. _Fid._ _Mawdlin_ the Merchants Daughter, The Devil, and ye dainty Dames. _Tom._ Rare still. _Fid._ The landing of the Spaniards at _Bow_, With the bloudy battel at _Mile-end_. _Tho._ All excellent: No tuning as ye love me; let thy Fidle Speak Welch, or any thing that's out of all tune, The vilder still the better, like thy self, For I presume thy voice will make no trees dance. _Fid._ Nay truly, ye shall have it ev'n as homely. _Tho._ Keep ye to that key, are they all abed trow? _Lan._ I hear no stirring any where, no light In any window, 'tis a night for the nonce Sir. _Tho._ Come strike up then: and say the Merchants daughter, We'l bear the burthen: proceed to incision Fidler. [_Song._ _Enter Servant, above._ _Ser._ Who's there? what noise is this? what rogue At these hours? _Thom._ _O what is that to you my fool?_ _O what is that to you,_ _Pluck in your face you bawling Ass,_ _Or I will break your brow. hey down, down, down._ A new Ballad, a new, a new. _Fid._ The twelfth of _April_, on _May_ day, My house and goods were burnt away, _&c._ [_Maid above._ _Maid._ Why who is this? _Lan._ O damsel dear, Open the door, and it shall appear, Open the door. _Maid._ [O gentle squire.] I'le see thee hang'd first: farewel my dear, 'Tis master _Thomas_, there he stands. _Enter_ Mary _above_. _Mary._ 'Tis strange That nothing can redeem him: rail him hence, Or sing him out in's own way, any thing To be deliver'd of him. _Maid._ Then have at him: _My man_ Thomas _did me promise_ _He would visit me this night_. _Tho._ _I am here Love, tell me dear Love,_ _How I may obtain thy sight._ _Maid._ _Come up to my window love, come, come, come,_ _Come to my window my dear,_ _The wind, nor the rain shall trouble thee again,_ _But thou shalt be lodged here._ _Thom._ And art thou strong enough? _Lan._ Up, up, I warrant ye. _Mary._ What do'st thou mean to do? _Maid._ Good Mistress peace, I'le warrant ye we'l cool him: _Madge_. [_Madge above._ _Madge._ I am ready. _Tho._ _The love of Greece, and it tickled him so,_ _That he devised a way to goe._ Now sing the Duke of _Northumberland_. _Fidler._ _And climbing to promotion,_ _He fell down suddenly._