_Laun._ He went far else, I will assure your worship on my credit By the faith of a Travellor, and a Gentleman, Your son is found again, the son, the _Tom_. _Seb._ Is he the old _Tom_? _Laun._ The old _Tom_. _Seb._ Go forward. _Laun._ Next, to consider how he is the old _Tom_. _Seb._ Handle me that. _Laun._ I would ye had seen it handled Last night Sir, as we handled it: _cap à pe_, Footra for leers, and learings; O the noise, The noise we made. _Seb._ Good, good. _Lan._ The windows clattering And all the Chambermaids in such a whobub, One with her smock half off, another in hast With a serving-mans hose upon her head. _Seb._ Good still. _Lan._ A fellow railing out of a loop-hole there, And his mouth stopt with durt. _Seb._ I' faith a fine Boy. _Lan._ Here one of our heads broke. _Seb._ Excellent good still. _Lan._ The Gentleman himself, young M. _Thomas_, Inviron'd with his furious Myrmidons The fiery Fidler, and my self; now singing, Now beating at the door, there parlying, Courting at that window, at the other scalling And all these several noises to two Trenchers, Strung with a bottom of brown thred, which show'd admirable. _Seb._ There eat, and grow again, I am pleas'd. _Lan._ Nor here Sir, Gave we the frolick over: though at length We quit the Ladies Skonce on composition; But to the silent streets we turn'd our furies: A sleeping watchman here we stole the shooes from, There made a noise, at which he wakes, and follows: The streets are durty, takes a queen-hith cold, Hard cheese, and that choaks him o' Munday next: Windows, and signs we sent to _Erebus_; A crue of bawling curs we entertain'd last, When having let the pigs loose in out parishes, O the brave cry we made as high as _Algate_! Down comes a Constable, and the Sow his Sister Most traiterously tramples upon Authority, There a whole stand of rug gowns rowted manly And the Kings peace put to flight: a purblind pig here Runs me his head into the Admirable Lanthorn, Out goes the light, and all turns to confusion: A potter rises, to enquire this passion, A Boar imbost takes sanctuary in his shop, When twenty dogs rush after, we still cheering, Down goe the pots, and pipkins, down the pudding pans, The cream-bolls cry revenge here, there the candlesticks. _Seb._ If this be true, thou little tyney page, This tale that thou tell'st me, Then on thy back will I presently hang A handsom new Livery: But if this be false, thou little tyney page As false it well may be, Then with a cudgel of four foot long I'le beat thee from head to toe. _Enter_ Servant. _Seb._ Will the boy come? _Ser._ He will Sir. _Enter_ Thomas. _Seb._ Time tries all then.